N.B.: This is the third post of three today.
My collaborator just sent me the lyric for the finale of our concentration camp musical, which has a reading a week from Monday.
I read it and it was so beautiful I got goose bumps on my face.
Or maybe I’m just breaking out.
N.B.: This is today’s second post of three.
I have known for ages and ages that Oscar Wilde was imprisoned for homosexual acts following his unsuccessful libel suit against the Marquess of Queensberry, disapproving father of Alfred, Lord Douglas, Wilde’s inamorato. The Marquess left a calling card for Wilde on February 18, 1895, on which he called Wilde a “posing Sodomite” (or perhaps accused him of “posing as a Sodomite”—the handwriting is unclear).
What I never knew until this very evening—why does no one tell me anything?—is that the Marquess of Queensberry didn’t actually call Wilde a “posing Sodomite”; he called him a “posing Somdomite.”
You can see the calling card here.
If somebody called me a Somdomite I would sue him for libel too.
Actually, I would sue him for double libel, because I am not a Somdomite; I am a camtamite.
I mean catamite.
N.B.: I’m going to post three times today, in an attempt to make up for recent laxity. Though I may have difficulty doing so, given the depth of the swoon into which the subject of this post has sent me.
Oh, my God.
Richard Chamberlain came out yesterday.
There are very, very, very few things that make me wish I had been born 70 years ago instead of 30, but this is one of them.
I was going to blog about the crazy man I sat next to on the subway today, but at cheerleading practice tonight I fell (vertically) on my head three times while doing back handsprings and I am too cranky and achy to formulate interesting prose.
I’ll try again tomorrow.
Not infrequently, the theme song from Diff’rent Strokes gets stuck in my head. But somehow I always make a slight adjustment to the lyrics. When it comes to “it takes diff’rent strokes to move the world, yes, it does,” I generally find myself humming/thinking “it takes diff’rent strokes to rule the world, yes, it does.”
I’m not quite sure what this says about me but it can’t be good.
I mean, there should be a rule, shouldn’t there? That if you are in a relationship and you spend more than fifteen minutes with somebody of the appropriate sex and orientation and you don’t know if he’s in a relationship or not, you have to work the fact that you’re attached into the conversation? So if you’re, say, an aerobics instructor with a Ph.D. in physics, and one of your students asks you, say, if you want to go out for coffee, and you have a conversation for, say, an hour and a half, that student won’t then leave the coffee date dreaming of, say, china patterns and matching puppies. Say.
I broke down and called him Saturday morning. He explained that he hadn’t read the e-mail until the night before.
“I don’t have a policy against dating people in my class,” he said, “and I’m flattered, but I do have a policy against dating people when I’m already dating somebody.”
I immediately burst into flames of self-loathing and despair.
“Oh,” I said, and then realized that my voice had all the warmth and personality of someone just arisen from the tomb. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“OH!,” I shrieked. “HE’S A LUCKY GUY!”
Now I have to figure out which of the following is true:
a) he’s telling the truth, in which case I have to keep going to his step class forever in the hope that they break up;
b) he’s lying in order to spare my feelings, and the real truth is that he would sooner rip out all his fingernails one by one than go out with me, in which case I can never go to his step class again because it would be humiliating; or
c) he’s telling the truth, but even if he were single he would still sooner rip out all his fingernails one by one than go out with me, in which case I have no idea what to do.
He didn’t e-mail during the day.
He didn’t say anything about my e-mail before, during, or after class.
He didn’t say anything about my e-mail when I ran into him in the locker room.
I want to go to Scotland or Italy and become a shepherd or an auto mechanic or something.
The problem is that, no matter how far I run, I will still have to inhabit my own fucking skin.
And that thought is more than I can bear at the moment.
He hasn’t e-mailed back yet. I am shocked that my head has not exploded from the tension of waiting. I just hope to God I hear from him before I have to see him in step class tonight, because if I don’t, I will be so distracted wondering what his answer is that I will be unable to do any of the steps and I will trip and fall and break my neck and die and it won’t matter anyway.
I sent him the following e-mail last night:
“I had a really nice time hanging out with you earlier. I don’t know if you have a policy against dating people in your classes. If you do, I understand—but if you don’t, can I ask you out to dinner some time this weekend or next week?
“I’ll see you in class on Friday in either case.”
This both expresses my intentions clearly and gives him an easy out that allows us both to save face if, in fact, I was the only one swooning during the hour and a half we spent together yesterday.
I have yet to hear back from him. I am developing a sneaking suspicion that he is not an obsessive e-mail checker, which is not a good sign.
Because then he might actually be a healthy and well-adjusted person, and where would I be then?