The good news is that they still had me in the system.  Because apparently once your info is in that supercomputer down at 26th and Broadway, it never goes away.

The bad news is that they think I still weigh 149 pounds.

Ye gods.  Was I ever so young?

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Right-wing terror in the U.S.

I am reminded of a question I posed to this audience some time ago: when the empire fell, would you rather have been in Rome, or in Gaul?  When the putsch came, was it better to reside in Munich, or in Berlin? 

When the militias start mowing down brown people at the explicit behest of the “Straight Shooter,” or napalming the gays to defend the memory of their fallen leader, where will it be best to reside?

I know my answer.   And I would note that I carefully — carefully — phrased the prior questions in something other than the present tense. 

UPDATE: Upon reading some follow-up commentary about the Fallwell funeral bomber, the intended target of the planned attacks was not, in fact, gay folk, but rather the worst crowd of fag-bashers of the them all, the Westboro Baptist Church.  My bad. 

The question, however, still remains.

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As a parting gift from his firm, the partner was given a pinata of a human figure, with a blow-up of his face tacked to the head.  We briefly considered lynching, er hoisting, this effigy at our going-away party, for the amusement of all and sundry, but perhaps most especially for the delectation of the unnamed colleague(s) who made the below-mentioned suggestion.  However,  due to the lack of a suitable tree (namely, one that wouldn’t involve possible snarage on the electricity line), we did not, that evening, beat the stuffing out of the doll.

This weekend, we will be attending another party, an annual event held in the Cowtown equivalent of the Fabulous ’40s, the theme of which is “trailer trash.”

If we take the pinata to the party, whose face should we affix to the head? 

The floor is open to suggestions.  I ask only that it be someone whose image I can steal, er appropriate, from off the ‘net.

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As part of my farewell to this place, I decided that I need to see some Fort Worth INSTITUTIONS.  You know, the kind of thing that the Chamber of Commerce and the Junior League trump for when they go on about what’s “special” and “unique” about this place.  As the orchestra – which all but does centerfold layouts of their beefcake-ready conductor* – was not playing, and as the Jubilee Theatre’s new show won’t open until next weekend, I had to look further afield.

So, on Friday I did my round of the museums – which are, in fact, quite nice.  Or at least the Kimbell is; I really do recommend it to anyone.  Otherwise, the Amon Carter and the Sid Richardson are basically jumped-up Kinkade galleries jam-packed with the kitsch and monuments of yesteryore.**  The Modern, meanwhile, has an essentially mediocre collection (with a couple of exceptions here, here, and here, the last of which is notable primarily for its fun acoustic effects, rather than its pointedly obvious phallic aesthetics).  As it happens, the building is luverly, though you will note that the pictures on the website (see photo gallery here) are all shot from the outside looking in.  Indeed, a good many of the shots appear to have been taken from a vantage point that is entirely inaccessible to the public.  The museum’s basically fine café – which looks out over the much-vaunted reflecting pool - has , from almost any other angle except the one from which the publicity still was shot, a rather monumental view of a 50-foot tall commercial roadside-type billboard that rotates advertising for a bail bond agency and one of the three local, quite awful, “Mexican food”-type restaurants chains.

That stop out of the way, I then spent Saturday night at the Opera.  Or should that be Opera!  Or even Opera!!!  Whatever — I am not that kind of queen.  Be that as it may, I did in fact plunk down hard-earned cash to attend the gala opening of the newly re-organized “festival format” 60th anniversary season (”Texas’s oldest and best opera,” according to our local Congresswoman/honorary guest emcee, in a line which brought down the house).  Held, of course, at Bass Hall, home to the annunciating angels, or as I like to call them, the “raise your hand if you’re sure” angels. My first sign of danger came when I bought my ticket, and the twinkle-eyed house manager informed me that I was in for a treat, as there would be “dancers” and “doormen.”  “Doormen!”  I replied, “be still my beating heart.”

