the ocean

Smooth Opera-ator

My friend took me to opening night at the Lyric Opera last night. It was a fairly spectacular event, if you enjoy classical music or unfortunate fashion choices. Because it's the first show of the season, people really put their own special interpretations on what it means to "dress up," whether it's a flowy floral caftan or a shiny silver mumu. We ourselves opted for suits without ties, because we're really cool and also don't want to end up dying of heat stroke. I wanted to bring my feathered headdress, but I felt there was a narrow possibility it might be overkill.

Anyway, opening night was kind of cool. There was free champagne and appetizers, and lots of kindly old people who love to engage you in awkward small talk about the cello at intermission but will turn on you at the drop of a hat if you happen to breathe too loudly during Violetta's big aria. They even had a red carpet out front you could pose for pictures on, if you wanted. Unfortunately, my exclusive contract with the Janice Dickinson Model Agency prevented me from participating.

As for the actual opera, it was La Traviata, which is kind of a fun one. It's about a whore who dies from consumption and the man who loves her. But aren't they all, really. It was quite splendidly sung and staged so that it wasn't just crossing the stage and singing, as so often happens in opera. I'm still waiting for them to use my idea of a La Boheme entirely on treadmills, though.

Physical Education

I just joined a new gym, and as a result was subjected to a consultation with an impossibly tiny, unbelievably perky personal trained named Kelly. Apparently, physical fitness is now best obtained by being bombarded with questions about everything that you believe is wrong with you. My initial interview with Kelly therefore proceeded thusly:

Kelly: So let's talk about your fitness goals.
Jay: Okay. Well, I'm pretty comfortable with my size right now, so I really just want to maintain it, maybe get a little bit more definition.
Kelly: Uh huh. So there's nothing you hate about your body?
Jay: Not really, no.
Kelly: No problem areas, for instance your rear or your midsection?
Jay: Uh, well, I suppose I'd like to have more defined abs.
Kelly: Got a little bit of a tummy, do you?
Jay: Do I? I don't really think so.
Kelly: Well, that's something we can work on. So do you have any big events coming up that you want to get in shape for, like a vacation or a wedding or something?
Jay: No. I can't think of any. I mean, I'm almost thirty, so it's not like I'm really heading to prom.
Kelly: Oh, okay, gosh. Thirty. You know, what a lot of people like to do is pick out a celebrity whose body they would want to have. So who is your celebrity?
Jay: Yeah, um, I don't know. Honestly, any celebrity would probably be fine, so long as it's not like Danny DeVito. Most celebrities have pretty good bodies.
Kelly: Haven't you seen any movies or TV shows lately where someone had a body you want to have?
Jay: Not really.
Kelly: What about like Chris Evans from the Fantastic Four? He's got a good body.
Jay: Okay, fine. Whatever.
Kelly: All right! We will have you looking like Chris Evans in no time!

The motivation is almost too intense to bear, isn't it?

Deja Vu

It has been brought to my attention that I recently posted the same anecdote twice. This is kind of a shock to me, mainly because it's hard to believe I've never done that before in three plus years of writing this thing. I was also shocked, though, that I couldn't remember posting the same story a matter of weeks before. Have I recently suffered some head wound without noticing? I've decided not to be too bothered about it, though. Toni Morrison has been writing the same story over and over again for years, and she's like total best friends with Oprah. I'd settle for just dinner and a hand job from Gayle.

Anyway, I promise to try to do better in the future. Specifically, if I repeat myself I will not change the story the second time around, thus exposing that my entire life is just a tissue of lies. Also, I'll go for cute literary effects. Perhaps I'll retell it in the style of a Faulkner or Hemingway. I think my sister's exploits with the maintenance man are definitely deserving. Or maybe the story could be retold in pictures. I've got a box of Crayolas just crying out for a subject.

Club Wed

So the big reading went amazingly well, thank you for asking. I don't think the Bible has ever sounded so thrilling. I'm pretty sure that I'm entirely to thank for the now-assured success of this marriage. I brought it in under two minutes, too.

All in all I had a pretty pleasant trip. On the flight back I managed to be seated both right next to the restroom and immediately behind a family with two small children they decided to allow to roam freely, but thankfully I had Henry James to distract me from the unpleasant odors and sounds this caused. I also was nearly the victim of some savvy upselling at the rental car place due to my late-night exhaustion, but managed at the last minute to remember how very much I truly wanted that Kia. For the most part it was just fun, sun, and wedding events. The reception was at the Jacksonville Public Library, which marked the first time I have ever seen a library without homeless people in it. And the ceremony was Episcopal, so it was pretty much anything goes! I'm pretty sure I could have fucked a horse while doing the reading.

Anyway, I'm glad to be back, in a weird way. Mainly I missed my bed and my on demand television. What's up with the Omni only giving you like twelve channels, two of which come in with the sound all fuzzy? Which actually improved Demolition Man, by the way.

