Secretly Ironic

Yesterday afternoon Megan and I went to a party in celebration of Gay Pride day, hosted by my married friends Ron and David. My major concern for the party, of course, was what to wear; I went with a shirt that was about two sizes too small. A guy’s gotta look hot for Pride, right? We got a bottle of pink wine to bring, and on arrival we were handed Jell-O shots that had rainbow layers in perfect ROY-G-BIV order.

There was some dancing, and some chips and dip, and grilling, and beer and cookies. But on the way home, it got serious. I’d been thinking of it as an excuse for grilling and drinking and wearing silly clothes and flirting. But afterwards, Megan and I talked about how we’d kind of misunderstood it. Yeah, sure, it’s a party. But we’d also met Ron’s parents and David’s sister, and talked with people who had been at the parade when it was a march for justice, too. And it’s not just a day for grilling – not any more than Memorial Day, which I also take for granted as a party excuse rather than as a day to honor people who died for things I hold dear.

So, yeah, it’s a victory that Doritos and N*Star were at the parade. And it’s a victory that a guy like me can wear a tight shirt and eat rainbow-colored alcoholic desserts without fear of backlash when co-workers and family hear about it. And while it’s sad that the Gays For Patsy country dancing group has fewer members than it used to, that’s also a victory in its own way, because it’s a sign that gay people can now join any old dance group and it’s not a big deal. But it’s not really fair to think you’re celebrating gay pride if you just send a corporate truck down a parade route and hand out snack chips. And you can’t, or shouldn’t, just borrow being gay for an afternoon as an excuse to get drunk.

The real story there, the real victory, is that Ron’s parents are there at his cookout, chatting about lawn care and paint chips with their son-in-law in a way that you’d never ever have imagined fifty years ago.

I just finished reading The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle. It’s a book I resisted for quite awhile, at least partly because Bookdwarf was so enthusiastic about it, and I just didn’t want to admit that she’s always right about these sorts of things.

Another factor that scared me off was that the book contains dogs. That immediately makes me think it’s one of those dog books – you know, of interest only to dog fanciers. It’s not. I’m pretty sure that people who like anything with dogs in it will like this book. After all, it contains dogs. But it’s not the sort of thing that appeals only to them. It will also appeal to novel-lovers. It’s a tale of family and secrets and betrayal, a northern Wisconsin sort of Hamlet mixed with Lear, a story of almosts, of near-breakthroughs in communication and understanding and perfection.

“The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle” uses the relationships – sometimes beautifully tender and joyful – between people and dogs to reflect more clearly the relationship between humans. Just as even imperfect communication between humans and dogs requires years of training and practice, the mute Edgar is stymied by his own imperfect understanding of the world and by other people’s inability to grasp what he’s saying. And of course, more generally, everyone fails to communicate or hides what should most be unearthed and shared.

No, there’s no happy ending there. Nice dogs, though.

You know most of those best-of lists that show up in locally-oriented newspapers and such are pretty much made up, mostly compiled of things the reporters and their friends like personally, and places that advertise with the paper.

But I’m sure it’s totally different for Boston Biz Journal’s Best Places To Work list. At least, I’m pretty sure my employer didn’t put any big ads in BBJ just to get on the list. Maybe the editor’s cousin just works here or something.

Or maybe I just have the best job ever.

My brother sent me the Obama video to beat all Obama videos- not merely a Bollywood remix, but a completely psychedelic Bollywood remix. The caption: “east meets west meets acid.” My reaction: Oh my god there are people dancing in his mouth!

As my pal Joel Brown says, it’s only a minute or so of Fred Schneider, but it’s well worth watching him do a B-52-ified version of Scott McClellan’s book. Warning: You will end up singing about Scooter Libby to the tune of “Love Shack.”

http://www.comedycentral.com/sitewide/video_player/view/default/swf.jhtml

The new MGM Grand Casino at Foxwoods has taken over most of the advertising at Park Street. Some of it’s kind of clever, to be honest. I’m tickled by a banner that reads “Yeah, We’ve Got A Theme. It’s Called Awesome.” But I also wonder if they might have chosen more accurate phrasing.

Instead of “Here, lady luck actually winks back” they should say “The house always wins.” And instead of the theme being “awesome” it should actually be “the house always wins.” And every advertisement should carry a disclaimer noting that gambling is a tax on people wtih poor math and/or impulse-control skills. But, you know, whatever. It’s not a public service announcement – we all know advertising is a public disservice.

Oh hellz yeah.

This weekend, I went up to New Hampshire to test-drive a new 2008 Triumph Street Triple. It’s a lot like my 2000 Suzuki SV650, to be honest, although it’s got about $2000 more refinement in every aspect of performance and handling.

I’d been thinking of selling my bike, to be honest: I don’t use it all that often, it’s expensive to maintain and dangerous to ride, and so forth. But I had such a great day Saturday, even getting caught in the rain on the way home, that I’m more or less renewed in my moto-ownership.

I doubt I’ll make it up to the Greasebag Jamboree in Meredith – those guys look pretty intimidating – but we’ll see.

Hey, greasemonkeys: I got a weird-ass offer for you: Pistons. Well, mostly pistons, but also some other stuff. And these aren’t any old pistons: They’re incredible high-performance Cosworth pistons. Now, I’m not gonna lie to you, they might be kind of obscure. But you should totally have one just in case you later come across something they’ll fit into.

I got pistons for Nissan and Datsun A12, A13, A14 engines. I got pistons for Porsche 911 3.7 and 3.8L models. I got some freaky pistons for bored-out high-compression Chevy and Pontiac small-block V8s. Really, all kinds of pistons. Not many con-rods. I’m not sure what a con-rod is, really, but I got a couple boxes of them. Also a bunch of assorted, probably mis-matched oil rings. I’m told pistons need oil rings, but lord only knows which of these pistons needs which of these oil rings. Like I have one cardboard tube labeled “Oil rings Cosworth 71.1mm?”

I got a stack of flanges, two boxes SKS 44mm side-draft carbs, a couple gauges of indeterminate type, some assorted flywheels and clutch plates for Beemers, and a cardboard box full of stock pipe headers from something, possibly a BMW M3.

Seriously: You need some billet aluminum camshafts? Hit me up.

When I got a pair of eyeglasses, the fine folks at Eye-Q in Harvard Square gave me some very good advice: I should care for them and clean them just as I did my face. A year or so later, I went back to have some screws tightened and the nosepiece adjusted and they asked me how I’d been taking care of them. I said, just like I do my face: Ignore it until it’s too filthy to see through, then wipe it off with my shirttail.

Apparently that’s not what they meant. They clarified that I should wash both my face and my glasses with warm water and mild soap, and then dry them with a lint-free cloth. At that point I should put a gentle moisturizer on the opaque parts to prevent drying and flaking.

I suggested that they open a glasses-and-skin spa but they didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea.