Author Archives: Joel Derfner

I need help.

(Yes, yes, ha ha ha.)

In preparation for the release of Swish, I’m updating my website, with the generous aid of this gorgeous gentleman (and while I’m at it I should mention that she valorously rescued me from a horrible web-host disaster that I was about to bring down upon my own head).

The problem is that now I am confronted with the dilemma out of which I found my way, when last confronted with it, by cheating. It was all well and good labeling individual pages “Books” and “Music” and “Blog,” but the man who has never been seen in the same room with me was utterly helpless to think of what to label the home page itself. Working in concert, he and I decided to fill the page with reviews of the book to correspond with the release of which he had timed the launch of the site; it could then very easily be labeled “Gay Haiku Reviews.”

But the imminent release of a second book renders that title inappropriate. Unfortunately, neither he nor I has any better ideas this time around. The two we’ve come up with so far are Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate (“abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” inscribed on the gates of Dante’s Hell), and Mene mene tekel upharsin (when a spectral hand wrote these words on the wall in the court of Babylon, the prophet Daniel interpreted them for King Belshazzar as “You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting”; neither Belshazzar nor the Babylonian empire lived to see morning, and we got “the writing on the wall”).

Somehow these seem a bit . . . I don’t know, frivolous.

One friend suggested “Gay Gay Giddy Gay Gay,” but, while it’s accurate, I feel that this title lacks sufficient gravitas.

Another offered “Raconteur,” which I actually like very much, except that the kind of guy who labels his home page “raconteur” is the kind of guy I dread running into at parties.

Anybody?

Addendum: I see from tinman’s comment and from a couple e-mails that I haven’t been clear. All I mean is that, for the sake of consistency and aesthetic felicity, there has to be something at the top, since there’s something at the top of every other page. It can’t be my name, since that’s already there, above the photo.

I’m taking down my amazon.com wish list. This is all I want anybody ever to give me.

It happened again today. This time, though, I thought quickly enough to write down what I’d said to wake myself up:

“Well, I could, if they weren’t a restaurant and didn’t undoubtedly weigh several hundred tons.”

I have no idea to whom I was speaking or what I was speaking about. When I told E.S., we had the following conversation:

E.S.: That sounds just like what you say in your sleep at home.
FAUSTUS: How do you mean?
E.S.: You say things that don’t make any sense but I can always tell you’re angry.
FAUSTUS: …
E.S.: I mean, really it’s no different from what you say when you’re awake.
FAUSTUS: I hate you.

Today I fell asleep on the subway and woke up when I heard somebody talking and then I realized the person talking was me.

I have absolutely no memory of what I was saying. E.S. has claimed before that I’m very talkative in my sleep. He says that he usually can’t make out the words but that more often than not they are spoken in a tone of disdain.

So my next step is to get a voice-activated recorder and sleep with it next to my head. And on the subway.

This fabulous review appeared in the Bangkok Post and then the LA TImes in May of 1967. I read it a year or two after college, when a friend forwarded it.

A Humid Recital Stirs Bangkok

Kenneth Langbell, Bangkok Post

THE RECITAL last evening in the chamber music room of the Erawan Hotel by US pianist Myron Kropp, the first appearance of Mr Kropp in Bangkok, can only be described by this reviewer and those who witnessed Mr Kropp’s performance as one of the most interesting experiences in a very long time.

Mr Kropp, the pupil and artistic successor to Straube and Ramin, had chosen the title “An Evening with Bach” for the performance.

Indeed from the outset, it was an evening the social leaders of Bangkok would not soon forget, the men in tuxedos and white dinner jackets and the ladies resplendent in floor-length evening gowns with more than one orchid corsage crowning a Lemey or Delmonte original.

There was a bit of disorder at the outset when the ushers, apparently brought in from the dining room, had some trouble placing concert-goers in their proper seats, a situation that was little helped by several late arrivals.

Nevertheless the audience eventually was seated and a hush fell over the room as Mr Kropp appeared from the right of the stage, attired in black formal evening-wear with a small white poppy in his lapel.

With sparse, sandy hair, a sallow complexion and a deceptively frail looking frame, the man who has repopularised Johann Sebastian Bach approached the Baldwin Concert Grand, bowed to the audience and placed himself upon the stool.

It might be appropriate to insert at this juncture that many pianists, including Mr Kropp, prefer a bench, maintaining that on a screw-type stool they sometimes find themselves turning sideways during a particularly expressive strain. There was a slight delay, in fact, as Mr Kropp left the stage briefly, apparently in search of a bench, but returned when informed that there was none.

As I have mentioned on several other occasions, the Baldwin Concert Grand, while basically a fine instrument, needs constant attention, particularly in a climate such as Bangkok’s. This is even more true when the instrument is as old as the one provided in the chamber music room of the Erawan Hotel. In this humidity the felts which separate the white keys from the black tend to swell, causing an occasional key to stick, which apparently was the case last evening with the D in the second octave.

During the “raging storm” section of the D-Minor Toccata and Fugue, Mr Kropp must be complimented for putting up with the awkward D. However, by the time the “storm” was past and he had gotten into the Prelude and Fugue in D Major, in which the second octave D plays a major role, Mr Kropp’s patience was wearing thin.

