Boutique Issues (sic)

A boutique is where you buy “artisan pantyhose,” we are – thankfully – reminded. “On TV, a commentator speculated that Mrs. Clinton had lost because of her party’s focus on things like trans rights —‘boutique issues,’ they were called. A boutique — a place where you’d shop for, say, artisan pantyhose — is not the first place I’d associate with an individual’s quest for equal protection under the law, but then what did I know? I was now one of the people from whom the country had been ‘taken back.’ The phrase echoed unpleasantly in my mind. A boutique issue? Is this what my fellow Americans had thought of my fight for dignity all along?” This is Jennifer Finney Boylan writing on the op-ed page of the New York Times. I was particularly glad to see her there, given the extraordinarily offensive trans-blaming piece by Boylan’s fellow Columbia University professor, Mark Lilla (about which I wrote in the previous issue, which appeared in the Times first. (Technically, Boylan teaches at Barnard College, but Barnard is affiliated with Columbia; Barnard students receive diplomas from Columbia.) To my disappointment, Boylan didn’t blast her benighted, bigoted colleague but instead left his name and foolish, selfish argument tastefully out of her own commentary. As Jim Naureckas of Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting (FAIR) points out, Boylan also left out any reference to the Times’ regular columnist Frank Bruni, who’d been interviewed by MSNBC’s Stephanie Ruhle the morning after the election. Ruhle: “When many of the initiatives that represent Obama, when you think about LGTB initiatives, and it matters to so many people, many people could say, transgender bathrooms in high schools, how many people is that going to impact in this country? Not so many.” Bruni: “I think in a lot of ways the Democratic Party has become this collection of boutique issues. That they think if you add them all together, you get to 51 percent or 52. But when you do those sorts of boutique issues, and you put all your firepower and all your rhetoric there, there’s a lot of the country that feels ignored. I really think the Democratic Party has to do some big soul-searching here.” I was shocked by Bruni’s remarks, because he is, after all, a gay man who has written eloquently on subjects like LGBT rights, marriage equality in particular. Bruni apparently doesn’t consider marriage equality – or any issues of vital importance to gay white men – to be a “boutique issue,” whereas the much more personally intrusive issue of bathroom legislation, which criminalizes the use of a bathroom labeled for a gender other than the one listed on one’s birth certificate, is somehow so parochial that it gets stamped as “boutique.” But consider the implications of such laws. Even people who have surgically altered their bodies and conform in every way to sex and gender expectations would be forced to use the wrong bathroom, and if they didn’t, they would face arrest and all the attendant humiliation. A boutique issue? Really, Frank? “It seems likely that the omission of Bruni’s name — a familiar one, of course, to regular readers of the Times op-ed page — was a deliberate choice,” Naureckas writes. Of course it was. The best way to make sure that your letter to the editor gets tossed in the trash by the Times is to criticize the Times or any of its writers. For example: Wrong: “To the editor: David Brooks is a pig-headed idiot when he writes, ‘blah blah blah….’” Right: “To the editor: David Brooks makes many good points when he writes ‘blah blah blah,’ but his take on one teensy-weensy issue is misguided.” I’m all but certain that the Times actively discourages their opinion writers from criticizing other Times opinion writers. But to the real point: the idea that transgender rights turned off a lot of uneducated straight white people is unfortunately probably accurate. It comes as no surprise to find that bigotry runs very deep in America. So are we now supposed to forget our morals and drop our politics and go cravenly chasing after uneducated straight white people for their votes? What’s the point of getting somebody to vote for your candidate if it means throwing your own values out the window? Talk about a pyrrhic victory. In any case, the overthrow of North Carolina’s bigot governor, Pat McCrory, indicates either that trans-friendliness is not in fact the “boutique issue” that brought down Hillary Clinton or that the trans community’s corporate and sports-organization friends, who brought palpable economic pressure to bear on North Carolina (PayPal, the NBA, the NCAA, Google, and others), successfully changed voters’ minds about the wisdom of legislating bathroom use. Or both. “An attitude toward biology.” In an inadvertently hilarious Times piece called “What the Alt-Right Really Means,” Christopher Caldwell explains that “the word ‘racist’ has been stretched to cover an attitude toward biology, a disposition to hate, and a varying set of policy preferences, from stop-and-frisk policing to repatriating illegal immigrants. While everyone in this set of groups is racist in at least one of these senses, many are not racist in others [my emphasis]. Not many of the attendees at the Washington gathering favored the term ‘white supremacist.’ The word implies a claim to superiority — something few insisted on. ‘White nationalist’ is closer to the mark; most people in this part of the alt-right think whites either ought to have a nation or constitute one already. But they feel that almost all words tend to misdescribe or stigmatize them.” Oh, boo-hoo! The poor neo-Nazis are feeling stigmatized! They’re not really white supremacists! They’re really white nationalists. I’m so glad we’ve cleared that up. The sentence and phrase I emphasized are total balderdash. Why do people support stop-and-frisk policing despite its statistically confirmed concentration on black people? Why are some folks so intent on repatriating illegal immigrants? And “an attitude toward biology”? What attitude could that be, Chris? Enlighten us, please. “Most people in this part of the alt-right think whites either ought to have a nation or constitute one already.” Um, isn’t that because they think whites are superior to everyone else? It’s really very simple: if you support a racist policy like stop-and-frisk, you are a racist. If your attitude toward biology has anything to do with seeing blacks as inferior to whites, you are a racist. It is not unfair to call racist white people racists. It reminds me of an old family story. Some time in the 1930s, my grandfather was listening to an acquaintance voicing pure, vicious anti-Semitism in no uncertain terms. Finally my grandfather said, “You know that I’m Jewish, right?” Without missing a beat, the acquaintance replied, “Yeah, but you’re a white Jew.” I don’t think he was distinguishing my grandfather from our Ethiopian coreligionists. No, he was employing white as a synonym for all that’s good in the world. Just like the racist, white supremacist, neo-Nazi alt-right does every minute of every day. Follow @EdSikov on Twitter and Facebook.

