imperial violet

MORE TICKLES THAN PUNCHES

Monday, November 29, 2004

play book

they say that the notion of 'team spirit' is lost on our generation. that we are slackery, over-fed, over-indulged, over-sexxed babies who think only of ourselves.

we are not the folks who 'take one for the team."

not the folks who do it "for the gipper."

fie on them! (strictly speaking all of the above is true of me) but i'm ready to step up to the plate and do my part.

we have here a classic scenario, you've heard it dozens of times. an unbearably cute straight boy gets a recurring role on the showtime series 'queer as folk'. he takes wing to the gayest land on earth, toronto. there, he gets all erotic with the boys on the show, discovers high fashion and fabulosity and madonna and leaves his love of the womens behind for the meatier pleasures of man-love.

that's how the story usually goes. but not this time, goddamn it. not. this. time.

please don't misuderstand (or misunderestimate) me. i love gay men. almost every single close friend of mine is a gay man. i am surrounded and well loved and astounded by the kindness and creativity and warmth of my homo-husbands. but, you see? i don't need any more gay men in my life. my roster is full. no room even for a switch hitter.

so it is that i receive my calling with a full heart. to take one for the team and keep this boy batting for the heteros.

the question is, how? what is it that keeps staight boys on the narrow?

does anyone have a play book i can borrow?

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

stinky foot turkey

my want of a veggie burger wrap, with all the fixins, came on at a thundering clip.

i beat it to the land of 'sandwich artists' with a quickness. fellow lunchers called out for terriyaki chicken on honey oat and turkey (non-stinky foot variety) on oregano parmesan. it was a festive noon-tide, the hour of the pleasantly hungry- people for whom breakfast is still a close memory and dinner only a few, scant hours away.

my sandwich artist had huge black discs in her ears and a cheerful demeanor. even offered to warm up my tortilla for me. mmm, yes please.

as i reached the register, a woman beseechingly asked for a manager. dull-witted non-artistic register gal said-
"manager won't be back 'till five. come back then."

beseecher replied-
"you see, the last time i came, they forgot to put the last two stamps on my card. i bought a foot long. what i'm wondering is, will you honor it?"

my creme of the crop wrap maker said to dull register gal-
"i trust her. go for it."

but DRG didn't hear her and so, sent the beseecher on her way, sandwichless. i wanted to jump in and facilitate the thing. to make register gal listen to sandwich artist and get this woman her meatball sub. it shouldn't be so hard. but i just didn't.

a rusted out diesel compact parked next to my car. clothes piled up in the back. a big guy stepping out to throw something in the dumpster. i looked in the window and saw the beseecher. she was unwrapping the skinniest, squarest, scrawniest sandwich. on the kinda bread you get for 99 cents and feed to ducks.

she bit in.

i thought of the luxury that is instant gratification. i'm not flush with cash, but a veggie wrap isn't beyond my means. it isn't even an afterthought.

i thought of the women in tinkling escalades i've seen throw tantrums over their coffee to milk ratio at starbucks.

but this woman, the beseecher, she wouldn't fight over those two stamps. either because she's used to settling for less, or because she doesn't think she deserves them, or maybe she's embarrassed. and i think she really would've enjoyed that sandwich, had fate swung her way, or had i spoken up, or had the register gal been a little less oblivious.

but it wasn't her day.

Monday, November 22, 2004

hey baby, want some fries with those shakes?

it's official. scientific results AND national public radio verify it.

the world's best/most effective pick-up line is (drum roll)....

"NEXT YEAR AT THIS TIME, LET'S BE LAUGHING TOGETHER"

beating out other hot contenders like-

"hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?"

"let's have breakfast in the morning, should i call you or nudge you?"

and the ever popular-

"i don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die"

do people really utilize pick up lines in day to day (or night to night) dating scenarios? can they possibly work? the whole idea of a pre-packaged route to someone's heart seems an excercise in futility.

although, yesterday at a chinese take out place, a guy told me i looked like i 'just dropped off a charm bracelet' which struck me as pretty cute.

but me, i don't waste time with the fancified lines. i sneak 'em a peek at the rack, usually reels 'em in real good.

by 'rack', i mean 'gun rack' of-course.

oh, and if any of you dare to try out the 'let's be laughing' line (un-ironically) and get laid as a result, i expect a kick-back.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

serendipity


serendipity
Originally uploaded by imperialviolet.

"i love her"

sam's mom once told me that when he was a baby, his eyelashes were so long it looked as if a furry caterpillar was sleeping on his eyes.

he still had lashes like that. i wanted to put mascara on them.

"you love her?"

"yes. and i want to share her with you"

besides those great lashes, sam also had a pure and un-fettered love of PORN, PANCAKES, AND PRO-FOOTBALL.

