Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

You know the story of Persephone? In Greece, way back when people chatted with gods and the gods talked back and nobody thought you were crazy for saying so, this lovely maiden named Persephone was out picking flowers. Apparently back then, spending a day in a meadow flower-picking was considered a productive use of one's time -- and doubly so if your mother was the goddess of agriculture and fertility.
So here is this girl, tra-la-la-ing it through the glades of Greece, and suddenly the earth splits open, and up comes Hades, Lord of the Underworld, and He grabs her and sweeps her away to His dark underground kingdom.
Now, despite the fact that this sort of thing happened all the time back then, Persephone's mother was pissed. I think the conversation went something like this:

<ringring>
Hades: HELLO?
Demeter: ASHKENGHGHNAAAAASFRAAGGAAAHARRRGGGAAAA!!!
Hades: EXCUSE ME?
Demeter: FLAAAHFHNNAAANGFNKLJOOPLKHAAAAAAA!!!
Hades: YOU REALLY MUST CALM DOWN.
Demeter: (sputter) CALM DOWN?? AAAFHHJKJSAAAPERSEPHONEGJKLJLSAAA!!
Hades: SHE IS MINE. I ABDUCTED HER FROM THAT GLADE, FAIR AND SQUARE.
Demeter: LKJGOHGHAAAA FINE THEN I WILL SMITE THE EARTH WITH SNOW, AND WIND, AND COLD SNAPS, AND FROSTBITE, AND HYPOTHERMIA, AND EL NINO.
Hades: (shrug) WHATEVER, I LIVE UNDERGROUND.

And so Winter came into existence. Demeter was so sad and angry that Her daughter was gone, She turned off the sun and created a whole new industry, which is why Demeter is also known as the Goddess of Parkas and Moonboots. Luckily, they managed to broker a custody-sharing deal: Persephone would have been free to pick flowers all year, and the whole planet would have been the Caribbean, if she had refrained from eating these six little pomegranate seeds; Hades worked in a clause into the agreement that she had to live underground for one month for each seed -- Winter -- and she got to skip around and picnic for the other six months -- Summer. Still, one has to admire Persephone's forbearance. If Hades had abducted me and then starved me in a cave somewhere and then someone gave me a pomegranate, I think it is safe to say we would have something like 900 months of Winter in a row.

So far as I can make out, this means that Fall is the time when Demeter is getting sadder and sadder that her daughter is off mucking about with this Underworld fellow. Trees wither, winds get chilly, people drive through New England looking at the colors.

Today, however; today is so beautiful and sunshiny and crisp and wonderful -- today I think is the day when Demeter woke up and realized She was alone in the house: She walked around naked for a while; She turned up that Euterpe CD she just got that Persephone always makes fun of; She realized She could use the phone whenever She wanted without picking up a receiver and hearing someone whine "But Mo-o-o-om, I'm on the pho-o-o-one!" She drank a mimosa, possibly three, called Ares to see what He was up to later, and realized that having your kid out of the house for a while probably is not the worst thing that could happen.

Do you ever have that feeling that you have forgotten something?

Man. I keep thinking that there is something I am supposed to do today -- something important -- and I cannot for the life of me think what it is. For a minute I thought it was picking up laundry, but that was not it.

Man! This is driving me crazy! I was going to do SOMETHING after work today. Am I supposed to meet someone for dinner? Is there some bill I have not paid? Honestly, I hate when this happens. I am sure it is nothing, and I will remember as soon as I go to bed. Oh well. Whatever it is, I can do it tomorrow.

Partly because I am suffused with a sense of overwhelming accomplishment and pride, and partly to stem the eruption of increasingly bad puns in the comments for my last entry, let me just say: I remembered what I had to do today. MAN, who would have thought that making a column of little black Xs could be so satisfying?

Dear America:
You are a horde of fucking wankers. I tried so hard to believe in you, and you just keep making it harder and harder. I wondered aloud last night how many times in the next two weeks I would hear the phrase, "Ohio is the new Florida." So far I am up to four.

America, I know you mean well, but sometimes, meaning well just will not cut it. Like the turkey you once wanted as your national bird, you could drown yourself in a fucking rainstorm. Now you have subjected the world to two weeks of explaining what a provisional ballot is, and what constitutes a valid vote. Why could you not just GET IT RIGHT?

And furthermore, you mob (as I am forced to assume by your actions) of brainless fucking zombies, gay marriage will not cause the world to erupt in a seething mass of flames and doom -- although come to think of it, I can think of another decision you made last night that will.

Not, of course, that I am giving up on you completely. I am an optimist at heart. You still have a chance to pull this out and prove you are not all that bad, once you get past the layers of grime and fucking idiocy. So go for it, America. Prove to me that you are worth all this trouble. Prove to me that you are not, as appears at first blush, a bunch of moronic fucking asshats. I am counting on you.

Outwardly patient yet inwardly seething with rage,
Biscuit

HOW in UNHOLY FUCK did this election, where the STUPID FUCKING SPINELESS DEMOCRATS were supposedly SO FUCKING ENERGIZED
turn into this ABJECT MOTHERFUCKING DISASTER
where the ONLY MOTHERFUCKING BRIGHT SPOT
is a race
where SOMEONE BEAT MOTHERFUCKING ALAN FUCKING KEYES.

IF THAT IS YOUR ONLY GOOD NEWS YOU ARE SO ROYALLY FUCKED YOU JUST NEED TO GET YOUR FUCKING COAT AND GO THE FUCK HOME.

GOD DAMN IT FUCKERFUCKERFUCKERFUCKERFUCKERFUCKERFUCKERFUCKER. CNN needs to take down that picture of the incumbent in all his smug laughing bastardy, before I fucking throw up all over my screen. And then someone needs to stab Karl Rove in his fucking eyes.

And YES in case you can't fucking TELL, I've jumped headlong into MOTHERFUCKING ANGER.

GOD FUCKING DAMN EVERYTHING.

P.S.: America? YOU FUCKING WHORE.

An excerpt of November's horoscope.

LEO:
...One truly lovely day should be November 4, when Venus and Jupiter will combine in Libra. This date could bring remarkable news about your career. It could also bring romance, a short trip, or a contract to sign. Of course, these possibilities are not mutually exclusive, so you might have luck in several areas. On November 4 the moon will be in Leo, so this date will be DOUBLY special for you. At the very least, expect a dazzling day to go shopping for new clothes or a salon or spa treatment. Venus teaches us to stop and enjoy life now and then...

Today I found out that I was accepted to Brooklyn College. This should precipitate great sweeping changes in my career -- not to mention that last bit -- because you know very well that a new school requires a new wardrobe.

I have been asking myself how long it would take to shake myself out of my political hangover; while I am by no means out of the woods, it certainly does help to have taken a step in a direction whereby I might be able to actually do something instead of cry about it.

Quoted from Andrew Sullivan's blog, written just after news of Kerry's concession, and in light of the 11 newly-discriminatory states:

"But one more thing is important. The dignity of our lives and our relationships as gay people is not dependent on heterosexual approval or tolerance. Our dignity exists regardless of their fear. We have something invaluable in this struggle: the knowledge that we are in the right, that our loves are as deep and as powerful and as God-given as their loves, that our relationships truly are bonds of faith and hope that are worthy, in God's eyes and our own, of equal respect. Being gay is a blessing. The minute we let their fear and ignorance enter into our own souls, we lose. We have gained too much and come through too much to let ourselves be defined by others. We must turn hurt back into pride. Cheap, easy victories based on untruth and fear and cynicism are pyrrhic ones. In time, they will fall. So hold your heads up high. Do not give in to despair. Do not let the Republican party rob you of your hopes. This is America. Equality will win in the end."

It is upon us. These dark days have been crouching nearby and are now prepared to spring: The Fall of our once Grand and Glorious Empire.

But as we endure these troubled times, I ponder, as I often do. And I come to the Conclusion that we are nothing so much as a product of our senses: our Sense of Smell, Taste, Touch; our Sense of Humor. Therefore, in appreciation of all of our Senses, I call you together! I call you together to celebrate Life! I call you together to drink, and to dance, and to fiddle while Rome burns! I call you to: The Fall of the Empire Party!

