Pasta Fongool!

Tortellini All Come From the Same Dough

Pasta, now? Really? So Guido Barilla (yes, Guido) blathered on about not wanting gay people to eat his pasta. And now we're all supposed to boycott Barilla pasta. 

I keep wavering back and forth on boycotts, simply because they don't usually work. However, as a statement of protest and displeasure, a boycott can draw attention to a cause. I don't remember that last time I had delicious Chick Fil-A sandwich. I have managed to find delicious frozen waffle fries and a home-recipe for the sandwich that's very close. 

Growing up, Mom was a San Giorgio user, if memory serves. Dad and I both preferred their rigatoni, because they "held the sauce." Dad also liked linguini. Unfortunately, he liked both of them cooked to death. The first time I had properly cooked pasta was revelatory. Mom's meatballs were the size of softballs, and while her sauce was delicious (she was taught by our Sicilian landlady when I was toddler), after Mom taught it to me, I tinkered with it and made it my own, finally learning realistic meatball sizes; spice and herb proportions; the best tomatoes and cheeses to use and make me proud to serve them. And while both my Dear D and the mysterious Italian superhero Pax Romano (both of whom I love, dearly) insist on mistakenly calling their tomato pasta sauce 'gravy,' my sauce kicks some serious ass and deserves a pasta which is worthy of its unabashed superiority. Yes, I am that proud of my meatballs marinara, bitches!

I have used both many dried and fresh pastas over the years. Of course, fresh is better. My Hungarian grandmother's homemade soup noodles were amazing! In my 20's, I would get fresh pasta from the product demonstrators when I worked in The Cellar. Those were pretty good, too. 

I don't actually remember when I first tried Barilla pasta. I'm sure it was because I had coupon. But I liked it and continued to like their whole wheat and Plus lines, which actually tasted a lot better than similar products from other companies (outside the more expensive imports and specialty brands). I have several boxes of Barilla pasta in my cupboards and my pantry. I'm not going to throw them out - that would be wasteful and stupid. The money spent on them is long their coffers and I don't know about you, but I can't afford to throw away perfectly good food.

Competitor Bertolli wasted no time in pointing out their inclusive advertising, As did "Fresh" (i.e. refrigerated) pasta-maker Buitoni. Bertolli has previously sponsored programming on the LGBT network LOGO: 

And then there was this Bertolli olive oil campaign with a mostly naked chef:

I initially balked at yet another boycott, but I can hear One Million Morons firing their tiny brain engines to organize both a boycott of all other pastas and a push to buy Barilla. I probably won't be buying any more Barilla. The search for a new whole grain pasta is on. Any and all suggestions are welcome. Medium Shells, Rigatoni, Penne, Elbows and Angel Hair preferred. Gay Foodie White Whine over.

More, anon.

Prospero

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Choose Your Poison

Uncle P is currently the victim of some sort of plant poison. I doubt it's poison ivy as a particularly bad bout with it as a child left me immune. The weeds, vines and unwanted tees growing along my neighbors' fences which surround my back yard (or 'garden' for my UK, NZ ad AU readers) are incredibly varied and often unidentifiable. 

I know there's lots of Rose of Sharon, Honeysuckle and Briar, though there are dozens more growing over, through and under the various fences surrounding my property. If you follow me regularly, you know I am still in the process of cleaning up the debris left by my well-intentioned BIL in May. I suspect it is during this clean-up that I contracted whatever it is that has left my ankles, left thigh and left arm with angry, itchy and downright nasty red rashes which are driving me insane.

Yes, I am using both cortisone cream for the itch and a product recommended by both a dear friend and my local pharmacist to stop the rash's spread. Both are helping, but neither seems to be curing. Every time I think one of the rashes is healing, another one appears on a new limb or a new area of an already affected limb. It burns. It itches. It's ugly. I hate it.

One week from today, Uncle P will be visiting Chicago for both business and vacation. I'll be meeting up with at least two dear friends and hopefully having some non-committed fun (if you know what I mean - nudge, nudge, wink,wink) and I certainly hope these rashes are long gone before then. I don't consider myself a 'Prize' by any means and this unfortunate turn of events certainly doesn't help to upgrade my desirability. 

Honestly, I think my life could be included in the Lemony Snicket books, "A Series of Unfortunate Events." Every time I think things are going well, something comes along to say "Eff You and Your Life!" Of course, this is nothing more than a "First World Problem" or a "White Whine." I know there are people in the world with far worse problems than an uncomfortable rash. It still seems like these kinds of nuisances pop up at the worst possible times...

Of course, I could just be a whiny d-bag who doesn't appreciate how good my life is, compared to many. I'll leave that up to you to decide. In the meantime, I'll be doing my best not to scratch.

At least I know this isn't the issue (nor will it ever be):

More, anon.
Prospero

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D'Oh! or: Uncle P's "First World Problems" Weekend

"I Could Ride That Lip All the Way to Trenton!" ~ Uncle P's Mother

Once again, some links in this post may be NSFW.