The Times prints "Fuck," Neanderthal Response to Gay Marriage, and More

http://gaycitynews.nyc/trump-tape-changes-times/

Fuck You, Milo Yiannopoulos

http://gaycitynews.nyc/la-commedia-non-e-finita/

Hoax! Four Truly (or Falsely) Great Literary Hoaxes

https://litreactor.com/columns/hoax-4-truly-or-falsely-great-literary-frauds

Ding, Dong, She's Dead and All That

http://gaycitynews.nyc/ding-dong-shes-dead/

When Critics Are Assholes: 8 Great Books That Got Slammed

When Critics Are Assholes: 8 Great Books That Got Slammed

More Ebola BS

The whole Ebola panic has really gotten under my skin. Today's outrage is a paragraph in a New York Times article that reads:
"But there were also governors with wide leads in their races [Cuomo NY and Brown CA] who have imposed strong measures. That suggests, political analysts said, that governors from both parties  are worried about potential political damage should their states appear unprepared for an outbreak."
First: "strong measures." What does the Times mean by "strong?" The measures are idiotic, anti-science quarantines that pander to the ignorance of a dumb-ass population. That's not "strong" - it's asinine,
Then: "appear unprepared" - appear to whom? Again, it's the dumb-ass population that's running the show here. Preparedness in fact means training health care workers to identify possible Ebola patients, and training the population to recognize and accept the facts of science. It does not mean elevating willfully stupid people to the position of policymakers.
This is truly scary, folks. We know how Ebola is transmitted. We know the science of Ebola. It is not an open question; it's settled science.
What happens when something we don't know about appears? It will be chaos, a complete breakdown of civil society, and civil liberties will disappear faster than you can say quarantine.

New Music On the Way

I'm excited to announce that my first album as executive producer is about to be released. It's called The Would-Be Plans, and the artist is my old friend Jimmer Podrasky.

It's in a music genre with a variety of names - No Depression, Americana, etc. I particularly like the No Depression moniker, given the fact that Jimmer and I are both depressive by nature. But his music is anything but. It's really, really great stuff, and I'll keep you posted as to when and how you can buy the album.

