The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Homos

Finally, someone has found the link between music and homosexuality! Donnie Davis, leader of Love God's Way, an ex-gay ministry, has posted a list on his website of bands that make you gay. And it's a damn long list. Apparently all kinds of music can drag an innocent teen into the shame and debauchery of the homosexual lifestyle.

Okay, I get that bands like Queen and the Pet Shop Boys are on the list, but Cole Porter? Ravi Shankar? The Grateful Dead? And where are our favorites like Babs Streisand and Judy Garland? In fact, big lezzies like The Murmurs (featuring the very, very hot Leisha Hailey), Yer Girlfriend, and Cris Williamson are nowhere to be found, either.

Elton John has the warning "really gay" after his name. I didn't know there were varying degrees of gayness. And then there are Eminem, Jay-Z, and Ted Nugent. Apparently Nugent's on the list because he wore a loincloth at one (or more) of his appearances. And everyone knows that loincloths are de rigeur in the homo wardrobe.

So, thanks to Donnie's insight, I'm adding every Elton John album to my iPod. I want to know what it feels like to be "really gay."

But I Have a Question. . .

I don't mean to get all Politcally Incorrect on your asses, but I'm getting sick and tired of the ever-growing acronym that's used to describe our homo community these days. Back when I was walking five miles to school during a snowstorm, we were called lesbian or gay. Then the bi-sexuals joined our cozy little Brownie troop. And then, more recently, the trannies.

Okay, so at that point we were LGBT. Kind of sounds like something on the menu at Carnegie Deli to me.

And then we became LGBTQ. I thought, "queer," hmmm. Isn't that a little redundant? But the Q is for "questioning." Okay, if you're questioning your decision to pick L,G, B or T, then you're simply labeling yourself to ponder your future label, right? It seems a little over-categorized to me. And unnecessary.

Heck, I must be questioning too, because I ask myself questions all the time. Is it cold enough for a jacket? Should I make a right or a left? Where the hell are the car keys?

Look, I don't mean to belittle a group of people who are unsure about their sexual orientations, but I gotta say, I'm dog tired of trying to spit out an acronym that feels more like a mouthful of alphabet soup than a description of a community.

Birds of a Feather

Can I just say that as a very ticklish person, this would be my worst nightmare.

But if it tickles your fancy you can visit artist Sandro Porcu's creation, called "The Bed," at the Alexia Goethe Gallery in the Mayfair section of London. In fact, you can even give it a try.

Kind of gives "going down" a whole new meaning.

Burn Baby Burn

I'm one of those people who's required to give the local fire department a heads up every time I attempt to cook. Years ago, when my mother tried to get me interested in cooking, I blew her off to shoot baskets in the backyard. At that age, I considered cooking to be about as useful as algebra.

Although lately I'm hard pressed to find a time when I've had to figure out the solution to (x2 + 2xy) + y2, I probably could have used a cooking lesson or two. Take today, for instance. I had a craving for a grilled cheese sandwhich so I went online to find a good recipe. I know, grilled cheese isn't exactly the Pythagorean Theorum, but if I'm going to turn on the stove, I want explicit directions.

The Kraft website made it sound so easy: all I needed were two slices of white bread, two slices of American cheese, and some butter. I improvised with whole wheat bread and brie. Following their directions to the letter, I buttered the outside of the bread, put one slice butter side down in the skillet, added the cheese, and then added the other slice of bread.

How hard could this be?

And the moment the bread hit the pan (at medium heat per directions) it burned like a red-headed kid on a July day, and stuck to the skillet preventing me from gracefully flipping the sandwich like in the photo on the website. The skillet required surgery to remove all the burned bread, and I'm back to shooting baskets and using the microwave.

New Year, New Kvetch

I know, I know. I haven't blogged since last year. It's not that I've been lazy. Well, maybe a little lazy, but I've also been busy. I recently ended a long relationship, and I'm living in a small apartment with an air mattress, one comfortable chair, a folding table and two folding chairs.

Let's face it - I'm camping. And we all know that Jews don't camp.

I do have indoor plumbing, and it's not like I have to rub two sticks together to cook or anything because I don't cook, unless you count microwave popcorn and whatever can be thrown into a Toast R Oven. But for all intents and purposes, this is camping. My life is in boxes, my furniture is in another city, and sleeping on the floor makes me feel a little off kilter. But my ability to kvetch? Sharp as a tack.

No wonder it took us 40 years to cross the desert.