Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 6

Poetic Interlude CXI

Little Red Riding Hood

By Ania Walwicz

I always had such a good time, good time, good time girl. Each and every day from morning to night. Each and every twenty-four hours I wanted to wake up, wake up. I was so lively, so livewire tense, such a highly pitched little. I was red, so red so red. I was a tomato. I was on the lookout for the wolf. Want some sweeties, mister? I bought a red dress myself. I bought the wolf. Want some sweeties, mister? I bought a red dress for myself. I bought a hood for myself. Get me a hood. I bought a knife.

Tagged: Ania Walwicz, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Red Riding Hood

Post the Forty-Sixth: The Champagne and Caviar Picnic

Apologies for another re-run, Gentle Reader. There’ll be fresh content next week; I’ll have leisure to write this weekend. In the meantime, given the weather recently, perhaps a picnic is in order?

After Friday’s excruciating hike, I wasn’t exactly up for Tacoma Pride, Gentle Reader – my blistered feet, my knee needing surgery, my skin red and raw. I intended to lounge around in my kimono and not even put weight on my legs at all.

Christopher Darling can be very persuasive, though, and he has ways of making me capitulate.

This picture is unrelated to that statement. Sometimes, a picture is just really great.

In this case, he used Ms. Capere to get me to give in. They were both very accommodating of my injuries, and I was feeling better, actually, anyway. So I put on my vintage-inspired Beach Attire, packed my cane and ukulele, and waited for my friends to arrive.

The inspiration. Mine is fitted for a man’s body, is black with a rust-and-gold floral pattern, and has a matching sunhat and neckerchief.

We met Christopher, and then – bless them both – Darling and Capere suggested we knock the champagne-and-caviar picnic off The List.  It’s been the item I’ve been looking forward to the most. We swung by Stadium Thriftway, where posh people and hipsters shop, and picked up all sorts of delicacies. There was Délice de Bourgogne and Drunken Goat Cheese; hummus and vegetables, naturally; red onion and lox; black lumpfish caviar* with lemon and boiled egg; tofu and avocado; champagne† Vega Madein Cava; companionship. For dessert, there were lemon cookies, some delicious sea-salt caramels, and vegan balls of various sweets.

After a long, lingering luncheon – the kind that I’ve always felt is one of life’s great pleasures – I strummed a bit on my ukulele; Darling read some Tarot – apparently all the upheaval and change currently in my life will result in womanly sadness¤, whatever that means. Of course, the book that accompanies his deck also says things like “A hand appears from out of the clouds, as usual“‡ and “This card is filled with the ordinary symbols, and I needn’t bother explaining what they shew.“§

As we waited for Doctor Boyfriend and Capere’s husband to turn up, we lounged in the shade by the famous Conservatory at Wright’s Park ß.

Off to the official Pride celebration we went!

We arrived just in time to see them re-open traffic to the street, despite the fact that the vendors and so on weren’t done taking their booths down. We had evidently lingered too long over lunch. We had to make a choice, then: Which of the block parties should we attend? Both the Silverstone and the Mix had claimed chunks of St. Helens Avenue in which to party. Both were charging about the same cover, and had similar acts – but the staff and atmosphere at the Mix have always been very good to me.

Surrounded by my people, we celebrated our right to gather, we celebrated our community, and we celebrated the wide panoply of people in all their despair and glory. Capere and I were pleased to get a do-over of our disappointing Pride, and this perfect afternoon was the perfect replacement.

*********

*My favorite affordable caviar. Capelin’s not much more, but lumpfish is perfectly acceptable and less expensive. Also: it is delicious. It’s caviar for the people.

†As we all know, Champagne is, strictly speaking, only ever made in Champagne, France. However, for purposes of the list, any sparkling wine will do, whether or not it’s methode champenois.

‡The Ace of Swords

§Justice

ß Fun Fact: This is where my parents were married.

¤UPDATE: It did, for a time. Huh.

 

Tagged: Champagne and Caviar Picnic, Darling and Capere, Fabulous Parties, ReRuns

Post the Forty-Fifth: The Miracle of the Bromeliad

Gentle Reader, it’s been a while since I’ve had to post a re-run, and I apologize for doing so now. Blame my upcoming finals. At any rate, here is one of my favorite posts, for your Tuesday pleasure. Cheers!

