pantoum's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAEP MADS HORRID In my site you can acquire chaep mads horrid. That's the subject line of my most recent spam. Not quite jabberwocky and there's a touch of Chaucer in there somewhere, but what do you suppose it means? The best I can come up with is that I have been invited to purchase cheap, naughty maidens from someone whose English is extremely limited. Second best spam of the day: Are you a 2 pump chump? Go all night and drive her crazy! Never had that problem, actually. Perhaps Mr. 2-pump chump is just using the wrong equipment (-; I just cranked out an "emergency" chorus ad for the Gay Men's Chorus's program. Yes, it's art on demand from Bird's Artomatic Services, Inc. Pull my lever. Watch me perform. (Oh yeah.) I must create an ad for the local independent newspaper next, and then design the concert program. I skipped singing this semester because Love and Marriage is not my favorite topic right now and, to tell you the truth, I am not looking forward to keeping my shit together as I listen to the music in this concert. I am looking forward to painting sets and making a giant U-Haul prop that someone will run across the stage carrying though because Beebop ran across the stage with a school bus prop during our Homo for the Holidays concert and this was hysterical. So I must decide by tomorrow whether to continue growing out my wild-ass hair. I can tuck it behind my ears for the first time in years now (which rhymes). Grew it out enough to curl into ringlets when I don't blow-dry it and now it is big too. Maybe I'll ask Eddie to just shape the wild stuff and let it grow out a bit more, see if I like the look . . . if I can stand this messy in-between stage, that is. Had another glass of that tasty pinot noir last night (ah, those dimples . . .), did laundry, and read Best Lesbian Love Stories 2003 in between playing songs on the guitar. They're not Pat Califia, but they are sweet little tales. And I suppose that is a good segue into a description of the Macho Sluts and Desperate Girls parties that my Bad Girls housemates and I staged in DC in response to lesbian outrage about Califia's S/M book Macho Sluts as I'm ever likely to get. Writing about it, though, would involve me going into all those details about our wanton nakedness, the films we showed in my basement bedroom—which wound up being the sex room—what I wore (let's just say I look good in black leather), what other people wore—or didn't wear, as the case may be—who was there (many people who have graced the cover of the Advocate, most DC-based dyke activists, and a couple of well-known dyke singers and comedians). I have some swell nekkid photos of the lesbian author who lived in the basement before me. She took the metro to our house, walked in, threw off her overcoat, and revealed that she was wearing a sheer black negligee beneath it. (She is large and proud of it.) The Bad Girls House was pretty famous in DC dyke circles, and our parties were incredibly fun. (Hope that wild young lesbians are keeping up our fine traditions.) (Hmmm, maybe I'll post some of those wild party photos on my Flickr photo blog; now THAT would get a reaction!) Custody update: Today's New York Times reports that Army recruiters are so desperate for soldiers that they're breaking rules. Recently, they even enlisted a man with a bipolar disorder just three weeks after he was released from the mental ward. My little sister is enlisting because she has a music degree and can't find a job that pays more than minimum wage in our hometown. (Go figure.) Enlisting will allow her to pay off her $30K student loan and earn a nursing degree without going into further debt. There's some logic in that, but I did remind her that we are at war. The recruiter is trying to convince her to go into intelligence. Riiiiiight! I said. Are you just begging to be sent to Iraq? And how exactly would intelligence training allow you to have a better job when you return to our hometown? You can be a nurse anywhere—there's always a need—and can I remind you that looking out for your best interests is not this man's job? I hope that registered. I'm impatient with Glittergrrl because she makes bad decisions and just doesn't think things through logically. (Of course, she does seem to have inherited my mother's paranoid schizophrenic disorder too—which is all the more reason to put an automatic weapon in her hands though, right?) Why do I have a feeling that this is all going to end very badly? The Ginger said that she always knew when I was talking with Glittergrrl on the phone because I lectured her using a tone that I never used with anyone else. And ugh I'm sure she''s correct. But, even when I reminded Glittergrrl that we're at war, she remained convinced that she won't be sent there. She doesn't have any reason for believing this; she just believes that Gawd will look out for her and keep her out of harm's way. I have a hard time imagining my sister—who is paid to sing for the local Catholic church in our hometown, and who spends most of her leisure time singing in chamber choirs or playing flute in the orchestra, and who has never voluntarily exercised in her life as near as I can recollect—surviving boot camp. She insists that I'll just have CeeCee for four months while she's in boot camp, then CeeCee can live with her on base, but I'll believe that when it happens. I told my work pal Casey about possibly adopting CeeCee at the end of the month (eep!), and she said "Keep us in mind for babysitting. We're grandparents in training, you know. Lloyd has the skills and I have the activities." Funnygrrl. Finally, my free-will astrology horoscope for this week is depressing, but accurate: I was looking for a house to rent. A real estate manager gave me a tour of various houses that were available. At one place the occupants weren't home, but the manager had the key to the door and permission to enter. As she led me around, we came upon the master bedroom. A huge German shepherd was on the bed. I reflexively withdrew, afraid the dog would attack the strangers in its house. But it didn't bark, pounce, or even growl. On the contrary, it shivered with fear. Its protective instincts seemed paralyzed. I think the dog's behavior was an apt metaphor for the current state of your own inner guardian, Aquarius—you know, the fierce part of your psyche that defends your interests. It's unnaturally timid and hesitant, and is thus not primed to do its job properly. Do whatever it takes to cure it of its malaise. I know I'm not my normal cocky self yet, but have to believe that I'm getting some of my bark back. Am relieved to report that it's still there during sex, but my inner guardian is definitely not protecting me adequately. Or maybe it is protecting me by isolating me. Who knows? 11:30 a.m. - 2005-05-03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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