In fact there were doormen, a matched cross-racial pair at each entrance, in periwigs, white hose, breeches, black shoes, and big silver buckles (I could not make this shit up if I tried; but wait, it gets so much better).  At the intermission there was champagne (I did not see what they were pouring, but it was demi-sec and definitely not andre or freixenet) and cake (which is to say, petit-fours with marzipan icing).  Not to mention commedia dell’arte clowns bearing balloons and wearing harlequin pants (I shit you not).  As for the dancers, I suppose it was all part of a Venetian Mardi Gras theme, as there were four each at both of the main “portals,” all dressed in wigs, etc., literally leaping about some sort of maypole, waving twirly-tassles.  Oh, but I forget: one member of each quartet wasn’t dropping plies and making pirouettes.  That was because he (or she; for they were all, of course, masked) was on stilts.  I tried asking one of them if they were from the dance department at Texas Wesleyan or UNT, but of course received only an in-character coquette’s reply to “keep guessing.”  Before I could do so, however, I was distracted.

Distracted, that is, by a flash of gold.

A flash… of gold paint.

For it was not until I had ascended to the mezzanine – to the gallery that overlooks the main lobby and its madding crowd of women of a certain age in tasteful black dresses dripping with ice, their defeated-looking escorts in penguin-suits, young women in ill-fitting prom dresses and sling-backed mules (the more reputable sister of that piece of ur-tawdry Texania: the bejeweled flip-flop), and scads upon scads of closet-queens decked out in pistachio silk shirts, orange sherbet bow-ties, and honking-great pinky rings – not until I had risen above all that distraction that I could take in the piece de resistance of the evening:

Two boys***, each on pedestals, covered in gold paint, and wearing naught but the toga equivalent of a thong.

I was reminded, for no real reason at all, of a line from Pirandello: “But there are such beautiful apricots in season just now.  How do you eat them?  With the skin on, I bet.  You break them in two, and then squeeze them together between your fingers like two succulent lips.  Ah, how delicious.”

Yup, reminded of that line for no particular reason at all.

Oh, and the production, I hear you ask?  How was the production?  It was fine.  “Un bel di vedremo” was good but not great (rushed, as the reviewer points out; however, she did manage to banish from my head that old tune by the Chiffons).  I suspect that that evening’s diva would make a great Carmen, but her performance in the first act of this opera was not convincingly naïve.  Pinkerton was, by contrast, not enough of an asshole.  Sharpless and Suzuki were both quite good – but then, they did not have to carry the weight of the singing.  The set, however, was gorgeous, and lent itself beautifully for the tragedy of the last act.

Afterward, I finished my tour of Fort Worth institutions by popping in for the final half hour of coffeehouse guitar duet.  But that is, as they say, a tale for another day.

*When I first moved here, I was briefly impressed with the FWSO – and by extension, with what I presumed was Cowtown’s racial inclusiveness more broadly—when I noted that they were under the conductorship of someone with a Spanish surname.  How broadminded!  I thought.  How “southwestern”!  I thought.  It was when I saw his picture – which the Convention and Visitors Bureau shamelessly uses to plaster the windows of their downtown offices – that I began to wonder.  Who is this boyishly good-looking, dark-locked, quite white piece of handsomeness?  And then it hit me that the hyphenated surname should have told me that this gentleman, though perhaps technically Latin, was not, in fact, Chicano.

**Everytime I’ve walked into the Amon Carter, it has been all I could do not to say, in a stage whisper “oooh! Horsies!”

***One of these “boys” was older than I am and had less definition about the chest.

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So I’ve written two drafts of this post, and have had to scrap both.  I started out writing a “top ten” list of things people say when I tell them we’re leaving.  And both times, as I read it over, I came to the conclusion that I cannot post such a list without sounding insanely angry, mean, or worst of all, uncharitable.  The first draft (written while drunk) was mostly a window onto my own pathologies.  The second draft (revised while sober) still contained way too much misdirected bile to come up for public scrutiny.

So, instead, I’m going to give you just the money shot.  Which is to say, the entry for the end of the list, my personal favorite among all the things that people have said when I’ve told them (a) that I’m leaving, because (b) distally the partner hates it here, but (c) more proximately the partner has taken an offer (involving a career shift and a raise) in my hometown. 

And what do people say when I tell them this?  Many things, but the most amazing of all is…

“Don’t leave.  We’ll find you a new friend.”