Jimmer, by the way, is/was the frontman for the band the Rave-Ups, who are possibly best known for the single "Positively Lost Me."

Just wait till you hear the new stuff! I'm so proud I could spit.

An E-Z Mojito

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El Nuevo Mojito

Put fresh, washed mint leaves into a shaker with ice, and add a few drops of simple syrup and a few drops of lime juice. Pour in as much rum as you like; any type will do, since the mint and lime will cover up any of the rum’s subtleties. Shake hard and serve.

[Notes: 1. Most recipes call for muddling the mint with a muddler or a fork. I say phooey. It’s a waste of energy, and the result is that you’ll end up with bits of mint stuck to your teeth. 2) If you use the repulsive Captain Gorgon’s “spiced” rum—the “spice” is obviously arsenic—I’ve got a voodoo doll with your name on it.]

This recipe and many others can be found in The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for nook, kindle, and iBooks. Buy it!

Pomegranate Cocktail

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Pomegranate Molasses? Are You Kidding?

The original recipe, as noted in the story chapter, was much more complicated and called for, among other things, pomegranate molasses. Don’t be silly! All you need is that pomegranate juice they sell in that funny looking bottle.

The Pomegranate Cocktail

1 jigger vodka

Pomegranate juice cocktail to taste

Pour vodka over ice in a glass, and add as much (or as little) pomegranate juice as you like. Easy!

This recipe can be found in The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook avaialble for kindle, nook, and iBooks.

A Cocktail Called "The Booger" (I am not making this up)

They Hate Me. They Really Hate Me.

            I was trying not to take it personally. Really.

Okay, I was taking it extremely personally. Why else had they all called to say they’d be at the house in time for dinner on Friday but no earlier? Therefore no cocktail hour(s). I admit it: I’m an out-of-control control freak. I was making a perfect meal: Bobby Flay’s barbecued salmon; Israeli couscous, which I was spiffing up with saffron and grill-roasted red peppers; and a salad (from a bag—I can be lazy about salads). We would start with Pernod from the freezer, and dessert would be a delightfully thick and creamy drink made to order—my favorite dessert cocktail.

Then it hit me: they were avoiding what I claimed was that week’s cocktail du weekend. Aw, man­—it was obviously a joke!  I’d sent out an email claiming—stupidly, I now realize—that I’d found an obscure drink recipe and would be making it on Friday. It was called the Booger.

            The Booger was duly repulsive: ½ part banana liqueur, ½ part coconut rum, and ½ part Midori. As if this combo wasn’t wretched enough, Boogers get topped off with Bailys Irish Cream. Shake with ice. Strain. Drink. Vomit.

            Bogus Boogers drove them away! The puppies, Robbie and Kyle, both said they were meeting friends for drinks at low tea. (Wasn’t I their friend?) Craig preferred Top o’ the Pines; he was meeting Paolo there for martinis. Even Dan said he was stopping at BarHarbor for a Pernod on the rocks before coming home. Did none of them have a sense of humor? At least Kyle apologized before bailing on me.

            Dan arrived around 8:30. “Where are the snot shots?” he asked pleasantly. A growl was my reply. He turned away from me toward the stairs, and I lost it. “Do you really think I’d make that shit?” I barked. His face took on that stricken look he gets when I bawl him out for something he doesn’t understand. Then I felt guilty. “It was just a joke, sweetie. A bad joke. You know me. Would I ever make a Booger?” “You just might,” he said. “As some sort of revenge.”

            The other guys staggered in around 9:30, all totally plastered. The barbecued salmon was gummy. The couscous clumped. Only the salad was any good, and that was because it was still in the bag. I was seething. We ate in silence. The puppies were too drunk to talk; Craig was too caught up in his food; Paolo was visibly frightened of me and my temper; and Dan knew he was already on thin ice. We both hated dinners like this; we called them “Night of the Living Drunks.” So I refused to make the cocktail du weekend. The Brandy Alexanders would have to wait.

THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER

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The Perks of Being a Wallflower

            As the Oscars are being handed out tonight, as Lincoln and Argo and Silver Linings Playbook snap up the little gold guy who has no cock or balls, I’ll still be on a high from having experienced far and away my favorite movie of 2012: The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

            There have been those in my life who have convinced themselves that as a film historian and critic I take too analytical a perspective – that I don’t get sucked up into movies the way, say, they do. The ridiculousness of this charge would be clear had any of these folks been in my living room with me this afternoon. Rarely have I burst into such intense, wrenching tears during a film as I did today. I was utterly blown away.

            It’s about a fucked up kid, see, who wants to be a writer. He’s growing up outside of Pittsburgh, and he reads books like On the Road and Catcher in the Rye, and Walden, and To Kill a Mockingbird. His friends are fellow misfits. He counts every day of school because he so desperately wants to be gone. His English teacher understands him and encourages him and gives him his own copies of books to read, and he reads them despite the shitty girl who sits next to him in class and calls him “jag off.” He gets high and says hilarious things that surprise everybody because he’s otherwise so quiet. His spirit soars when he goes through the Fort Pitt Tunnel and gets blasted by the shockingly beautiful lights of the city when the tunnel ends. There is hope after all - freeing, erotic, living hope.

            I haven’t related so powerfully to a movie and watched with such raw emotion since Night of the Living Dead.

An Old Fashioned Old Fashioned

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook for kindle, nook, and iBooks. This book is so cheap you can't even get a drink for the price of it. Now really, gang - that's a deal!

The Old Fashioned

Put an orange slice in the bottom of a glass, add a bit of Really Simple Syrup*, and muddle (press the orange with the back of a fork). Pour in some bourbon, whiskey, or rye, add a few drops of bitters. Stir. Add ice. Serve. Forget the cherries unless you’re under 12.

*Really Simple Syrup: add equal amounts of sugar and water to a jar. Shake.

What Ever Happened to the Vodka Stinger?

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBooks. Buy me, you'll like me!

What Ever Happened to the Vodka Stinger?

            No, it’s not living in a large but nondescript house in greater Hollywood with its long-suffering handicapped sister, the Moscow Mule (“Butcha are, Mule! Ya are in the dustbin of cocktail history!”). It’s just vanished from the cocktail “in” list the way Fioruccci and Charivari both simply disappeared one day from the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Cocktails have fashion lives, just like movie stars and clothing stores. One day it’s Kix then you’re Kix in trash bins; but the planet spins… Some become superstars, as timeless as John Wayne or Bette Davis—the Martini, the Manhattan. Some have short, comet-like lives and burn out in what seems like a matter of moments—Carole Landis, Rory Calhoun.

            The vodka stinger is in the flaming comet category. At the time Stephen Sondheim wrote the great, bitter anthem of cosmically empty, wealthy women “The Ladies Who Lunch,” with which Craig cracks up Ed and Dan with his reference to the song, which in reality ends with the word “rise,” but which Craig transforms into “rye,” the vodka stinger was in its zenith. Everybody was ordering them all the time. (Company opened on Broadway in 1970; I don’t know precisely when Sondheim wrote the song.) (Pedant.)

            So what, you say? Well, it was mostly a travesty in terms of taste. It’s not that vodka stingers taste bad—they’re a bit overly minty as far as flavor is concerned—but they’re by no means before-dinner drinks. Why not? Think of it this way: they kill the palette as fast as a drink made with Scope.

            A decent vodka stinger consists of one part vodka and one part white crème de menthe. As the recipe at the end of this chapter notes, it is a criminal offense to use green crème de menthe; you are not celebrating St. Patrick’s day; you are drinking a great cocktail currently and sadly in reduced circumstances. Think about it. Would you be so tacky as to pop a few Tic-Tacs in your mouth as you enter that gastronomic temple, Per Se? Of course not. They would send such blazingly minty signals to your brain that it wouldn’t recover for the first three courses.