Come, and let the perfume of strange liquors embrace you! Delight in the exotic; eat figs and pears, and lick the sweet juice from your fingers. Baklava, sugared fruits, nutmeats from around the globe. Melon, red grape, black plum. Honey, cinnamon, saffron, rosewater. All the earthly pleasures of the world await, and you have but to reach out and pluck them.

All this debaucherous behavior needs but an Outlet, and here it is: The home of Biscuit and Mike. Sunday the 14th. Four o'clock in the afternoon. Wear togas; dress as your favorite Fallen Empire; wear velvet and watered silk; come in nothing but a top hat. To contribute to the day's events, but a trifle is requested: a few dollars here or there to defray the cost of importing these rare and delicate delectables, or perhaps a bottle of some endangered vintage, scented by tropical airs, carried by hand from beyond the dunes of Farthest Araby -- or perhaps a more common vintage, but only if tendered with a Sense of deepest Irony. Bring nothing else but yourselves, and your Senses of Whimsy and Adventure! Please respondez-vous, as they say in France, as soon as possible. As the world crumbles beneath our feet, let those feet be dancing ones!

Ow. My head.

Really, I did not know it was possible for 6 people to consume so much beer in one evening. I tried to keep track of how many pitchers of Rudy's Gold went down, but I lost track somewhere around pitcher number 3,042.

Still and all -- Guys' Night? I approve.

This blog is getting completely swamped with spam, I do not have the time to go through and delete everything, mt-blacklist is total crap that still is letting zillions of things through, and I forgot where I put my ftp program so I can upgrade to mt3.
So in lieu of doing anything productive, I decided to take a totally fucking awesome online quiz! Which is always a good course of action, I think.

Which File Extension are You?

Also today I am totally wearing a suit and listening to some totally fucking awesome music and yes, totally even (this is the part that will make you all jealous) figuring out how to link an external document directly to the subheaders of a .pdf!

Also also, my mind is not in its proper place currently; instead, it is thinking ahead to June 12-19, 2005, when my family will be vacationing here LA LA LA LA LA SKIPPY LA DOODLE!!!! HAHA WHEEEE MY MOM RULES.

This has been a dispatch from the land of crazytown.

It is becoming painfully obvious that Mike and I need a digital camera to call our own. At pretty much every Tribe gathering, at least two or three people bust one out, and we all pose goodnaturedly, and borrow cameras for the inevitable round of arm's-length shots -- but then everyone who doesn't own a camera has to wait for pictures to be chosen, resized, cropped, de-red-eyed, and uploaded. That is not to say that I am not tremendously grateful for everyone else's efforts on the group's behalf, but *I* want to be the person who is cropping and choosing, to better facilitate getting pictures on my own little site up in a more timely fashion.

Case in point: if I had a digital camera, you would not be reading me complain. Instead, you would be looking at pictures of saffron rice, studded with pine nuts, golden raisins, and steeped in coconut milk. You would be looking at pictures of baklava sticky with honey, cinnamon, pistachios, cashews, and walnuts. You would be looking at pictures of vibrantly red (some might say slut-red) raspberries, floating in a palely pink Chardonnay jelly, and topped with a floater of heavy cream. You would be looking at pictures of a dense, savory cheesecake, rich with pieces of artichoke and crab meat, swirled through with a creamy goat cheese. You would be looking at pictures of figs, split and stuffed with a mixture of mascarpone cheese, rosemary honey, and a thickly sweet reduced balsamic vinegar, wrapped in a sheet of prosciutto and broiled just until the edges begin to char.

And if you think you are hungry just reading the words -- well, imagine what photos might have done.

To the Fall of the Empire Partygoers: you rock my face. Togas abounded, Centurion outfits were donned, and costumes representing various fallen Empires were worn with pride. We downed not only a jeroboam of Riesling, we polished off a bottle of madeira and eight bottles of red wine. We dined using brass and rosewood flatware from Siam, and we drank from silver goblets. We laughed, we danced, and we sang, and as always, we did it in high style.

Now, if only I had a camera to prove it.