Gentle Reader, I feel that people may be under a bit of an illusion when it comes to the type of things that fire my delight: I will find ridiculous pleasure in things like this and this and this. These are all real things that have happened in our world, that are utterly ridiculous, beyond any sane reality; they spark wonder, and give me a certain lust to be alive. Yes, Hamlet, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, but when I encounter them, they stir passion and beauty inside me. This effect is what I, personally, refer to as “The Miracle of the Bromeliad.”

If you don’t know, Bromeliads are these exotic plants typically found in tropical climes. They collect water, like this:

In South and Central America, various species of frog will lay their eggs in these flowers, which are sometimes quite high and far away from the ground. It is not unusual for these frogs to never reach the ground, living their little lives in various flower puddles, from birth to death. Bizarre, improbable, and true.

I was fairly young when I learned of this, and the utter improbability struck me to the core. The world we live in is ludicrous; if you wrote fiction like some of the things I run across, you’d be laughed out of the business. It’s important to take delight in these things, because they remind us that our little loves, our little sorrows, our grandes amours trés serieux and our funerals and hospitals and politics – all of these things exist in the exact same world as duck fashion shows. That’s the miracle. Yes, our lives are grave and important, and we have to make the rent or the deadline or the date, but – is that a taxidermy kitten pulling a miniature hearse?

Yes, it is. Even in the throes of my depression, if I can manage to find new curiosities, or interesting or silly wonders, things that make the world, frankly, incredible – it doesn’t make me any easier to be around, but it does keep me from complete self-destruction. It doesn’t make things any better, in my current situation, but to know that there are situations out there that sound like something from Twitter or Wodehouse or Seuss – well, it reminds me that there’s hope.

The lesson here is that although we don’t all have to be electric and alarming and alive at all times, we are allowed to be. It’s the same sentiment behind Auntie Mame‘s famous battle cry – “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” It’s what the Bloggess means when she says to “Lean into the weird.” As my mother, former hippie, often tells me – “Let your freak flag fly!” These bizzarities teach us to embrace our true nature, and damn the consequences. We can’t help who we are, what we love, how we behave – why should we try?

Therefore, please enjoy some photos of things that make me glad to live in our thoroughly absurd little world.

A Royal sex chair belong to Edward VII of England.

A Baroque Poodle. Don’t fix it.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen

Our world is magnificent, Gentle Reader; we should cherish that, and add to its variety.

Tagged: Giant Wigs on Dogs, ReRuns, Seriously Finals are coming Way Too Soon, The Miracle of the Bromeliad, Whimsy

Poetic Interlude CX

Karen

By Celia Thaxter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At her low quaint wheel she sits to spin,

Deftly drawing the long, light rolls

Of carded wool through her finders thin,

By the fireside at the Isles of Shoals.

She is not pretty, she is not young,

Poor homesick Karen, who sits and spins,

Humming a song in her tongue,

That falters and stops, and again begins,

While her wheel flies fast, with its drowsy hum,

And she makes a picture of pensive grace

As thoughts of her well-loved Norway come

And deepen the shadows across her face.

Her collar is white as the drifted snow,

And she spun and wove her blue gown fine

With those busy hands. See, a flitting glow

Makes her pale cheek burn and her dark eyes shine!

Left you a lover in that far land,

O Karen sad, that you pine so long?

Would I could unravel and understand

That sorrowful, sweet Norwegian song!

When the spring wind blew, the “America wind,”

As your people call it, that bears away

Their youths and maidens a home to find

In this distant country, could you not stay

And live in that dear Norway still,

And let the emigrant crowd sail West

Without you? Well, you have had your will.

Why would you fly from your sheltering nest?

O homesick Karen, listen to me:

You are not young and you are not fair,

But Waldemar no one else can see,

For he carries your image everywhere.

Is he too boyish a lover for you,

With all his soul in his frank blue eyes?

Feign you unconsciousness? Is it true

You know not his heart in your calm hand lies?

