Hot Buttered Rum!
First off: my apologies for not updating this damn thing since September. It's been a rough mid-term, trying to balance writing, teaching, and classes all at once. But luckily, I read The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron, a wonderful book about finding balance with your writing and it's given me a second wind. I will be trying to apply the writerly things it's taught me, and this blog will be slowly filling you in on the past few weeks, and my current Klandyland life...
So, it's fall and the weather, on a good day, is dark and cloudy like in SF, and on bad days, is raining and miserable. The leaves have turned.
I'm watching Intereview With a Vampire, again, for the 5th time since I've moved here. The movie -- the greatest vampire porno ever told -- is constantly on one of the Showtime channels. I've watched Queen of the Damned a bunch of times too in the last couple months -- and that's even funnier because it was meant to go straight to video/dvd (possibly with the Special Feature section having the audio of the black box from Aaliyah's plane). But because Aaliyah died, FOX thought they'd make more money off of a dead body, so it was released to theatres with its horrible CG and MTV soundtrack and bad acting (e.g. the scene where she fucks Stuart Townsend in a bathtub...filled with rose peddles...and they bite each other).
It all reminds me of the new Nora Robert's novel Denay is reading: "Dance of the Gods" -- the second installment in Nora Robert's trilogy modern day vampire romance/porno. The best line in that book is, "He pulled her loose pants from her hips, and there was nothing beneath them but woman, hot and wet. Hotter and wetter when his fingers found her."
Earlier, when I was reading submissions to the Indiana Review, a blocked number called me and I picked up thinking it would be Denay and instead it was Bill Clinton. "Hello. I'm Bill Clinton and I'm calling for your support of Lt. Governor John..." I normally hang up when I get these messages, but it was Bill Clinton and even though he said, straight-up, it was a pre-recorded message and even though it was impersonal, I actually listened to the whole thing, sitting on my second-hand couch which is covered with a bed sheet to mask the suspicious stains. For some reason, hearing his voice directed towards me made it feel like he was actually speaking to...Me! God I'm lonely.
My friend Jeff and I talked about how now that it's so cold (Bloomington drops into the 30's and 40's in the evenings), the saddest thing is to not have someone to cuddle up with in the chill. Then, for reasons I cannot remember, we started talking about office sex and how hasn't done it in the United States.
But maybe I have.
Maybe.
All you people at HIFY: I'll let you consider the possibilities of that for a minute, let that paranoia of Did He or Didn't He? set it -- let that paranoia drive you to sterilize your desks with the vinegar spray beneath the kitchen sink. Because: Remember that awful Shaggy song "It Wasn't Me"? How he had sex with the woman on the coffee table, and then the microwave, and then the doggy bed, and then the air-conditioner hanging from the window, and then the stroke-paralyzed mother in the living room, etc.? Well, if I were to have office sex (or, maybe, when I had office sex) it would be all up on everyone's business.
You're Welcomed.
+++
Yesterday, I went to a cocktail party for my program and the host and hostess had a full bar, along with -- brewing in the kitchen -- Hot Buttered Rum. I had never had such a thing and when they served me some, the melted butter floated above the mix of warm cider and rum and cloves. It was fattening and congealing on my lips, that butter. It reminded me of Wisconsin's Butter Burgers. I told a few people what a Butter Burger is. We sipped our Hot Buttered Rum, standing next to the hostess as she made more -- dressed classy in her red, high-waisted dress, at the stove and emptying a whole bottle of rum into the pot (looking like Faye Dunnaway in Mommy Dearest). And they gagged at the idea of a butter burger, meat patty fried with butter, buns slathered in butter, and served up hot with a pad of butter melting on the meat for that extra butterness.
I've never eaten one myself, but the opportunity might be realized. They have a few Culver's here in Indiana. Culver's: the Wisconsin chain. Culver's: Frozen Custard & Butter Burgers. A heart attack, waiting to happen. A place, I'm sure, that if you eat at often enough to look like zachhart12 on gay.com.
I was chatting online again the other day, and out of nowhere, because we were both in the Bloomington chatroom, he messaged me just to say this:
Nevermind that he got the ethnic slur in the wrong direction. He spelled it incorrectly, that Crakre.
