Turkey, absinthe and slush

Friday 12/26/08

Christmas dinner at Christa’s was lovely, except that I got way too drunk. Christa’s apartment is very small: the size of my first studio in the old Melcliff. She has a murphy kitchen (like a murphy bed! a false wall that folds out!), bathroomette and just an elegant oriental style partition separating her sleeping pallet from the rest of the space. We were supposed to bring everything over on the bus to her friends’ house in Southeast, but one of them had to go to the hospital, so we just spent the night chez elle, which suited me fine, aside from a mild sense of claustrophobia. We talked about the weird relationship people have to celebrity. I compared the arc of celebrity from the silent film era to now as roughly equivalent to a person’s attitude to their parents, starting with the infant/young childhood period where you idolize and deify them (Garbo, Dietrich, Valentino), then into a more honest appraisal of them as more or less equals who happen to be on a pedestal, to the modern era where we want to knock them off the pedestal and have messy, self-destructive celebrities (Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse...but I AM going to write my paper about how Courtney Love is responsible for that entire cultural trend...dubious achievement though that may be). Christa said that weird love/hate dynamic that people have towards their idols is why she doesn’t want to be a public figure any more and has withdrawn from the local spotlight, which apparently shined on her quite brightly at one time, mainly for her transgender activism. She also held forth on why Chanel is a great label: it’s formal wear, yet edgy, and it has consistently had that dynamic, although it’s not as good since Karl Lagerfeld took over the label. When I arrived Christa had an amazing appetizer spread of gourmet cheeses, bread, a yummy yogurt-based cheese sauce, jalapeno jelly, crackers and a sausage pate. I had to make a conscious effort to stop so I wouldn’t ruin my appetite for the main course. The turkey was really good, a touch dry, but nothing to complain about, plus all the fixings were there and they were GOOD: real mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, cranberry orange relish (my contribution, along with a bottle of three-buck Chuck from Trader Joes), even a green bean casserole. And phase three was dessert, but I steered clear of the bread pudding (because it had raisins, which remind me of insects somehow) and a meat mince pie (because my mind and stomach just will not accept savory pie – this could be an obstacle if I ever make good on my wish of living in London). We took a plates of dinner and dessert to Christa’s friend where she works, just a few blocks down. The Snow White Crepe cart was open – Christa said it’s always open – with no customers in sight – we walked by and caught a glimpse of the Asian family who runs it in there, their daughter practicing playing flute, looked like they were having fun. (Maybe they live there and that’s why it’s always open?) We did flaming wishes where you make a wish and write it on this invisible paper and then roll this little piece of sort of waxy crepe paper into a tube and place it on the paper where you wrote your wish and then light it on fire and it goes up into the air and is consumed in flame in a self-contained, non-fire-hazard kind of way, and I wished for more photos of Barack Obama shirtless. I can tell you that ‘cause it’s a frivolous wish and I don’t really care whether it comes true or not. (Plus it will.) If it was a genuine wish I wouldn’t have revealed it ‘cause that ruins the spell, or so the wisdom goes. We took photos with the huge white gargoyle outside the building Christa works in (see above). Afterwards I said I’d buy us all a round of drinks so we went in search of an open bar and ended up at the Red Cap where they were doing $1 well drinks for Xmas eve. Christa & Joel both got white russians & I got a Maker’s Manhattan. I was ogled by horny drunk homos when I went up to pay. I still feel like an alien when I’m in a mainstream gay beer. Christa reminded me of the difference between “gay” and “queer.” Queer being alternative in every way, not just sexuality. I am most definitely queer, not gay. (I don’t even know the name of Madonna’s last album. That’s proof.) Back at Christa’s we broke out the absinthe and I got carried away with it. I don’t think the kind of absinthe made in Portland (Trillium is the brand) is the same as the authentic European stuff, though, ‘cause the law that “legalized” absinthe a year or two ago specified a limit of 10 mg of thujone (the active ingredient in wormwood) per liter, which means it’s not as potent. Maybe they should change the name to “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Absinthe.” I smoked pot, too, for the first time in...two months? So I got silly and overly talkative and said embarrassing things and some bullshit, and Christa ended up kinda having to kick us out, halfway through The Big Lebowski (that’s AFTER watching an hour or so of Kids in the Hall, which Joel & I agree is the best comedy troupe EVER, above Monty Python), and the only reason I was able to stay that late (til almost 3 in the morning!) was ‘cause the MAX happened to be running every 15 minutes ALL NIGHT LONG in order to keep the tracks clear of snow. It’s all turned to slush now, and slush sucks, I’ll take the nice fresh dry snow with the creme brulee crust over slush any day, although I have to say I went out for groceries earlier and the gray slush had the beautiful look of sparkly silver satin in the light of the streetlamps. I’ll give it that.