Wrong floor.Apropos of other news, it's unclear whether the prize for worst performance of the past month should go to slatternly Britney Spears (who bombed at the Video Music Awards) or to ultra-whitebread Sen. Larry Craig of Idaho, who got caught with his pants down in a Minnesota airport restroom. During the wave of ribald reaction to the latter flap, it was remarkable how few radio hosts and their callers (including on sports shows) had been aware of the cult status of toilets as a pickup joint for gay men.
I certainly recall my own surprise when informed by a fellow Yale graduate student that a certain john in the stacks of august Sterling Library (the third floor?) was a renowned hot spot for man-on-man action. I found it a bit de trop: When I wanted an erotic break, I simply riffled through the volumes of Paris Match for photos of Catherine Deneuve.
Meanwhile, eleven days before prima, I'm struggling to find a good fall rhythm. I accomplished some work over the summer, but, like Anna Netrebko's trills, not enough. "Never enough" is the curse that comes with the academic profession, thanks to the curve-busters, those who have more published articles than sexual encounters, I hate (and pity) you all. I have undiagnosed ADD. I'm working on four projects. I also follow all the liberal sites, political news, news about news, and music blogs; cruise YouTube (like you don't); explore the value of atheism (saps the "soul", if any); download loads of free stuff (if you have to ask, don't); watch reruns of Frasier and laugh automatically at every repeated punchline (and the Golden Girls); run and swim and struggle to not open another bag of Sun chips (impossible); there're thousands of shrink-wrapped CDs and DVDs, dozens of unanswered e-mails, John Stewart on DVR, New Yorkers piled this high on the night stand. And Yankee games! And housework! There're places on earth waiting to be visited, coral islands and tropical fish to be snorkeled; family and friends to call, Italian to be learned (more seriously). Photographs to be taken, or printed, or sent, or viewed ... How does one deal with the unyielding accretion of living in these modern times. Every time the sun sets, we're behind another day, breathless and paralyzed. Then the drone of guilt sets in, at night, like heartburn. Perhaps the greatest medical breakthrough of the 21st century would be a pill to erase the biological need for sleep.
OK, back to work. (And no, in case you're wondering, I'm not attending the Sills tribute--but thanks to Sirius, I'll be tuning in--or the Lucia open house. My season starts strictly on September 24.)