new romantics

it was quite the weekend. i think that every time i sit down on monday morning to write a blog i start it out with the phrase "it was quite the weekend." but no bother. it was quite the weekend. in the midst of much craziness--a dinner party (or "dinner party") friday night; a rehearsal at 8:30 saturday morning, church twice on sunday--george came up to hang out for the weekend and rehearse. in professional news, the violin/baritone duo that he's written us is coming together well; i was really worried but i'm not so worried anymore. but i'm still using the music, oh yes.

here are some stories from the weekend.

cory and i went to his friend doug's house for a dinner party. after walking there in the pouring rain, the party was weird from the word go. we walk in the door and the apartment looks like a cross between a dead 1950's grandmother--not your grandmother, i explained to george, but your mom's grandmother, complete with victrola, frowning-old-woman-oil-painting over the mantle, uncomfortable, overstuffed couch, wire-framed oscillating fan--and the room that e.a. poe died in. i told doug that his apartment was very "new romantic." "he's being ironic with his apartment," cory told me. i saw that.

so we're sitting in this bizarre sitting room with three of the strangest people i've ever met: dan and his sister "shade" (real name sally or sandi or something equally femme), a lesbian with a mohawk who's wearing a sailor costume. with a sailor hat. i asked "shade" where she's from and she stared through me: "san francisco," she replied. the way she said it made me not want to ask anything else. i started a conversation with cory. thirty seconds later she looked at me and said, "we're from new hampshire. dan and i are from new hampshire." congrats, i thought.

after one glass of wine i started to feel so fucked up--not drunk, but generally fucked up--that i told cory that i thought they'd laced my drink with something. after all, i don't know these people, and the way they're behaving, and the general e.a. poe-ness of this apartment all adds up to one thing: they're fucking with me.

this strange little conversation set the stage for the rest of the evening. just when i thought things couldn't get ANY more fucked up, john artz showed up and started singing. no, it's not a dream. this actually happened. "now it's your turn to be in on the game," doug told us. "we're trying to make each new arrival feel really uncomfortable." cory's convinced that he was kidding. i'm not.

the antedote to friday's bizarro evening was george's visit. we had a great time--relaxing, eating meals out, making music. more eating than music. we decided to get real nostalgic and go to central's wet underwear contest last night. cory had never been before, and i think he was actually a little surprised that no one in the contest was worth looking at. like there are going to suddenly be all of these extraordinarily hot men that come out of the woodwork and enter the contest. nope, these are the same gays we see at the bar, just with fewer clothes and more water. they have more cajones (or is it less shame?) than i do, though. i'll give 'em that.