"okay, let's see her"

he popped "oral addiction" into the vcr, and i got to know christy.

what a delight. she tackled everything put in her mouth (or nether regions) with gusto, like the most delicious and exciting bounty she could ever enjoy.

sam and i spent many hours 'loving' christy together. rented her entire canon at the local 'adventure' video store.

years later, i parted ways with sam and moved to sunny hollywood. there, i met a new best friend, and she confessed that her sister was a famous porn star.

i joked that i probably hadn't heard of her since the only porn maven with whom i was familiar was christy.

triple spit take. that's her sis!

i had no choice but to demand a meeting and a photographed make out session with the delightful christy.

that way, sam could recieve the pics and feel free to 'love' us both any old damn time.

i got your serendipity right here, baby.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

"he'll take the small"

so sayeth the todd, when babycakes ordered a medium drink to go along with his burrito at baja fresh.

"but i want a medium." says bcakes

"they're re-fillable. you'll take the small." todd dismissed the subject with a casual flip of his wrist.

big time spender todd was footing the bill for this comida grande, and as such didn't want to pay medium when you could just get a small and refill till you burst. now, bcakes didn't want to make a big deal out of it. todd was paying and it was pretty trivial. but it nibbled at his mind. foreshadowing.

in time, it would turn out that todd uses a hijaked handicapped sticker to park illegally, switches stickers on merchandise to get a lower price, and stiffs the valets. not a good egg.

the devil is in the details folks. it's in the little moments, where you glimpse what sort of egg you're consorting with.

like the time i had a swooning case for a black haired rugby player with a convertible cabriolet. he finally asked me out. i was walking in front of him and playfully stopped short. hoping for a little collision and maybe the feel of his arms around my shoulders. he said (very seriously)

"be careful. i might have run in to you." and walked wide around me.

i knew then he wasn't for me. but how could i explain that to my friends? it sounded so idiotic. so i waited till he slept with a cheerleader from davis high.

then i dumped him with good reason and a clear conscience.

but seriously, a guy that won't run into you and maybe even tumble you to the ground? no thanks.

Monday, November 15, 2004

...and complete morons are rare

before we begin our regularly scheduled post, a quote, apropos of something-

"i don't have no problem with your fucking me, but i have a little problem with your not fucking me"

ODB, RIP. the world is now a little less dirtier. and that's a damn shame.

****************************************************************************************************************************

by 6:30, babycakes mom was quietly drunk. she clinked two wine glasses together and said-

"certs is two, two, two, mints in one." on the third clink, the glasses broke. babycakes was always swift and no-nonsense in clean up while i majored in subject changing.

"guess what? aaron's dad, mr. west, he's my new drama professor at the "U".'

mr. west was considered a drama superstar 'round these parts. he had academic cred for starting a successful, non mormon, acting company in salt lake city. his son went to high school with us.

"guess what else? he remembers my performance in 'arsenic and old lace' and he says i'm really good and he invited me to come see him star in this play in salt lake and then we're gonna order pizza and eat it at his house and talk about foreign films and acting! isn't that cool?"

they looked at each other and then at me. so kindly. babycakes' mom started in, slowly, laying out the bread crumbs.

"a grown man, a forty-something teacher, wants to take out an eighteen year old student?"

"yeah. to a PLAY."

"and you don't think he has any designs on you?"

"on me? no way! (giggle blush, he would never) he's like gonna be my mentor."

babycakes couldn't decide whether to laugh or put his foot down.

"maybe you should tell him 'no.' or invite someone to come along."

i appreciated the intervention and all, but not mr. west.

he was pretty good in the play (i wished he were better). we ordered some shmancy pizza with artichoke hearts and went back to his cramped apartment. he popped in "belle du jour" and poured me a glass of wine. (my mind repeating, this is normal, this is grown up, we're gonna talk about acting now)

only somehow he was saying "i love your lusty italian name." and attempting to stick his tongue down my throat.

all i could fumble out was.. "i'm not really, very, lusty" as i stumbled out the door and down the dimly lit staircase.

and they say complete morons are rare.

HA! do you happen to have a bridge for sale? odds are, i'll buy it.

Friday, November 12, 2004

phobia

it wasn't much of a poem, "phobia." started with a set of sloppy, labored, rhyming couplets-

"as i sit in the cold cruel night
my thoughts and emotions marred with fright
this house a dungeon crude and crass
is like some huge engulfing mass"

yes, it does go on. and on. and the metaphors become more clunky. but i was in eigth grade. whaddaya want? auden, for christsakes? um, er.. sorry. back to the story at hand.

i took the poem up to mrs. whitesides.