There is one particular thing I would like to mention today, one specific question I have been asked, but I cannot. I have yet to scan in the illustrative photograph that I feel is so necessary to this particular story, as I was too distracted when I got home from dinner -- all that champagne just went straight to my head.

Instead, I will just ask you all to cross your fingers and hope that I look good in tulle!

On Wednesday night, one of my oldest and dearest friends in the world -- we are coming up on...twelve years? -- took me out to dinner. Belinda also invited Barrie, who is playing the role of Maid of Honor (or Ill-Repute, depending on who you ask) at her wedding, scheduled for next fall. The two of them, all giggles and wicked grins, pulled out a test for me to take, there in the middle of the restaurant -- the aim of which was to determine how well I know her. After totally biffing the question about where she got the scar on her arm (broken bone from being knocked over), but recovering nicely with the bonus question of what flavor of ice cream I licked off of her after a night of drinking at The Purple Martini (coffee), and laughing about what color of Wet 'N' Wild lipstick she favored in high school (Beat-Me-Bruise-Me-Purple-Brown) -- Belinda pulled out an envelope containing the above photo -- at the same time that wonderful Mike (of course we were at his restaurant!) popped out with a premeditated bottle of celebratory Veuve Clicquot. I am particularly fond of my graceful, swan-like neck.

I don't think I've ever been more delighted and excited and honored in my life. This girl is someone who's known me through more incarnations than I can count. She was there when I wrecked my little yellow Subaru, and she helped me detach the panel and beat the dent out with a rubber mallet so my mom wouldn't see. She got her mom to take mine out for drinks (a lot of drinks) when I came out of the closet. She invited me into her family that Christmas Eve my family wasn't talking to me, and we tried to start a fire in her fireplace until I cheered up. She was why I visited New York, and why I fell in love with it, and moved here. She introduced me to everyone she knew in the city, who became my entire world of friends. She is my Marquise, my Heidi, the mother of my tragic children, my emerald smuggler, my fashion model. My life would be completely unrecognizable today if she hadn't been in it.

I have seen Belinda grow from a wonderful, goofy, teenage girl into an absolutely amazing, confident, talented woman who is about to get married. She is my personal definition of the word "friend." There is not a single person in the world I would rather be there for on their wedding day; and the fact that she thinks well enough of me to ask is the highest compliment I have ever received. I love this girl, and I can hardly wait to watch her walk down the aisle.

And no, I will not, in fact, be wearing a dress.

It is times like these when I wish I could draw or paint or sculpt -- I feel so bubbly and floating and happy and so full of fairy dust that I am sure my eyes are actually glowing some kind of golden aura, and I wish I could create something that would last so I could look back on it and remember. The only thing that I can make is, by its nature, temporary; sure is a good thing I have a photographic memory for what I eat. What do you think one might call a gustatory photographic memory, anyway?

First, look at where I was at this point last year: I was herby.

I am equally herby today. The herb butter. Is in. The fridge. The holidays have officially begun! I am only working two days this week, one of which was yesterday and the other of which is already half over. Tomorrow, at long long long LONG last, Mike and I are taking delivery of our new IKEA furniture, which means we will have a coffee table JUST IN TIME for people to set drinks on it. Almost all of the grocery shopping is done, excepting only things like good prosciutto that I want to get in Manhattan, and the canned fruits I could not get because my grocery store sucks so incredibly hard that they do not carry canned fruits. (I mean HONESTLY, people, what kind of a grocery store does not carry MANDARIN ORANGES.) And one cannot underestimate the significance of the contribution of music to my mood: a few days ago the evil temptress that is the iTunes Musc Store whispered sweet nothings in my ear until I gave in and bought both Avril Lavigne albums...and also the new Vanessa Carlton. This whole Avril trip is making me so fucking energetic I am about to vibrate off of my chair. And yes, I am aware that I have the musical tastes of a fourteen-year-old girl. Except I swear a lot fucking more. I have Christmas presents in the mail and money in the bank and a college to go to and a boy to come home to and a job to pay me and friends to laugh with and vacations to plan for and family visits to get ready for and scarves to air out and crisp mornings to walk through and yes,

I have herb butter
in
the
fridge.