"Spic asian"? Maybe he has mild Dyslexia and meant "Spice asian" -- as in, he mistook me for one of the Spice Girls, the one who will replace Ginger Spice for the reunion tour: ASIAN SPICE!
Not White Power -- GIRL POWER!
So, it's fall and the weather, on a good day, is dark and cloudy like in SF, and on bad days, is raining and miserable. The leaves have turned.
I'm watching Intereview With a Vampire, again, for the 5th time since I've moved here. The movie -- the greatest vampire porno ever told -- is constantly on one of the Showtime channels. I've watched Queen of the Damned a bunch of times too in the last couple months -- and that's even funnier because it was meant to go straight to video/dvd (possibly with the Special Feature section having the audio of the black box from Aaliyah's plane). But because Aaliyah died, FOX thought they'd make more money off of a dead body, so it was released to theatres with its horrible CG and MTV soundtrack and bad acting (e.g. the scene where she fucks Stuart Townsend in a bathtub...filled with rose peddles...and they bite each other).
It all reminds me of the new Nora Robert's novel Denay is reading: "Dance of the Gods" -- the second installment in Nora Robert's trilogy modern day vampire romance/porno. The best line in that book is, "He pulled her loose pants from her hips, and there was nothing beneath them but woman, hot and wet. Hotter and wetter when his fingers found her."
Earlier, when I was reading submissions to the Indiana Review, a blocked number called me and I picked up thinking it would be Denay and instead it was Bill Clinton. "Hello. I'm Bill Clinton and I'm calling for your support of Lt. Governor John..." I normally hang up when I get these messages, but it was Bill Clinton and even though he said, straight-up, it was a pre-recorded message and even though it was impersonal, I actually listened to the whole thing, sitting on my second-hand couch which is covered with a bed sheet to mask the suspicious stains. For some reason, hearing his voice directed towards me made it feel like he was actually speaking to...Me! God I'm lonely.
My friend Jeff and I talked about how now that it's so cold (Bloomington drops into the 30's and 40's in the evenings), the saddest thing is to not have someone to cuddle up with in the chill. Then, for reasons I cannot remember, we started talking about office sex and how hasn't done it in the United States.
But maybe I have.
Maybe.
All you people at HIFY: I'll let you consider the possibilities of that for a minute, let that paranoia of Did He or Didn't He? set it -- let that paranoia drive you to sterilize your desks with the vinegar spray beneath the kitchen sink. Because: Remember that awful Shaggy song "It Wasn't Me"? How he had sex with the woman on the coffee table, and then the microwave, and then the doggy bed, and then the air-conditioner hanging from the window, and then the stroke-paralyzed mother in the living room, etc.? Well, if I were to have office sex (or, maybe, when I had office sex) it would be all up on everyone's business.
You're Welcomed.
+++
Yesterday, I went to a cocktail party for my program and the host and hostess had a full bar, along with -- brewing in the kitchen -- Hot Buttered Rum. I had never had such a thing and when they served me some, the melted butter floated above the mix of warm cider and rum and cloves. It was fattening and congealing on my lips, that butter. It reminded me of Wisconsin's Butter Burgers. I told a few people what a Butter Burger is. We sipped our Hot Buttered Rum, standing next to the hostess as she made more -- dressed classy in her red, high-waisted dress, at the stove and emptying a whole bottle of rum into the pot (looking like Faye Dunnaway in Mommy Dearest). And they gagged at the idea of a butter burger, meat patty fried with butter, buns slathered in butter, and served up hot with a pad of butter melting on the meat for that extra butterness.
I've never eaten one myself, but the opportunity might be realized. They have a few Culver's here in Indiana. Culver's: the Wisconsin chain. Culver's: Frozen Custard & Butter Burgers. A heart attack, waiting to happen. A place, I'm sure, that if you eat at often enough to look like zachhart12 on gay.com.
I was chatting online again the other day, and out of nowhere, because we were both in the Bloomington chatroom, he messaged me just to say this:
Nevermind that he got the ethnic slur in the wrong direction. He spelled it incorrectly, that Crakre.
"Spic asian"? Maybe he has mild Dyslexia and meant "Spice asian" -- as in, he mistook me for one of the Spice Girls, the one who will replace Ginger Spice for the reunion tour: ASIAN SPICE!
Not White Power -- GIRL POWER!
posted by Danny Thanh Nguyen at 1:45 PM
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