Handsome and gentle and good is he;

Loves you, Karen, better than life;

But do consider him, can’t you see

What a happy woman would be his wife?

You won’t be merry? You can’t be glad?

Still must you mourn for that home afar?

Well, here is an end of a hope I had,

And I am sorry for Waldemar!

Tagged: Celia Thaxter, Poetic Interludes, Poetry

Post the Forty-Fourth: Which Contains My Funeral

“I’m turning 30, which – in gay years – is Dead. Come raise a glass in honor of my deceased youth at The Mix! Sing a song to appease my ghost. I’ll be there, haunting you all with my exceedingly advanced age. Join me?” Let that sink in, Gentle Reader. This is how I invite people to celebrate my milestones with me. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a morbid chuckle. After all, this isn’t the first time I’ve died. It seemed àpropos, and it was also on the List.

The Task: Hold a Funeral for my Youth.

The Execution: We began, of course, with brunch. Those left over from the Derby Party gathered to help cook traditional funeral foods – you know, Mormon funeral potatoes, baked funeral sandwiches, an entire ham.

We were joined by several new guests, including my mother and my Cousin Mary. People were swathed in black, and of course I wore a veil. There were mimosas.

Afterwards, I was lovingly eulogized on the veranda. Mary had written four pages of an uplifting homily on identity, growth, and change. Maman told the story of my birth – which I suppose is appropriate – and my beloved Ms. Capere marveled at the fact that we’ve known each other for half of our lives, now. It was very touching. There may have been tears.

That evening, after my youth was safely laid to rest, came the wake – to send it off in style. It was held, of course, at the Mix – if my life were a drama, the Mix would be one of its recurring sets.

There were a surprising number of surprise guests; many of the people who had R.S.V.P.’d failed to show, while others that I’d considered long shots came to join the festivities.

I really didn’t get many photos from that evening, but there were so many people, and so much going on that it really isn’t surprising. I spent as much time with each individual as I could, while circulating and keeping up on the karaoke rotation. Since it was my birthday and I’d just turned thirty and no longer had to care, I told the karaoke-smith that I wanted my list to be “as gay as fucking possible” and that is how I came to sing almost nothing but show tunes all night.

As gay as fucking possible.

The Verdict: All of the events on my birthday weekend were just splendid, you guys. I really can’t thank everyone enough; you have no idea how loved and spoiled I feel, still. Over the weekend I received four dozen roses, which are now drying. I was fêted and wooed and met interesting people and old friends; people showed up from ridiculous distances to tell me that they loved me and wished me well.

It was a good death, and I’m very pleased with the results. Also, a huge thank you to my friend Ted, who ensured that I got safely home. Thanks, friend! You’re stellar.

Tagged: Birthday Weekend, Family Stories That Are Completely True, Funeral, Funeral for one's Youth, Karaoke, The Living Wake, The Mix, Thirty is Dead in Gay Years, Turning Thirty Y'all, Tyler J. Yoder

Post the Forty-Third: A Day At The Races

Gentle Reader, I recently found myself in a bit of a quandary: my thrice-damned list obligated me to throw a funeral for my youth on my birthday – but I was also obliged to attend or host a Kentucky Derby party. I hadn’t known it when I made the list – but the Derby fell on the day before my birthday – what was a poor middle-aged fräulein to do?

Luckily, Reader, my beloved Ms. Capere stepped up to the plate. She had conceived of a compromise; we’d have a Derby Party on Saturday, and the guests who overnighted – and some who would come specifically for the funeral – would attend a Funeral Brunch. For a third event, as I demand karaoke, there would be a separate Wake later the next evening. We had a game plan, and it was time to take care of multiple list items at once, while at the same time celebrating my Thirtieth Birthday. Today, we’re focusing on the Derby.

The Task: Attend or Host a Kentucky Derby Party

The Execution: You know those horse masks that are all over the Internet? That was Capere’s main thought in connection with the Derby – we couldn’t be there, and the start time of the fête was after the actual race was won – but what if we made people who didn’t dress to the theme wear a terrifying horse mask? AND THEN MADE THEM RACE AROUND THE YARD? Well. That would certainly be on point with the theme.

