The Red Dragon is happy because I'm a honey perv

Last night the Red Dragon, or Phyllis as I think I’ll start calling her, arrived. I can risk the fisrt-name familiarity because Phyllis, instead of her standard innard-mangling and emotional manipulation, seems to be curling up for a nice little nap in my tummy. You see, as my regulars are aware the past little while has seen me develop a strong honey fetish. This may be to assuage my bitterness over my lack of figurative honey (can't believe how long I’m going nookie-free for Figaro, frankly it’s perverted) or over the present state of international affairs.

Whatever. After I went to the farmer’s market this morning I went to Honey World, even though I knew I already had more than enough honey at home. I’m wearing a tit shirt today and obviously, my fetish being what it is, I was as fascinated by the huge range of Provençal, Tasmanian and Kiwi honey on display as an Italian man in a stiletto store. Maybe because of this or just because he’s a stand-up guy the operator made me sample almost every honey they have in stock. It was fucking sick, ladies and gentlemen, sick like good. While each of the honeys was beautiful in its own way, here are some interesting ones that came up (all described suitably hyperbolically on the product page):

1. Manuka honey - Ugh . . . ugh? I was really excited to try this as I love the smell of tea tree oil on about three different levels, but predictably enough it had an awfully medicinal taste. Oddly, the MEDI-line manuka honey with bee venom and glucosamine tasted less medicinal; I would actually eat it recreationally, while I'd only keep normal manuka honey to stir into lemon water when I had a cold.
2. Thyme honey - oh my god, what a fucking treat. This is like eating flowers; the aroma of the thyme fills your sinuses as the pale, delicate honey melts in your mouth. This will definitely be my next purchase.
3. Pohutukawa honey - the operator claimed this was Queen Victoria's favourite, which makes sense - so smooth, so silky, no offensive quality at all. It's exactly what normal store-bought white honey would be in Heaven. But not exciting. Mangiacake honey, in other words. But I'd never, even turn my nose up at it.
4. Chestnut honey - with the thyme and the tea tree, you can taste the smell of the plant; with the chestnut honey, you can taste the taste of the fruit. And I love chestnut, so that makes this honey a fucking delectation for me. Sort of heavy and nice.
5. Honeydew honey - this is awesome because it tastes like molasses without tasting like molasses. I like molasses, but this is like molasses you pour into a glass and drink.

The honey I fell in love with and bought without a second thought was the Tasmanian Leatherwood honey. Fuck knows what kind of tree that is - here's what Wikipedia has to say about the genus - but when I told the operator I had a jones on for a tree honey this is what he fed me. It's almost a little spicy - it has this perfect little kick of an aftertaste - motherfucking fuck, is it good! I required it. I required that fucking honey like a Frenchman requires garters.

Dear God

OH MY GOD, GOD, YOUR ASS HAS GOT SOOOOOO BIG.

Hah. I knew that would make you stop pretending you weren't listening. Don't worry. Your ass hasn't got big at all. And now before you plug your ears, close your eyes, spin and yell 'lalalalalala' some more, I'd like to remind you that I've been a very, very good girl lately, what with all the whoring around I'm not doing anymore and the way I go to church sometimes when a good choir is kicking it.

And so I have some very simple requests. Please make every bit of military materiel in the world stop working, unless aliens invade and we need to defend ourselves, and make everybody who appears in this video our planetary overlords. Please make the seventh couple King and Queen. In short, give us a little motherfucking soul, because right now we got nothin'.

Thank you and amen.

Are you trying to break my heart?

Not a peep out of Miss E.G. today. She's a bourgeois Christian from East Beirut so I'm just plugging my ears, closing my eyes, spinning and shouting "lalalalalala" - much as I imagine God is at the present time - hoping that her class, religion and geography will protect her; that she's not in touch because of her country's infrastructure being bombed back to the Stone Age and not because she's hurt. Because her country being bombed back to the Stone Age is a much better scenario. Fuck, I could cry.

Anyways, last night I took a break from listening to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and getting weepy over the fucking madness of it all to go to yummy yum responsible foodie restaurant Big Mamma's Boy, where I tried the Cabbagetown pizza with all its organic whateverness and it was good. Not Italy, not Greco's, but good. The flourless chocolate cake was also good. The real revelation of the evening was the single beer they had on tap, a delicious motherfucker of a local microbrewery product - there was a certain delicate verrrrrry subtle sweetness to it that made this the third straight night I got gently plastered and that made me forget the name of the fucking brand.

Quelle cochonnerie, quelle connerie

Yesterday biologically speaking should have been a depressed sort of day and emotionally speaking should have been awful, what with occasional tears thinking of Grandpa using a walker and my dear Miss E.G. blundering around Beirut hoping a fucking bomb doesn't fall on her, looking for bread and canned food for the hundreds of panicked hungry refugees she's trying to keep calm and fed - no food is going in, and not nearly enough medical supplies, but I guess that's the fucking point, isn't it? Goddamn those responsible to something I can't even imagine - how I hate them!

But I promised a more cheerful post than usual, didn't I? Fine.