Weekly Reader

I have been given an enormous honor. Bigger than that time I won a Tony for portraying Anne Frank. I have been asked to read at my friend Jodi's wedding this weekend in Jacksonville, Florida. It's a natural fit for me, because I've been reading for years. Sometimes without even moving my lips. Okay, so maybe I wanted to sing "What I Did For Love" from A Chorus Line while she walked down the aisle, but I'll settle for this. There could still be jazz hands involved.

The selected passage is from Colossians, which is not too shabby. I was kind of hoping for some "Love is Patient, Love is Kind" action, but oh well. The selected passage is utterly devoid of those hard-to-pronounce Biblical names, which I appreciate. If I were getting married I'd force someone to read the genealogy of Jesus just to mess with them. All that begatting and so forth with people named Jehosaphat and Marxfygcvy. Always a good laugh at Christmastime.

Do you think it would be frowned upon if I decided just to improvise?

Mr. Fix It

We had a maintenance man in last week to fix a few items in our home. His primary approach to this task seemed to be telling us that in fact there was nothing wrong with the items in question and that we ought to just live with them. It was kind of like repair therapy. But we finally convinced him that, no, we could not "just ignore" the squealing sound emanating from our buzzer, and he set about making actual repairs.

Because I have not yet managed to find someone who is willing to pay me for sitting at home and watching other people work, I had to head into the office during this process. But I got to be involved, anyway, because my sister kept me updated with frequent calls.

"Can you come back home? I locked myself out," she asked. "The maintenance guy wanted to look at the air conditioner on the roof and when we came back I realized I didn't have my keys."

Then, before I could get out the door came the second call.

"Never mind, we got in," she informed me. "The maintenance guy just kind of jimmied the lock. It took like two seconds."

I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or very, very much alarmed at this point. Before I could decide I got a third call.

"Oh, by the way, it turned out my keys were in my back pocket, anyway. So we're good."

I've got to start screening my calls.

The Host With the Most

This morning at church the gentleman in front of me in the communion line did one of the strangest things I've ever seen. After receiving and consuming his wafer, he requested another. And another. And another. Which he then filled his pockets with. Did he find the body of Christ insufficiently filling? Did he think this was supposed to be a full meal? Or did he maybe just have friends at home he wanted to share the experience with? I'm somewhat at a loss here.

Whatever his motives, I'm pretty sure his actions were a no-no with the big guy upstairs, by which I mean the pope. I mean, I remember being reprimanded by the nuns for chewing my host, so I don't think stashing it in your 401s for later is really going to pass muster. One girl got detention for a week for making a face after tasting the $4 jug of wine crap that passes for blood of Christ these days. I find it unlikely that going back for seconds would be considered to be in line with proper churchgoing etiquette.

Of course, I'm still rooting for them to change it to a Hot Pocket and a shot of Jager. If the church really wanted to bring people in they'd listen to all of my amazing ideas.

Party Time

Last night Former Roommate Liz and I hosted a little party. Ostensibly it was to be a roof party, but given the temperatures in the forties, it ended up being more of a huddling around a keg in ugly sweaters from the goodwill store party. We still had a pretty good time, though. Liz brought her new puppy, Dr. Chester T. Noodleman II, who promptly knocked some wine over on himself and then passed out in his carrier. (We've all been there.) There was a craft center where we made sombreros and woven placemats in honor of Mexican Independence Day, and two kinds of high-calorie, high-fat cheese dip. And of course there were door prizes, including some of Former Roommate Liz's unclaimed mail. A good time was had by all.

Of course, this morning was a bit rocky, what with all the bits of jello shot ground into the rugs and sombrero pieces all over the dining room. I'm sure our neighbors will appreciate the lingering stench of lite domestic beer in the back stairwell. But it's the price of popularity, I suppose. I'm unlikely to be this popular again any time soon.

Young Entrepreneurs

My friend Anuj has a t-shirt company. Once, when we were drunk, I started coming up with a bunch of amazing slogans for t-shirts, including "Mom's Taxi" and "I fucked Maya Angelou doggy style." But the greatest single drunken t-shirt slogan of all time has now become reality:


It's so very full of meaning. I'm telling you, Anuj missed out on a million dollar idea.

Film Buff

Did I mention that I finally joined Netflix? I know, I'm such an early adopter. I'm thinking about buying a color television and checking out this thing called the fax machine next. But seriously, it's kind of great because it makes you realize that there are all kinds of movies that you didn't even know you wanted to see that it turns out you totally want to see. Although probably not right away. I think it's good for a movie to sit on your kitchen counter for a while before you watch it. You don't want to seem too desperate.