Some who attended the performance later questioned whether the awkward key justified some of the language which was heard coming from the stage during softer passages of the fugue. However, one member of the audience, who had sent his children out of the room by the midway point of the fugue, had a valid point when he commented over the music and extemporaneous remarks of Mr Kropp that the workman who had greased the stool might have done better to use some of the grease on the second octave D.

Indeed, Mr Kropp’s stool had more than enough grease and during one passage in which the music and lyrics were both particularly violent, Mr Kropp was turned completely around. Whereas before his remarks had been aimed largely at the piano and were therefore somewhat muted, to his surprise and that of those in the chamber music room he found himself addressing the audience directly.

But such things do happen, and the person who began to laugh deserves to be severely reprimanded for this undignified behaviour. Unfortunately, laughter is contagious, and by the time it had subsided and the audience had regained its composure, Mr Kropp appeared somewhat shaken. Nevertheless, he swivelled himself back into position facing the piano and, leaving the D Major Fugue unfinished, commenced on the Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor.

Why the concert grand piano’s G key in the third octave chose that particular time to begin sticking I hesitate to guess. However, it is certainly safe to say that Mr Kropp himself did nothing to help matters when he began using his feet to kick the lower portion of the piano instead of operating the pedals as is generally done.

Possibly it was this jarring or the un-Bach-like hammering to which the sticking keyboard was being subjected. Something caused the right front leg of the piano to buckle slightly inward, leaving the entire instrument listing at approximately a 35-degree angle from that which is normal. A gasp went up from the audience, for if the piano had actually fallen several of Mr Kropp’s toes if not both his feet, would surely have been broken.

It was with a sigh of relief therefore, that the audience saw Mr Kropp slowly rise from his stool and leave the stage. A few men in the back of the room began clapping and when Mr Kropp reappeared a moment later it seemed he was responding to the ovation.

Apparently, however, he had left to get a red-handled fire axe which was hung backstage in case of fire, for that was what he had in his hand.

My first reaction at seeing Mr Kropp begin to chop at the left leg of the grand piano was that he was attempting to make it tilt at the same angle as the right leg and thereby correct the list. However, when the weakened legs finally collapsed altogether with a great crash and Mr Kropp continued to chop, it became obvious to all that he had no intention of going on with the concert.

The ushers, who had heard the snapping of piano wires and splintering of sounding board from the dining room, came rushing in and, with the help of the hotel manager, two Indian watchmen and a passing police corporal, finally succeeded in disarming Mr Kropp and dragging him off the stage.

Alas, it was made up. As a humor piece for the Bangkok Post.

I don’t think I will ever feel disappointment as crushing as the disappointment that crushed me when I found that out. But I am able to console myself with the knowledge that for a time I had had something to believe in.

Notice that I don’t say how long a time.

From a conversation E.S. and I had earlier today in the kitchen.

E.S.: Hey, those cookies are mine.
FAUSTUS: Yes, but your love for me makes them mine too.
E.S.: …
FAUSTUS: It’s the transitive property of love.
E.S.: Give them to me right now.

I am about to take my life in my hands.

By which I mean: I am about to cook and eat a package of Ramen noodles.

I realize that such an action isn’t ordinarily considered life-threatening, and it’s possible that I’m indulging in hyperbole, but I am still so traumatized after my last experience with Ramen noodles that I feel I must be very, very careful.

Last time I had Ramen noodles, I was visiting my aunt in Los Angeles. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I wanted a snack but not something too filling, because for dinner we were planning to go to a restaurant so posh it didn’t have a name. A brief search of the pantry revealed just the thing, and I put the water in the microwave.

As the microwave performed the task for which it had been invented, I opened up the package of Ramen noodles. My eye fell upon the directions, and I started thinking. “Hmm,” I thought. “It says to put half the flavor packet in. But I really like the flavor. I’ll just use the whole thing.”

The microwave beeped, and I poured the water into the bowl in which I had placed the noodles and all the contents of the flavor packet. I stirred and let sit for three minutes. Then I picked up my fork and, delighting in the anticipation of pleasure, took a bite.

I will spare you the description of the convulsions that racked my innards as they had never been racked before. There’s no need for you to visualize how quickly I ran to the sink and spat out the noodles. I needn’t enumerate for you the minutes I spent trying to rid my mouth of the hideous taste that filled it.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening watching television and eating ice cream. We rescheduled dinner at the restaurant so posh it didn’t have a name. And Ramen noodles began to frighten me.

This happened twenty years ago.

Wish me luck.

Update: I couldn’t do it. I made pasta instead.

While I was in the middle of nowhere with no cell reception and no Internet connection, I ended up e-stumbling across some old files about whose existence I’d forgotten.

It’s a week late, unfortunately, but here is a word search I apparently handed out one Holy Week to the choir at the church where I sang. Click to make it a little bigger.

I believe any comment on the below to be superfluous, but even if it’s not, I certainly wouldn’t be up to the task.

Click to see a larger, more legible version.

Okay, so you know the Margaret-Jones-a.k.a.-Peggy-Seltzer-memoir-fraud scandal?

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about Jones/Selzer’s agent, Faye Bender (who said, “There was no reason to doubt her, ever,” which is a pretty ridiculous assertion).

And it turns out that my friend carpooled with Faye Bender for ten years. And that Faye Bender was really, really mean to her.

So I figure she only got what she deserved.

Faye Bender, I mean. Not my friend.