Said to me by not one, but two people.  I wish I were making this up, but I am not.  I will confess that I have, quite literally, never been so insulted in all my life.  Not when some piss-drunk punk at Lollapalooza thought I was checking his flat ass out and so started calling me a “fag.”  Not when some wannabe gangster walking down the hall of my high school senior year socked me in the jaw for no apparent reason.  Not even when I was out walking precincts for the 2004 election and the grand-cracker to end all crackers started screaming at me about how I was a race traitor for trying to get him to vote for that white n****r, John Kerry. 

No, not even then.  Because it turns out that the worst insults come not out of the slurring mouths of homosexually-panicked drunks, nor can we credit them to the ultimately pathetic show-bravado of the urban adolescent, nor even, at the end of the day, do they crawl from the foul spewings of white trash in its dotage.  No, the worst insults come with the ostensibly well-meaning but utterly mis-placed sentiments expressed in the salons of the chattering classes. 

A gentle tip to the uninformed.  If I say I’m leaving, and you offer me a piece of ass in return for staying, this is not an offer made in kindness.  It is rather an offer to engage in the oldest species of commerce.  I will not purchase what you are selling, thank you very much and good day, sir.

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I will not speak ill of the dead.  No matter how tempted I may be.

Instead I shall simply note the passing of a brave and beautiful woman, Ms. Yolanda King.  She was so good that God took her early, wanting to keep her close.  Her grace and strength brought hope into the world and she will be missed. 

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I once read a poem in the New Yorker entitled “Mr. Fear.”  Unfortunately I cannot now remember the lines (or the author) and what lines I can recall (”he’s always there, in the greasy light of your dreams”) are actually from another poem entitled “The Truth,” by Philip Schultz.

In any case, I was reminded of this poem (or at least its title) by a curious incident this evening: I was accosted by a fear-peddler.

That’s right.  A fetchingly earnest young man came to my door early this evening, trying to sell me some fear. 

He was very nice about it.  Endearingly so, even.  “Hi. I’m new in town.” (oh really, sailor?) “I’m from Seattle originally and have never been to Dallas” (well you sure as shit is lost, sweetie, ’cause you in Fort Worth).  “I’m doing a business internship,” (why of course you are.  That would explain the boyish charm and the firm handshake) “and see, I’ve got this great offer.  If you put this sign in your yard as advertising we’ll give a $1200 security system for free!” (well with those kinds of terms, how could I resist? Oh wait).

Unfortunately I had to stop the poor boy right there, as my conscience got the better of me and I blurted out something to the effect of “oh, but we’re moving in a couple weeks, so really you’d want to talk to the new owner.”  There followed some light banter where I suggested that he make sure to knock on all the newly renovated houses in the neighborhood, as those would be most likely to (a) be occupied by middle-class owners who (b) might be interested in his ware(s?).

What a sorry state, ya know?  Peddling protection in a place like this?  And the poor kid moved here from Seattle.  Ye gods.  Paying someone for the privilege of living in fear has never been my idea of a good way to spend money.   How much worse to be on the selling end.

UPDATE: I found the poem (mis-titled, but it’s on page five of the document).

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What with grading and such, posting has been shamefully light.  This will be rectified as soon as I can gather together some words.

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We fixed the tub.

Turns out it was never connected to the sewer line. 

Apparently this is not uncommon in houses of this age in this area.  Why?  Evidently the idea is something along the lines of “well, you need to water the foundation somehow.”  In some houses they simply put an unlined cistern (i.e., a hole filled with rocks) underneath the drain for the tub, and let the grey water seep where it will.  No cistern under our house, sadly.

Why would they need to water the foundation, I hear you ask?  Because the soil ’round here is composed of clay with such expansive properties that it can increase in volume by something like 50 percent.  No wonder our doors would mysteriously latch and unlatch every six months: we weren’t keeping the foundation at an “even” level of moisture, and hence the house might as well have been riding a slow-motion roller coaster.

I keep wondering when the surprises will cease.  I gather they never will.

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Vagina Power, the re-mix.

Some things need no commentary.  This is one of them. 

But just in case you want to know more, see Alexyss Tylor’s own website, where “You are invited to the spiritual understanding of the power of the vagina, penis, and sperm.”

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