One of my (not so) secret theories concerning the soap opera and telenovela age is that certain well-beloved shows not only influence our behaviour but alter our perception of reality.
Not only are we able to identify with certain behaviour patterns that give rise to popular names for clinical modes (me, Bree Vanderkamp, Rory Gilmore and Samantha Jones share certain similarities), but I am sure that these popular shows have a greater impact in how we perceive reality. Sex and the City helped people to identify with four faces of themselves. It also gave rise to a way of seeing relationships in a very urban fashion. Suddenly, everyone evaluated relationships and dating in terms of performance and failure of performance (and that not only in a sexual way) instead of striving for authenticity. The way daily occurrences are narrativized leave a distinctive taste of Mary Allice's ironic voice in your head; friends and family have taken on the mixture of vaudeville and re-affirmation of conservative values of the Gilmore Girls. I admit, I have seen them all. In my obsessive interest in narrating and narrativizing they have become the pastime when my eyes cannot be fixed to the pixels of a computer screen. And they have the afore described impact on me too.
Yesterday's dinner should have been taped. The setting: the apartment my straight roommate and I share. Clemens and I used to hang out together on Wednesdays. Boys night out is now that we share living quarters a rare occasion. The other main characters were two gay friends of mine--a long-time couple--that i used to know well. Used to know well is a bit of an understatement: The three of us have shared a certain intimacy a couple of times years back, and that had secretly continued between me and one spouse for years. Way back when. Back in my well-bemoaned wild days. (Ahem).
It all started with a phone call earlier this week. I had mentioned before that we hadn't seen each other for a while and that I am off again in four weeks. I had thought a quick cup of coffee--the couple invited themselves over for dinner this week. I was stunned. Instead of spending my evening with tea and a short chat in between paragraphs writing, I found myself in an old role planning the perfect dinner. And it put me under an unbelievable amount of pressure. Suddenly, the Bree in me came out. I was going to show them (and especially one of the two) that I was attractive, sexy, masculine, and capable of everything. That wasn't the worst part of it: We hadn't seen each other for an extended period of time since Dan was over here. I just didn't know what to talk about with them. I wasn't thrilled about the whole affair but happy that they had requested Clemens to join us.
I spent half a day shopping for the perfect dinner, giving the apartment a make-over and spring cleaning that it hasn't seen in years. I considered painting for a while. My best friend pointed out to me on the phone that the dinner I was preparing was not Martha but straight out of a cookbook for aphrodisiacs. The old "second date dinner at home and moves afterwards" dinner. Little explosions for the senses, but light enough to avoid post-dinner sleepiness. Why the heck was I doing that?
The dinner was pleasant. Several text messages beforehand had established a neat list of conversational topics that were off limits: previous and current affairs and relationships, future plans, partners, old deeds. But conversation still flowed. The poor straight boy heard more than he ever wanted. Including the drunken slur to show his privates to one of the spouses (in an ever so charming way). The other made bitchy remarks towards his beloved and me. Post-coital affairs and relationships past the expiration date. I fired back. Taboos were broken and spills revealed. It would have been enough fodder for a whole new season of Sex and the City meets Queer As Folks.
They stayed longer than I thought. The text message this morning was more than the expected pleasantries. It was a dinner invitation in return.
Welcome back to the social madhouse of twenty-first century living.
As an update on my life and to avoid editing the passage I wrote this morning (eeek). So, without being tagged: Saturday's list taken from argyletwist.
listening to:
Yo Yo Ma plays Enrico Morricone.
why’re you doin’ that?
I am through my Glenn Gould recordings of the English and French Suites, the Art of Fugue and The Well-Tempered Clavier Book Part I and II already. Bach usually does the trick to me when I'm trying to write. Not today. Interestingly, Yo Yo Ma's interpretation of Enrico Morricone's movie classics reveal very well-structured compositions, lack the chronic 70's Western feeling and leave my brain stimulated enough tuning into and out of the music. Definitely a keeper. I wish it would help with the writing ...
best place i've been lately:
Talking about going anywhere. I am grateful for my every-second-day visit to the gym and my bi-weekly shopping spree for food. Which is not quiet true. I was in the capital earlier last week to be received officially by a member in a fairly high federal office for a artist/writer project I co-edited two years back. Everyone was more excited about this than I. What is a warm handshake when you are worrying about the future and the planned escape? Nonetheless, food and hotel were ok and I got to spend and evening with Nicola at a delightful Tapas bar with the first wine (a crisp Portuguese vinho verde) in weeks [reason given below].
something someone’s said to me/wrote me this week:
You don't say how many chapters are finished -- of course this means you have written the whole thing already, yes? (M II)
You cannot fool a literary and cultural critic with the ommission of important things from a text. Gaps are much more revealing than what is said. I know that. I've been telling my students the exact same thing. Been avoiding writing my second supervisor for a while now. I had to this week carefully ommiting any hints of progress/lack of progress and this is what I got back. I can hear the ironic tone in my head. Similar to Dame Judy Dench as James Bond's M. Not in any mean way, but a little salt in the wound. My insides crinched reading it and I felt embarrassed, though I don't know what I would do without her encouragement and the ongoing support.
objects that shared my bed last night:
1) The Norton Anthology of American Literature Volume I
I've heard a rumour about 87, 6 percent of Emily Dickinson's poetry can be sung to the melody of "The Yellow Rose of Texas" and had to try it out. It works with number 857.
2) The DCE
Believe me, I had better pillows.
3) My notebook, which unfortunately started speaking to me when last night's The Arts Tonight came on this morning 6 o'clock my time and I was woken by Eleanor Wachtel's artsy-orgasmatic voice. Radiosex on a contemporary Canadian composer. Anytime but an hour before I usually get up.
what have i got?
A subsiding gastritis. I am getting old.
Two airline tickets: one West, one to the big T.
Did you know that Venus has a run-away greenhouse effect? No kidding!
what i haven't got?
Still looking for a freelancing researcher in ottawa who could make a few copies at the National Archives. Otherwise I won't have a paper for June--and that would be a disaster.
best thing about yesterday?
Chucked out two applications yesterday overcoming last year's rejection trauma. Crossed fingers.
drink of the day
My household (blame my roommate) is on lent/diet, thus only unsweetened tea and juices are allowed. The forteeth cup I had today must have been rooibush rosemary. Noneheless, very yummy blend.