I Am in a Good Mood, and No, I Will Not Spare You

First, The Pogues: excellent! I had a rousing good time, reminding me of what Dionysiastic ecstasy is supposed to be. The warmup band was a little bland, and the Pogues got on late, but I jumped around with everyone else and I wasn't even drunk. I couldn't afford to be, with $8 mixed drinks. I sincerely regret not ponying up the money so that Passaro could go, he would have found some way to pay me back. My threadbare excuse is that I thought I had less money in the bank than I did. The whole concert experience made me wish I could travel with a show in that if-today's-Tuesday-then-it-must-be-Spokane way. Yeah, I had a goal back in college: Equity by the time I was thirty. Hah. Now I spend my sleepless nights trying to figure out if I could afford a down payment on a condo in four years if I keep my day job, which I would pretty much have to do for another five after that to be vested in the pension plan. I think my eighteen-year-old self would hate my thirty-year-old self. Sometimes I hate my thirty-year-old self. But I digress. The Pogues made me remember why I got into show business and that's not a bad thing.

Speaking of Passaro (which I have not done in a long time), we had a good talk about Henry Miller the other night. I had decided to read Tropic of Cancer next in my campaign of Great Books. I had to start back at the beginning, but it's not like I had gotten very far last time. It is Passaro's opinion that Henry Miller is like a quickie in the back of a movie theater when he writes about sex (which is most of the time), while his compatriot (lover, etc.) Anais Nin is more like extended foreplay. What Miller I've read so far bears that out, and I guess I'll just have to read Nin next. I'm a little lost on the plot of Tropic of Cancer, but I don't suppose that's the point. Ah, sex. The sex life of writers. Who are now dead but were having more sex in a more repressive time than I am in my relatively permissive one. No, that way madness and frustration lies. Well, I have my books, and Passaro to talk to, which is a pleasure. He cracked me up the other day, in the same conversation that rambled over Miller and Nin, by sharing what he consideres a totally vulgar and filthy term for a vulva: meat curtains. Meat curtains. Meat curtains! I love it! Poor Passaro. I think he was a tad scandalized by my hilarity. So I'm a vulgar, nasty, dirty girl. I can live with it if I can laugh at whatever belittling terms men come up with for my anatomy. It can't be any worse than "lady parts." Nope, no ladies here, not on this blog, and shoot me if I ever become one. Here's to my meeting with Passaro on Thursday, and more good conversation on topics you're not supposed to talk about with someone not your significant other, let alone in public.