Mr. Darling and his beau were kind enough to make the horse masks a reality. Here are the boys without the masks, looking much less terrifying.

Well, the other thing besides the actual race – the only other thing people care about regarding the derby is GIANT FANCY HATS – *ahem* – and how one dresses. As you may have noticed, I am all about hats – and was once privileged to have a conversation with Holly Gaiman about the future of Radical Queer Milliners. So. Fancy Hats – I make them for all sorts of events, and this event focused on fancy hats; I would have to be spectacular. Naturally, I started my hat the night before the event. It wasn’t my best hat by any means, but I knocked it out. Ms. Capere then absolved me of cleaning if I could assemble her hat for her – she’d gotten some pretty great elements to put on it, but wasn’t sure of how all that worked – so I knocked out a second hat that afternoon. Here we are, pre-party, posing:

Hats and Horse-Masks assembled, we were ready for that night’s festivities. Guests were instructed to bring Gin and Roses. Along with barbecue, five gallons of corn, and three derby pies, we made a Mint Julep Punch, to slake our guest’s thirst. It went quickly.

Most guests dressed to theme, though; the threat evidently worked. Everyone was perfectly lovely, and I like to think that everyone had a splendid time that evening. It certainly looks that way.

I was hoping to avoid the whole cake and candles scenario, but Ms. Capere was not going to let me get away without making a wish. Here she is seen gliding through the darkness eerily with a pie.

Thank you so much to everyone who made this possible. I felt very loved, and I love you folks just so much. Cheers, kittens.

The Verdict: It was a marvelous occasion, and a great theme. The horse masks really made everything come together. Plus the theme was super easy to work with. All in all, I highly recommend Derby Parties for all!

Tagged: A Day At The Races, Adventures, Birthday Parties, Nightmare Fuel, Terrifying Horse masks, The Internet, The Kentucky Derby, The List

Poetic Interlude CIX

To A Poor Old Woman

By William Carlos Williams

munching a plum on

the street a paper bag

of them in her hand

They taste good to her

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her

You can see it by

the way she gives herself

to the one half

sucked out in her hand

Comforted

a solace of ripe plums

seeming to fill the air

They taste good to her

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, To A Poor Old Woman, William Carlos Williams

Post the Forty-Second: Madame DeLyte’s Guide to Mother’s Day Gifts

By the time you’re of an age to be in a position where you can afford to buy your mother a gift that isn’t made from macaroni, it’s a decent bet that she’s of an age to be able to go out and get herself whatever you’d have gotten her as a gift. Even in less affluent families, Gentle Reader, the mother of grown children generally has her wants and needs nailed down, to the point where finding a gift that she’d genuinely enjoy is exhausting. That’s why I’ve put together this definitive guide to satisfy your Mother’s Day needs.

1. Flowers: What woman doesn’t enjoy flowers? Women who aren’t chained to your hidebound notions of performative gender, that’s who. You know your mother better than I do, presumably, so if you think she’d enjoy flowers, then by all means get them for her. Just don’t get flowers and expect her to enjoy them simply because she’s a woman.

Incidentally, flowers are great as hostess gifts or on dates, but as a gift gift? They’re a classier version of candles. Flowers say you didn’t know what to get. It’s a nice gesture, though – as long as they don’t stand alone.

2. Jewelry: The jewelry stores, on every major holiday, remind us that they have a hell of a lot of expensive rocks looking for a forever-home. Despite the pressure of the Diamond Lobby to get you to condone their loathsome practices, women of a certain age have already developed their sense of style and their tastes; your mother wouldn’t necessarily want to be obliged to wear a tangible reminder of human suffering.

No diamond is ever entirely cruelty free.

3. Candles: Look, kid – I covered this already. Unless your mother’s practically a stranger, candles are a thoughtless gift*.

4. Bath Salts: That goes for bath salts, too.

Unless they’re the other kind of bath salts, and she’s really into doing the scary kind of drugs. That’d be thoughtful, in that case – it’s just that it’s terribly irresponsible of you. Please don’t give your mother drugs.

