Right now I should VERY MUCH SO, O INDEEDY YES be sleeping, since I work at the downtown P**t's in about five hours. Just thinking about waking up before cockcrow makes me crabby. But since I'm part bat and full insomniac, the idea of a full night's sleep, for the purpose of obtaining which I stayed home from EN's show, is gradually losing verisimilitude. Alas.
KG asked me tonight whether I rode the language or the language rode me: the language, never fear, chers lecteurs, rides me. And rides me hard. Oh, yeah, baby. Your metaphor's getting so big!
SLB and I had dinner with her partners the other night. MB made a fine risotto and some pecan pie (only my favorite in the whole wide world!) and JK looked moody and filled out an awful survey about how being queer made one fucked-up. Then we all slithered to my place to watch a terrible Australian flick. Despite glowing reviews from the pierced gentleman in black who worked at the video store, it was not at all like Bound or the Usual suspects, as promised, but rather was boring and trite and sat ill on the shock vs. art spectrum. It was called Kiss or kill and I cannot recommend it, even if, like me, you should be half asleep from phenomenally soporific chocolate stout. Which word reminds me: I saw Emma Thompson's film version of W;t today on television and have been on the verge of tears ever since then. That play I can heartily recommend, in whatever form you imbibe it; Dear Auntie Emma's take is pretty good.
Sigh. I keep half-thinking that it would be a little easier for me to keep a sane sleep schedule if I were sharing a bed. I would have regular exercise. It would be warm and comfy. And best of all, with my superdeveloped sense of politesse, I would be loth to get up at two in the morning and start typing full-speed with another person were in the room. Then again, if I had a live-in trick, I'm not sure I wouldn't be griping that another human presence cut down on my prime writing time.
I listened to most of the first act of Don Giovanni this afternoon as I was cleaning the kitchen up. Ma in Cambridge son' gi� ... cinque. I've slept with five people. Practically nobody. Although it's not quantity so much as quality that counts, still ... nobody famous (I am, however, spit siblings with Alan Cumming, thanks to "E"JT) and, well, insufficient data. I suppose I'd like this number to be larger in the same fashion that I would like there to be peace on Earth or more hours in a day. I will not really be able to do anything about it. I have the rather challenging reputation of being both a letch and somehow asexual, like a court dwarf. In point of fact, I'm 5'9", well above the maximum height on the court dwarf entrance exams. Looking on the bright side: oozing this antiseptic asexuality is probably a turn-on to somebody. Mental note: consider doctor's uniform for next dress-up party.
All right. I've tarried long enough. If I don't fall asleep in the next half hour, I'm throwing in the towel and making myself some breakfast.
* * * * *
I know I said I was going to bed, but I would just like to take this pulpit and preach from it the demonic origins of pretentious caf� slang. Well, particularly, there are a very few classic espresso drinks, all of which, whether or not I like them myself, have a certain legitimacy. A "mochaccino", whatever its components, can have no dignity. Rome has never given its blessing to the Mochachin order. The Egg Nog latte--the existence of which I discovered hot, thick, and pale yellow on the heels of my recent rant about its blander cousin--is a deeply revolting concept, like child prostitution, poop souffl�, or Tina Brown's editorship of the New Yorker. I can only countenance a few adjustments to the grand, classic drinks. One may substitute soy milk. Hurrah for that. That is reasonable, nay, laudable. All other substitutions or customizations are anathema and probably symptomatic of an infantile, controlling mind. I do not wish to know that you like it tall (or, heavens forfend, "grawn-dee-see-mow"), extra hot, wet and fat, sir, particularly when it's eight-forty five in the morning and your tribe of half-civilized suburbanites are heaving themselves across the tiles at me like giant cockroaches. You shall not impress me with your St*rb*cks "caf� culture" slang any more than you impress me with the grievous bodily harm you inflected upon an innocent Italian word. Moreover, you would not walk into Locke-Ober and ask for a Big Mac. Why do you seek a frappuccino (®, mind you!) where none has ever stirred? O, please don't let's complicate our relationship, dear sir: I shall take your money from you, hand you a cup, and then you may go. Thank you.
All right. I'm just angry enough to fall into bed and gnash my teeth for an hour or so before the work ogre comes knocking. I shall be absolutely horrid in the morning.