So, last night... Uncle P spent 90+ minutes writing, researching and linking hilarious and informative links in a post which I failed to revert to draft, forcing me to re-log into Blogger and lose everything I had painstakingly worked on to give you, what few faithful readers I have, a few moments of weird entertainment. I wasn't happy, but it certainly wasn't the end of the world, nor the first time my own neglectfulness had led to such an issue.

Today, my sweet, thoughtful mother (who is nothing like the Gerald Scarfe illustration linked in the Pouty Picture's caption) presented me with an "Anti-Fathers' Day" present. And before all you Grammar Nazis question it, the apostrophe is used the way it should be used in this case, meaning all fathers, rather than just yours, which would be written as 'Father's.' (Can you tell I'm in a mood? Thought you might.) Anyway... In the wake of my previously mentioned BIL's greatly appreciated semi-decimation of my long-neglected backyard's overgrowth, the task of disposing over-sized nuisance flora left behind by his Herculean effort seemed nothing short of over-whelming to yours truly. Mom, in her infinite thoughtfulness, saw this set of ratcheting pruning shears on my sister's competition and ordered them (in blue), thinking they might save me time and effort

And boy, was she right. I tried them out almost right away and found that they cut through some rather tough branches with little effort and thinner ones with almost none at all. Like 'buttah.' The hand shears took on weeds, smaller shrubs, saplings and rose branches just as easily, once I figured out how to open the damned things (no instructions led to some consternation when it came to figuring out the safety lock). I honestly haven't been so pleased by a practical gift in a very long time. If you're looking for a gift for Dad; Mom; Dads; Moms or even if you're just a homeowner with an overgrown yard, I highly recommend them. They were purchased from the major home-shopping channel that is not located in the F state. And if that doesn't help, it starts with the same letter as one of my dearest friend's name.

Sadly, my joy over the amazing pruners was soon negated, once again by own stupidity. Plans had been made for Q, Dale, K and I to see Man of Steel at our central (i.e. default) AMC multiplex. In an effort to control my credit card spending, Uncle P chose not to buy tickets online, instead picking up K in time (or so I thought) to buy tickets once at the theater. For the first time in all my of memory, Uncle P was shut out of a sold-out movie. Of course, Q and Dale (like sane people) had pre-purchased their tickets on-line. After much texting and an actual phone call; malfunctioning automated ticket machines and an aborted attempt to buy tickets to another movie at the same time (thanks to the aforementioned MTMs) K and I went for a drink and then went home. I will have other chances to see Man of Steel this week, though there's nothing like seeing a movie with one's best friends. 

While I'm still hoping that Dear D, Mike and I will see This Is the End this week as well, I came home to find a friend had sent me a link the very Bromantic video embedded below, which actually made me feel a little better. What can I say, but 'Kiss Me, Guido?'

Yes, I know there are people who can barely feed their families, let alone afford to go to a movie. Yes, there are far worse things in the world than lost blog posts and sold-out movies. I'd like to think of myself as someone who not only has compassion and empathy for others (i.e. 'Not a Jerk'). I volunteer and do charity work. I smile at everyone (even those who refuse to smile back), though I don't suffer fools, easily. 

None of that means that I don't get to pout now and then, does it? I mean, I know plenty of folks who pout regularly (in fact, almost incessantly) on various forms of social media. Am I being a 'drama queen' tonight? Maybe. Churlish? Possibly. A 'White Whiner?" Perhaps. But who isn't, at least once a while? Damn! I really wanted to see some Cavill, tonight!

More, anon.
Prospero

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Bite Me, Mother Nature (or: The Saddest Gay Post This Week)

Better call me a waaahhm-bulance.

As I sit in my home office writing this post, the 'historic' storm Nemo (really, Weather Channel?) is raging outside. Well, it's snowing. And has been for several hours, amassing less than 2" so far. Not enough to be crippling like in 1996, but just enough to make travel unwise and spoil a very special evening I was supposed to have with T. This after a truly  horrendous day at the Day Job. The storm is having a major impact on us, while causing unnecessary panic for our clients who don't read or bother to look at the updates on our website (or look in completely inappropriate places when they attempt to -- it's on the home page in bright orange! How can you not see that?). This was the worst possible weekend in all of winter for this storm to hit. I ended up having to stay late, on top of (and this is really just adding insult to injury) cancelling my very much-anticipated date with T because of the impending driving conditions (45 minutes of highway driving in sleet and snow isn't really all that wise). To be honest, it was quite possibly the worst Friday I've ever had (or at least certainly in the Top 5). 

So I came home and tried to cheer myself up a bit. I watched some comedies I'd DVR'd and then poured myself a drink and visited good old Towleroad, where there were two exceptionally gay clips that almost did the trick. You'll see why I say "almost."

First up, openly gay Bravo president and talk-show/reality-show host Andy Cohen recently had Jenny McCarthy and Calvin Klein Superbowl model Matthew Terry play a ridiculously exploitative game called "Paper or Plas-Take It Off:"

Terry may be young and very pretty,  but McCarthy might as well be an SNL cougar. Fail.