5. Something At Least Tangentially Related To Her Hobbies Or Interests: Does your mother knit? Get her a nice set of needles. Is she a bar fly, or a weekend lumberjack? Get her some bourbon, or a chainsaw! Perhaps both! The possibilities are limitless, and if you pick your gift correctly, you can prove that you’re actually listening when she’s rambling endlessly on the phone.

Perhaps she plays the banjo!

6. Time: Whether she wants a day all to herself (to dye her hair and read romance novels) or if she wants to spend time with you,  you can make that happen for her. Buy everyone in the house a ticket to the movies so they’ll leave the poor woman alone! Alternatively, you can take her out – someplace that doesn’t involve doing drugs that she’ll enjoy.

No matter what you end up getting her, try to make your Mama smile this Mother’s Day.

*********

*Seriously. Candles? For the one who kept you alive until adulthood? You can do better than that.

Tagged: Diamonds Are Just Really Awful, Don't do Bath Salts y'all, Holiday Guide, Mother's Day 2015, Roses are Red Flowers are Trite Indulge me by doing some Bath Salts Tonight

Post the Forty-First: In Which We Take Tea

Every Mother’s Day, Gentle Reader, the family gathers to take tea at local landmark, the Meeker Mansion.

Maman, my Aunt Elaine, Cousin Michael and I – sometimes some of Elaine’s cousins as well – the butler seats us in the tall-windowed tower dining room; the lace spread out on the table, the porcelain set just so. A flock of maids in period uniforms attend each table, pouring tea, carrying trays of dainty sandwiches.

Something about the Victorian charm rubs off on us, and we take on an elevated gentility. There’s something so civilized about taking tea in refined locations, something that brings out the best in us, something restful for the soul.

Of course, being us, we take the time to honor our foremothers who’ve passed on. There’s a bittersweet beauty about it – an ache that can’t be salved, but leaves a smile on the lips. Delicate and acrid, like the scent of jasmine tea.

After luncheon, those of us who can manage the stairs take a turn about the old mansion, marveling at the antique decor, the pilasters and balustrades, the glass case full of artifacts the Meekers left behind. We’ve watched with keen interest, over the years, the restoration of the billiard-room ceiling, slowly being stripped of layers of paint, the original fresco being restored.

Sometimes, on these golden afternoons, we’ll all take a stroll through the grounds. Heirloom roses, a little leggy, nod as we pass by; fat and lazy bumblebees zip hither and yon. Elegant and rambling, gone a little to seed, we wander down the gravelled paths, pensive, soaking up the warmth of spring.

Mother’s Day Tea this year will be only a few days after Aunt Elaine’s fiftieth birthday, and a week after my thirtieth. Michael turned sixteen this spring, and Maman turns sixty this fall. It’s a landmark year for us, and while not all of our loved ones are still alive to gather together, it’s important to maintain family bonds.

I hope that your mother’s Day traditions are equally pleasant, Gentle Reader. Whether you take lunch, take tea, or take a trip to visit the cemetery, I wish you joy this Mother’s Day.

Tagged: Family Stories That Are Completely True, High Tea, Holiday Guide, Mother's Day Traditions, The Meeker Mansion

Poetic Interlude CVIII

Advertisement For The Waldorf-Astoria

By Langston Hughes

Fine living . . . a la carte?

Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!

LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!

Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the

new Waldorf-Astoria:

“All the luxuries of private home. . . .”

Now, won’t that be charming when the last flop-house

has turned you down this winter?

Furthermore:

“It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel

world. . . .” It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-

mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.

Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished

background for society.

So when you’ve no place else to go, homeless and hungry

ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags–

(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good

enough?)

ROOMERS

Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers–

sleepers in charity’s flop-houses where God pulls a

long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.

They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will

you:

GUMBO CREOLE

CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE

BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF

SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM

WATERCRESS SALAD

PEACH MELBA

Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.

Why not?

Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of

your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers

because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-

ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends

and live easy.

(Or haven’t you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-

ter bread of charity?)

Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get

warm, anyway. You’ve got nothing else to do.

Tagged: Advertisement for the Waldorf-Astoria, Langston Hughes, Poetic Interludes, Poetry