"there's no grade on this. why?"

she levelled her permy head me way-

"i believe a student could write a poem of this calibur. just not you."

i misheard her, thought she said that no student could write a poem of this calibur. it made me feel kinda proud. really? no student my age could write a poem of this calibur? i must be really good.

no, no, no, it was me that she didn't believe in. me. the poem wasn't that amazing. i was that worthless.

the thought was so blindisiding, i couldn't even properly defend myself.

in elementary school, i was known as the smart girl. the good girl. teachers felt badly for me because my mom never made it to parent teacher's conferences. they looked after me, got me into a gifted program, gave me lunch money.

my first year of junior high was at a downtown hollywood school, thousands of kids. if you weren't packing a blade or smoking crack in class, you were considered an ace student.

but this was small town utah. and i never noticed, until that moment, how much i spelled like pot smoke, cigarette smoke, and the musky equine of the horse stalls i cleaned every morning before school. i'd been too busy not drowning to notice that the other girls had pretty, clean, hair and matching clothes. they wore fresh, light makeup.

'i did write it." i said lamely.

"okay, fine" she slashed a "D" across the top in red marker. "whatever you say."

it makes me sad to think how floppy and misbegotten i must have appeared then. the type of kid grown ups don't believe in.

it makes me sad that there is a type of kid grown ups don't believe in.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

we should do this semi-regularly

the doomy feelings started in, even as stacie curled my hair into long shiny ringlets and babycakes fed me strawberries. even as my aunties hovered and put finishing touches on my really luscious dewey lipgloss.

ten minutes before the ceremony. slipping into that bone silk dress.

"where's my dad?" nobody knew. they said he should be here. he would be here. but i could feel different. counting down the minutes was a moot point. i knew it would be my grandpa, in his faded air force finest, who would walk me down the aisle. and it was.

two weeks later, after the moon had been honeyed, it was my birthday. dad came over. he was like i'd never seen him. nervous, apologetic, repentent.

it seems a buddy of his had gotten his car stuck in the mud, up in the desert in the middle of the night. dad went to haul him out with his truck, but you know, that desert mud is mighty tough... dad was a mud caked man, knee deep in a broken front axle right about the time i was saying 'i do.'

i couldn't wait to forgive him. couldn't forgive him fast enough. forgave him like it was my job.

we went out to eat and it was like 'dinner, with dad, in a parallel universe' we laughed and he ordered all kinds of silly appetizers and extra entres. he told stories that i found interesting. there was none of the usual hostile sparring followed by dad's grim pronouncement "you and me's gonna have problems, ang." it was a night i would choose to have, anytime.

at my car, he gave me a stiff hug, which became a real, fatherly hug. he said:

"this was real nice. we should do this semi-regularly."

he lit up a smoke and started his truck.

i never saw him again.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

rock out with your cock out

from the lips of the original slave baby maker, thomas jefferson, writ large in 1798...

"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt......If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake."

this makes me feel strangely heartened.

no? not working?

hows about this one. yesterday, i was at the coffee shop and this real cute girl with purpley-black lovely hair, a pirate striped shirt and very dark red lipstick was talking on the cell. her tuff chic appearance belied a bubbly young voice. as i walked by her, i heard her giggle into her cell-

"well, you know, i just jam out with my clam out"

viva life!

Thursday, November 04, 2004

i really can't be going, i must stay

the hockey game let out early.

we were eating frittes drenched in mayo, fresh from the free clinic, having a really good discussion with alanis morrisette. (i think she finally gets that '10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife' is not ironic) it was a break-through.

my thoughts were already on later, when i would buy my beaver tail and become ro's bitch. but first, i had to check my email.

and there it was. my thank-you note from john kerry. it began, "Dear Angelia." (oh, that's my birth certificate name) and i started to cry. not because some automated program plugged in my name right after "Dear Adam" and before "Dear Apple". but because i realized there is an adam and an apple and a jen and jen and amanda and will and dan and on and on and on out there.

and it is our country too. and it may have fallen sway to a mutant strain, a virulent fever fed on fear, mistrust, and hatred. it may be in the grips of the GUNS GOD AND GAYS folks. it may have been sold a bill of goods that is an awful, scary lie.

but i had to come home from lovely canada. because this is still our country. and i find so much in it to love daily. and if we can be smarter and work harder and understand and listen... i don't know. just maybe.

and there's always chocolate pudding.

and who would run my sex phone line?

all my american love, folks.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

oh canada


lower east side
Originally uploaded by imperialviolet.

here's what mona and the boy formerly known as 'heartbreaker, breadmaker', now known as very dear, very gay friend/writing parnter will look like when we flee this blighted land for canada.

coated, hatted, bundled, and layered. ready for maple syrup and chilly goodtimes and nationalized healthcare. ready to embrace strange brew and paul schaeffer but not (oh god, no) celine dion. we'll give her to tennessee as a peace offering.

anyone wishing to join us are welcome. we've purchased a used vw bus a boatload of high grade pot and are planning a new life in the hinterlands.

can you get good thai in vancouver?