Agnus Dei, Jona Switzerland

Sousa Variation Video

Vanilla

Duncan and I were on the Mission bus for Father's day listening to Guillermo Gomez-Pena comment on the vanilla hetero hipsters that displaced all the lesbians on Valencia street during the dot-com boomlet whilst Violeta Luna explicatively mimed the important points of his disquisition, the highest point being when she ascended the treads of the stairs to Mission Dolores on her knees, concomitantly scourging her back with a bouquet of roses. But his use of the word 'vanilla' reminded me of a story which I shall relate presently. This story tells of a time when Leslie Isaac accompanied me to one of the early Pink parties put on by the Mission Control people where we sat, untouched, observing the natives in their natural habitat. One of these locals, let's call him Mr A___, was sitting a few feet from us on the couch mounted by his wife in the reverse cowgirl position, her face planted in the uncovered and copious bosom of the host, wholeheartedly thrusting herself in a simple and straightforward but somehow agreeable rhythm. A few items of context: (1) I had just been on TV with Mr A___ taking about an upcoming performance and was intrigued to see him in this quite different scene, and (2) given the attractive and youthfully exuberant nature of the exhibition, the triad in question was subject to the gaze of about 10 other people all sitting quietly but intently about the room. After a few minutes of watching with the others, Leslie sighed quite loudly and whispered "this is so vanilla." Yes, dear Scarlett, we is powerfully jaded down here in the deepest darkest and most southerly parts of Frisco. 

On the Death of David Blakely

To abjure

The first time I read the Koran as a child it was a Penguin edition, yes, in English, sorry. Oddly the only line that has stuck in my head is from the prologue: a brief timeline of the life of Mohammed, viz: the 627 raid on the Jewish tribe of Qurayza where 800 men were executed, a bloody process, beheading them in batches at the edge of a trench dug in the market place, which occupied the whole day and much of the night, and the woman and children sold as slaves. However, and this is the thing that has always fascinated me: one Jew did abjure his religion to save his life. What is this process, this abjuration? Did Mohammed's followers require this man to actually change his belief or to merely say the words of rejection?  If one believes something, how can that belief really be changed anyway?  And, of course, quite incomprehensible to my suburban middle class upbringing: how can a belief be so important that one would die for it? Especially a belief, in this case Judaism, which was, I thought, commonly a bit vague about any kind of life after death beyond some vague Classical shade-existence, except for the Sadduces, who were pretty clear about their lack of belief in the whole deal. Couldn't you get away with just saying whatever and crossing your fingers or whatever and then believing whatever you wanted?  Or, can't we maintain like the White Queen her six impossible pre-breakfast beliefs?

Anywho, this is all merely a prologue to the real news of the evening.  Lynne made a lovely dinner tonight and we snagged Jill Tracy and Kathleen up from the basement fitting room for a lovely relaxed conversation over margaritas. This is the new order of things here at the Rutter house: polite dinners, conversation with no hanky panky please.  Jill has a record release party at DNA on Wednesday which promises to be a delight. 

One more week

My colleague Michael Kaulkin blogged about Mordake, as did Lynne and fellow collaborator Kathleen. And we musn't forget the Chronicle review and the sf360 review too.  These fragments which are to become the desiccated bits of yellow paper detaching from a once precious photo album, fragments crumbling onto my lap, mixing with drooled spittle, brushed away by liver spotted hands, the last forced movements of a dying soul, trying so very hard to remember the life that once was.