            Would you pop a few Chiclets in your mouth before beginning your $400 per person sushi extravaganza at Masa? I thought not.

            The why, oh Lord, did drinkers of the 1970s think it oh-so sophisticated to wreck their ensuing meals by demanding vodka stingers all around as they perused their sprouts-ridden menus? Believe me, they did. I was but an impressionable youth at the time, but I was still appalled. I saved my vodka stingers for later, when I craved sweets after engaging in the other ‘70s post-prandial pastime, but even then if there were brownies or M&Ms around, I’d go for those first. Wouldn’t you? Or: Don’t you?

A Shot 'n a Beer, Pittsburgh Style

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBooks. Why don'tchoons buy it, huh?

A Shot ‘n a Beer

       Youns jus' take a coupw o’ shot glasses dahn from ‘e cupboard ‘ere ‘n put ‘em ahn ‘e cahn’er. N’en youns fiw ‘em with some kahn’a whiskey an’ serve it with Ahrn Citys, an’ ‘at’s a Shot ‘n a Beer for a coupw peopw. It’s reaw simpw.

            This was my blighted youth.

The Truth About Absinthe!

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBooks; if you like what you read here, buy the friggin' book! It's less than a cab ride for three blocks!

 

Chapter 8

Wormwood: We Need It Like We Need Holes in Our Heads

           

But perhaps we do need holes in our heads. If the human need for alcoholic intoxication, pot highs, coke flights, pain killer mini-vacations, and heroin escapes are any indication, we need to carve out those chunks of our brains that make us unhappy—metaphorically at least. I mean, nobody—least of all me—is advocating driving nails into our craniums. (Leave lobotomies to the experts—that’s my motto.) But I believe we should have the right to eliminate those portions of our brains that keep us in emotional squalor, send us into inexplicable crying jags, ruin our days and nights with pointless encounters with drab reality (feh!), and keep us miserable when we could be floating on a cloud of bliss, however temporary. Reality is overrated. Way.

            Absinthe provides the perfect solution. It’s an herbal concoction—and nobody objects to herbs these days, judging by what they put in shampoos and organic deodorants—that the makers then improve greatly by storing it in wormwood. Spoilsports of the past, the usual array of fun-busters like temperance leagues and concerned scientists for the welfare of humans and similar groups of misguided meddlers succeeded in outlawing absinthe in the United States, forcing only the most renegade travelers to risk arrest and prosecution by buying it in what used to be known as Czechoslovakia and stuffing it in particularly stinky underwear and bringing in clandestinely through customs.

            In 2007 absinthe was finally made legal again to import into the United States, and those of us who had waited for so long to sample the notorious brain-ruining substance were at last free to do so. Some of us wasted no time wasting our brain cells.

            Absinthe can be used in cocktails such as the Sazerac, as in the accompanying story chapter, but it also has its own druggy ritual to give it that extra dose of either attraction or mortification, depending on your attraction or opposition to drugs—I’m specifically thinking of crack and heroin here, folks, so this does require taking a potentially very unpopular stand; none of that wishy-washy “grass is okay” bullshit here.

            There are two main methods for turning absinthe into a druggy ritual. In the old fashioned method, known as la méthode française, a slotted spoon is placed on a glass in which a certain amount of absinthe has been poured, and a sugar cube is placed on the slotted spoon. You then drip ice water over the sugar cube until the glass contains approximately 1 part absinthe to 3 to 5 parts water. The absinthe clouds as the water mixes with it, just like the greatest drug ever invented, the now-impossible-to-procure-under-any-circumstances paregoric. (Note: If anyone has a source for paregoric, no matter how extra-legal, please find me on the internet and contact me at once!) It’s fussy and fun and you get to play with your drink—you and your absinthe-drinking pals sit hunched over your drinks as though you’re preparing crack balls or highballs or jimcracks or whatever they’re called—all of which lend a highly disreputable quality to the proceedings.