So, I went for some nonsense and the video for RuPaul's latest single, Peanut Butter. Watch first and then we'll discuss (may be NSFW):

First, let me get this right out of the way: Who the f**k is Big Freedia? Bitch scares me. Second: Ru, bubbulah, what the hell? Stick with dance tracks, girl. This bizarre rap/dubstep mashup weirdness just doesn't work. For anyone. 

Of course, RuPaul is outrageous. We get it. And we know you have to keep up with the times if you want to stay in the spotlight, but aren't the dancing twinks in banana hammocks in a video for a 'song' that's basically one big penis joke just overkill?* We deserve better from the Queen of Drag.

I really shouldn't complain. I know it could be so much worse. New York and New England are going to get slammed for the second -- and even third -- time in less than a year. Still, sometimes it seems I just can't get a friggin break for myself, ya know?

So I am left to console myself with smoke and drink, taking some pleasure in the idea of anticipation. After all, half the fun of any great roller-coaster is the anticipation as the train climbs that first hill, waiting to take that first breath-taking, soaring, weightless plunge*... I need a cigarette, now. Just don't remind me that an exceptionally horrendous Monday is just a brief two days away.

*Every single pun ever, intended.

I'll make this up to you, T. Promise.

More, anon.
Prospero

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I HATE When That Happens

I'm am currently writing to you from a silent computer. I am hoping that it's just my crappy old Dell speakers that have given up the ghost and not my HP  PC's sound card. It's certainly easier (and probably cheaper) to replace hardware than software. Oh, I know I could spend hundreds of dollars on very fancy computer speakers with super-duper woofers and tweeters, but I have a really good pair of Sony headsets for the Sony boom-box on which I listen to most of my music. I listen to a lot of music; mostly film scores. And while my 600 plus CD collection might suggest I'm a bit of an audiophile, I once dated a guy with a collection of over 2000 CDs. I imagine it's much larger now, even if he isn't (oops!). 

Since I'm about to start rehearsals for Hairspray, I've been listening to the OBC (Original Broadway Cast) recording of the show. And while most of the cast includes some rather terrific singers, listening to the otherwise amazing Harvey Fierstein sing is actually painful. For the most part, Harvey 'speak-sings' his role, much like Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady  or Richard Burton in Camelot. Still that gravelly, grating voice of his is less than pleasant. Don't get me wrong - I adore Harvey. I played Arnold in his amazing Torch Song Trilogy in the second annual JTMF fundraiser and find him hilarious in movies like Mrs. Doubtfire and Independence Day but I cannot get past his "singing" in this show. I hope he faired better in the revival of Fiddler on the Roof where Rosie O'Donnell played his wife. Wow, A gay man and a lesbian pretending to be a straight married couple - what's the world coming to?

But for now, trying to watch something on YouTube is very annoying without sound. Have I really become so spoiled that a day or so without sound is making me so crazy? Now I just feel like a douche. "I complained I couldn't hear until I met a man with no ears" (or something). Yes, I'm a total douche.

Maybe I need to see The Artist. Hope you can hear that amazing score in this clip, because I can't:

Wow - Jean Dujardin is gorgeous!

More, anon.
Prospero

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The Day One Obsession Mated with Another

 Let's put away sad things, shall we? Well... it's sad to me that I probably will never get to see Iris, Cirque du Soleil's 'Journey Through Cinema,' in residence at the Kodak Theatre in Los Angeles. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know how I love me some Cirque. My only real issue with them is that they have gotten so darned expensive. I saw almost every tour and several permanent and specialty shows) for several years, until ticket prices crept past the $125 mark. I was in on the ground floor, so to speak, and I feel customer loyalty should be rewarded. I've been there since We Reinvent the Circus, damnit! That should get me some discounts, if not freebies.

"Blah, blah, blah, Uncle P. Are you done complaining yet?" No, I'm not. I'm still upset that one thing I love did a show about another thing I love, and I probably won't get to see it (I know, I know. Total White Whine). Still, a Cirque show about Cinema? That's almost like Jason Statham starring as Prior in Angels in America. The Great American Art Form as interpreted by the Great French-Canadian Art Form? Bring it, baby. The last touring show I saw was Kooza in Philadelphia, a combination Christmas/Birthday gift from K, who came with me. We got lost and arrived a little late, but we were enthralled, as usual.

 The current touring show is the insect-themed OVO, and I am hoping to see it.

Maybe I can find a rich Sugar Daddy (or at my age, a rich Sugar Baby) who will fly me out on a private jet to have dinner, see the show and... well... let's just say I'd make worth his while.

Oh. My. God! Did I just offer to prostitute myself for tickets to a Cirque show?

Yes. Yes, I did. And I'll keep doing it until it works, damnit! And if you watch the clip below in Full Screen (as I recommend for all of the clips tonight), you will see exactly why I would do (almost) anything to see Iris.

I know there are people out there who can't afford tickets to a movie, let alone an extravagantly produced live show. And I know there are far worse things in the world than not being able to afford entertainment. Still -- there is a creative energy and sense of wonder in a Cirque show that I have rarely experienced elsewhere. Can you blame me for being obsessed? 

More, anon.

Prospero

PS - I'm really close to liking the black, purple and green, though still think it needs some tweaking. Please tell what you think.

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