So anyway, this weekend we watched Zodiac. It kind of scared the piss out of me. I went through a whole phase this spring where I was convinced the Zodiac killer was after me (like, lurking behind the credenza and stuff) before I even saw the movie, so maybe it wasn't the best choice. I had to do that thing where you look away in anticipation of the gory part and have someone else tell you when you can look back at the screen again. But I thought it was really well-acted and visually interesting. There were lots of fun seventies-style haircuts and/or clothing on display. I just ended up sleeping with the TV on that night, that's all. And it was set on the E! network. Now that's frightening.

Why I Love My Neighborhood

Walking home at 4 AM last night, I became involved in an exchange worthy of Chekov or Shaw.

Random Guy Loitering Next to the Caribou Coffee: Hey.
Jay: Hey.
RGLNTTCC: Is that for real?
Jay: What?
RGLNTTCC: Your cock.
Jay: Um, yeah.
RGLNTTCC: Nice.

Realizing that Miss Manners has utterly neglected to address the appropriate etiquette for the receipt of cock compliments from strangers, I simply thanked him and continued on my way.

Tennis, Anyone?

I'm going to say just a few words on the subject of how much I hate Justine Henin. First of all, when she was starting out, the commentators kept referring to her as the "stylish Belgian teen," which doesn't win you any friends. Then there was the whole business of her retiring in the middle of the final of a major as though it were just the Des Moines Teen Tennis Jamboree. Oh, and that "Ole!" crap, good lord the "Ole!" crap. Just once I wish she'd get gored by a bull when she doers that.

I like the Williams sisters, though, mainly because I love black people. It's the same reason I like Flavor of Love and That's So Raven. Also I'm pretty sure either one of them could kill me with her bare hands, or more likely her thighs. Ouch.

Federer I can't really say I hate just because no one that boring could ever really inspire any sort of strong emotion on my part. I feel like he could magically transform the ball into the severed head of Jennifer Love Hewitt and I would still be bored. Though also strangely titillated, of course.

Overall, I'm just sad the Open is ending and that we'll have to go back to boring old regular TV for a while. Aren't we due for another Project Runway yet?

Photos I am Surprised to Find I Have on My Hard Drive

It's always fun to take a look back through the contents of my hard drive. In addition to some super fascinating papers on sovereign immunity and the one-act play I wrote based on the relationship Haiku of Alexis Rotella, I found the following images:

I've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Corky St. Clair, but he is sort of my artistic inspiration, especially as I wrastle with the muse of dance. Also, if you know where I can get that aviator's costume, please share.
My law school directory photograph, circa 2000. You laugh now, but just wait until the butt cut comes back. I'll be ready.

I genuinely have no idea what this is, although I anticipate it ends badly.

See, dogs still read the newspaper. That's why we should let them vote instead of us.

Affliction

Thanks to my scarlet fever (Or Scarlett Johansson fever, as I've deemed it. My prescription? 10 CCs of The Nanny Diaries, stat.) I am now on one of the same medications as my grandmother. The even better news is that it's a steroid, so I can now blame my sudden rages on something. I haven't noticed any increase in my bulk, but I'm sure it's coming. Another side effect seems to be an inability to spell, as I have found myself struggling over words like "steroid" and, well "struggling." I would have paid more attention in chemistry if I'd known I could use it to alter my mind and body -- it's like the ultimate makeover!

Of course, I discovered my affliction while visiting my parents for the weekend, so I got to rediscover the wonders of Quincy medicine, where doctors are folksy and want to talk about your family going back six generations while at the same time staring down your raw, red throat. As a walk in, I got in and out of the clinic in an hour and had my meds in another half hour. Plus we read a whole edition of Seventeen Magazine while we waited, which allowed me to discover the wonders of the Traumarauma column, where the many embarrassments attendant to tampon usage are showcased. All in all, I should really get sick more often.

From the Department of Old-Timey Diseases

So apparently I have scarlet fever. Also strep throat, but that doesn't really sound nearly as impressive. I've had a sore throat for the past week, but I figured that might be from screaming the High School Musical 2 soundtrack at the top of my lungs repeatedly, to the delight of my neighbors, so I didn't really worry about it. Then, on Thursday, I noticed a little bit of a rash appearing on my arms. Again, I wasn't all that concerned, thinking that it could be from any number of things, from my dry cleaners' insistence on a heavy, heavy starch to the general skankiness of my gym's locker room. But when that rash extended all the way down my arms and also started on my legs today (Am I sharing too much? We're friends, right?), I had to get myself some good old fashioned medical attention.

Having scarlet fever isn't honestly all that terrible. It itches a little, and I'm not exactly rocking the short sleeves this weekend, but it allows me to skip out on things I don't really want to do this weekend (i.e. church, going shopping with my mother) on the theory that my condition may still be communicable. (I'm definitely going to refer to it as either my "condition" or my "affliction," I haven't decided yet.) Plus it sounds really dramatic, as though I'm going to die in the third act of the opera. Oh, and they've handed me a variety of meds, which I always appreciate.

Next time around I'm definitely going for pleurisy or rickets. I'm going to get every fun-to-say disease in the book!