            But a newer, even more faux-dangerous ritual has developed among absinthe connoisseurs. La méthode de bohème does la méthode française one better by involving fire. Now we’re really talking crackballs! Theoretically, if you’re not careful, it could blow up in your face; this adds a truly frightening element to the ritual—shades of Richard Pryor. We begin with the same slotted spoon bit, but this time the sugar cube is soaked in Absinthe and set on fire. Before the fire burns out the spoon is flipped over and hopefully the whole glass of Absinthe goes up in flames. You then dump in a bit of water to cloud the drink and extinguish the fire. Unfortunately, as dramatic as this method may be, most of the alcohol is burned away, so I say phooey.

            For my money, the best way to enjoy boring a hole in your head with wormwood-based Absinthe is to drink it straight. It’s such a pretty color (the gay take on the subject), and if you get a little morose as one is prone to do having had too much Absinthe, just remember the immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara: tomorrow is another drink.

A Novel with Recipes

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, en eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBooks. If you like this story, but the book! And remember, sports fans, this is fiction:

Jack Fogg Rolls In

           

            An afternoon in June. Under a bright blue dome of a sky, boys paraded around like Speedo models and dressed accordingly. Cher’s “Believe” wafted through the air from two different houses, off sync. Since it was only Thursday, our witless but ever-giggling, wretchedly visible neighbors weren’t in residence yet. In a blazing stroke of architectural stupidity, our outdoor shower directly overlooks their deck. I’d done some heavy yardwork, and without the annoying onlookers—they either cheered or booed depending on the drugs they were on—I washed off in solitude under our outdoor shower. There’s also a clean shot to the front gate, which opened, to my horror, just as I was washing my most rarely-seen-in-public region. Jack Fogg waved a cheery hello, raised his eyebrows, and disappeared into the house.

            “Where’s Sammy?” I asked when we met again upstairs, I having scooted into some gym trunks, Jack into his standard Madras shorts. “Don’t mention that name,” he snarled. “Yesterday I caught him—in my own bed—with the Indian delivery boy!” I tried to look sympathetic, but the mental image was like Spanish Fly. “He had the balls to tell me he had a craving for chicken vindaloo!’ It’s happened before. Sammy’s insatiable. But the delivery boy?!”

            Classic! Harvard ’89 was offended not by Sammy’s cheating but by the trick’s caste! I said nothing but “You want a drink?” “Sure—what are you mixing?” “I dunno. Let’s see what we have.” I found some bourbon while Jack leaned into the open refrigerator. “Voila!” A hand emerged clutching a plastic lemon. “If there’s sugar I’ll make bourbon sours.” “Snap to!” I barked. My command pulled Jack out of the fridge with a faint blush. “Syrup! Not sugar!” “Yes, sir,” he replied, his cheeks reddening, and swiftly made us the most enormous bourbon sours I’ve ever seen. Sours go in 5-ounce glasses. Jack Fogg’s required 12-ounce tumblers.

I plunked down on the couch. Jack Fogg plunked down right next to me. We clinked. “Cheers!”

            I still harbor a robust jealousy toward Jack Fogg. He’s well built and handsome and an Ivy League A-lister, whereas I’m Shrimp Boy from a two-bit town north of Pittsburgh who went to a college nobody’s heard of. But there I was in gym trunks getting blotto next to an equally shirtless Jack Fogg, who, noticing that I kept glancing at his blond chest hair, actually flexed. “These things are mighty fine!” I declared after emptying my glass.            “Which?” he said with a leer. “The drinks or my pecs?”

Time began to careen: Jack returning with two more flagons of bourbon sours… guzzling them while rating our housemates’ dicks…Jack’s hand stroking my inner thigh…My head was spinning but the rest of me remained in firm control as I grabbed his wrists and leaned into him with enough force to pin him on his back with his arms over his head. Miracles occurred. Then I urged him onto his belly. So much shorter am I than he, I accessed his entire backside with ease and pulled down his Madras shorts, revealing his fuzzy perfection. Reader, I porked him.

The Daquiri - You Don't Need to Buy a Ready-Mix

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBook. Buy me - you'll like me.

The Daiquiri

Given this drink’s utter simplicity, it’s inane to buy frozen Daiquiri mix. For one drink:

1.5 oz. white rum

1 tsp. superfine sugar

Lime juice equal to the juice of 1 and a half juicy fresh limes

Put the ingredients in a shaker, shake briefly, and serve. Do not over-shake. It’s a simple, fresh drink. Treat it accordingly.

ZERO DARK THIRTY

I don't read much about current films. Don't have the stomach for it. But I get the impression there was some discussion of the fact that ZERO DARK THIRTY suggests that waterboarding led to the killing of Osama bin Laden, and that the Powers That Be say that this was not the case.

This is, as they say in Italy, bologna.

The film presents the waterboarding sessions as being obliquely connected to Osama's death, first of all. The path that the waterboarding interrogations takes leads to a dead end.

But even if it didn't lead to a dead end, the fact is that the US used waterboarding - torture - to get information. If the film had left that unpleasant detail out it would have been a big fat lie.

I heard one film critic on TV claim that Bigelow was "an amoral director." Again - bologna! She's practically the only director who cares about morality. That she doesn't shoehorn life into a comfortable moral allegory is to her credit. ZERO DARK THIRTY is just about the only film I've seen in years that asks its audience to question itself: is torture justified by the end result?

Me? I'm glad Osama got his head practically blown off, and I feel nothing for his bereaved wife and children. He's a mass murderer, and he got what he deserved.

ZERO DARK THIRTY makes me question my opposition to torture. I went into the film convinced that it was unequivocally evil. I came out wondering.

That, folks, is great filmmaking.

The Story Behind The Aviation recipe

From The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, an eBook available for kindle, nook, and iBooks. Go ahead and buy it, cheapskates!

Heads in the Clouds

            “So, mutatis mutandis, the LGBT community…” Ted was lecturing about marriage equality from his podium on our living room couch.

            “What?” I blurted. Cocktail “hour” was pushing 90 minutes. I should have served the lamb stew and couscous already, but I couldn’t get out of the chair.

            “The gay community must shift its praxis from the dystopian to the…”

            “No, before that. You said ‘mucous mucandies.’ What the hell does that mean?”

            “You have a Ph.D. and you don’t know what mutatis mutandis means?” Ted was appalled.

            “Fuck you,” I explained.

            We’ve been doing this for years. We’re all academics or ex-academics. Dan has three degrees—B.A., MBA, and Ph.D., all from Harvard.  I have a Ph.D. from Columbia; Ted has one from Princeton and teaches at NYU; his partner, Eric, has an M.F.A. from Columbia and taught at Wellesley but now writes screenplays that actually get made into movies. You may have caught the farcical Brainiacs on cable; Eric wrote it. This dinner party demonstrated where he got his material.

            We were flying on Aviations. I was in a vast liquor emporium on the Upper East Side last week (I rarely go up there, since I’m deathly allergic to cashmere sweaters and simple strands of pearls) and saw Crème de Violette on the shelf with a little printed recipe for the Aviation. Maraschino, was nearby. I bought both.

            By Maraschino, I don’t mean the syrup in which innocent cherries are drowned in artificially flavored, carcinogenically colored sugar water so children can have their first drug rushes. I mean the clear cherry liqueur, which Italians make from Marasca cherries and their crushed pits. Et la Crème de Violette? Yes, it’s really made from violets and thus wins the title of The Gayest Liqueur Ever, there being no Crème de Pansy.

            I played around with the recipes I found online at the marvelous blog www.sippetysup.com, where I learned that the drink has the reputation of being a 1930s cocktail, but it actually dates from 1916, when only a few people had ever seen an airplane, let alone flown in one. In those days, flying into the sky in a technological wonder seemed miraculous. The Aviation celebrates that magic. It has by far the loveliest color of any cocktail I’ve ever seen—watercolor-pale lavender. And it’s extraordinarily luscious. Now that air travel is like taking the bus, except that the bus is on time, the airplanes’ early thrill is long gone. Unless, of course, you make yourself and your smarty-pants friends Aviations, in which case you’ll all quickly be even higher than your IQs.