Despite periodic bouts of chokiness and rage, despite my own inept, hapless hand-wringing, despite swelling up like a beach ball as the Red Dragon (hopefully) flies in for a landing, despite my pervasive feeling of impending apocalypse, I kept remarking through the afternoon what an excellent mood I was in under the circumstances. I blame food. First, I've been eating the best hummus I've ever had - of course because I made it, with the juice of one lime, a drained can of rinsed chick peas, a dash of sesame oil, two teaspoons of sesame seeds creamed in the coffee-grinder, three cloves of garlic, a little olive oil, and salt to taste, all done in the blender. Look at the tryptophan levels on the chick peas! I might as well have been doing periodic bumps of MDMA. Well, not really, but you know what I mean. I've also been making and eating gorgeous raita and semi-gorgeous tzatziki, but not gorgeous enough for you to bother with my recipe when you can probably get something better off Epicurious.

Second, I've been gorging on honey. A few days ago during a particularly boring hard-to-concentrate stretch at work, I found out my middle name means 'affording honey'. That's nice considering how much of it I eat; I think I'm on my way to becoming the Gargamel of the Apiform world, especially as I'm now counting the days until I can afford a demesne where I can have my own apiary. While in Ottawa I did some honey shopping at a couple of farmer's markets and I saw some of the spring tree honey Jiri mentioned. Like a fool I didn't buy it; it was a touch more expensive and I knew I was going to another farmer's market the next day - but then it wasn't there. Mel, would you please get me some when you go back to the farmer's market if I can't find any before you get back from the Bruce? I've gone to my own local farmer's market, the St. Lawrence market; I've even looked online to order it and I can't find shit.

Well, I can - everybody look at how fucking pretty. See, there are reasons I want to move back to France besides the creepy songwriter poets - but like Sugarplum I'm all up for encouraging the more local merchants. And I'm cheap.

One thing I did buy at my own farmer's market was some royal jelly from John Alecu's afore-linked apiary. I was inspired by the Roald Dahl story about the substance; of course I'm always looking for ways to get fitter, prettier, happier and eventually unequivocally invincible. Haven't tried any yet, but I did let my cat lick a little off my finger to make sure it wasn't poisonous. She loved it and has been acting much more pretty and energetic. So there you are. Proof.

Melody comment?

Did I mention Figaro's stuff arrived Friday ? Today he let me know that l'Histoire de Melody Nelson was at the top of the biggest box. I haven't been able to stop listening.

Why I Hate l'Histoire de Melody Nelson

Une poupée qui perd l'équilibre, la jupe retroussée sur ses pantalons blancs . . .

Fuck Serge Gainsbourg, that fucking voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. How can he objectify a fifteen year old he's just knocked off a bike with his Rolls like that? What sort of man writes a concept album about deflowering her and her subsequent death in an aeroplane accident, and then records his girlf having a shockingly piggy orgasm on track six to flesh it out? With his googly eyes and hideous looks, of course he would fantasize about some poor 'aimable petite conne' of a virgin who would fall hard enough for him to let him take advantage of her. And he sang on the album about as well as Leonard Cohen sings now. Except he actually tries to carry a tune. Fuck him. Evil shit like this is why NAMBLA is allowed to happen.

That having been said . . .

Why I completely fucking love l'Histoire de Melody Nelson

My god, Serge Gainsbourg made an enchantingly beautiful album about being a voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. I'm reminded of a story about Paul McCartney making a bet about being able to write a song about anything and coming up with one from Picasso's obituary. Except it embarrasses me to compare this with anything that came out of Paul McCartney even though I love the Beatles and think the Liverpool Oratorio was a cute . . . oh fuck, why am I still writing about Paul McCartney?

Outside of Jane Birkin squealing there's nothing pornographic about the sounds; the lines quoted above are the naughtiest. I don't write that to defend the album; I write that to exclaim over how the world of longing created here is all the more artful.

Not one wasted word or note - they all take you right into the heart of a hard but besotted man who believes the girl he's obsessed with is both a straightforward simpleton and an unearthly, irresistible force that he can never understand and that's too good for his world. His voice, sucky though it is, manipulates. In the Valse de Melody, where he carries the tune, the seconds where it breaks and snaps show us more desire than Ang Lee managed in Brokeback Mountain's 3 fucking hours of snooze. And the arrangement is flawless. This being Serge Gainsbourg, and it being the 70's, he got an orchestra to use as a simple backing to his vocal crackling and the three piece band that drives the action. And the orchestra is one big ambient instrument helping beautifully bury the listener in the narrator's perturbing emotions, letting the whole thing seem like a desperate quest not just to possess but to love.

I love disco, opera and Wuthering Heights.

I love them for different reasons, because they’re all rather different things, but there are three things they have in common. As Bluesfest wrapped with KC’s Boogie Blast, I’m going to mention these three things as they relate to disco.

1. People seem to expect me to feel that they’re some sort of guilty pleasure.

You want me to feel guilty over liking disco because a bunch of American rednecks started “Disco Sucks” riots when they got intimidated by a burgeoning genre featuring aggressive women, black people and international performers? I’m sorry, I seem to have lost the memo instructing me to take my fucking musical taste cues from a bunch of baseball-playing trogs who wanted to keep the airwaves male, white, and AmERcan. Why don’t you go look for it in my ‘fuck off’ pile?

2. None of these three things are ironic in some dumb-ass self-deprecating way.

Disco music doesn’t squat in the corner scowling, projecting “oooooo, look at me, I’m such a handsome and complicated loser – DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME – okay, touch me as long as you can nurse me back to emotional health”. It is never ever fucking emo in the vague and disgusting sense I am understanding that term musically. Each song has a single, pretty message; be it about how you should lay back while I put away the dishes and then you and me can rock a bell, how I feel when you’re laying so close to me, how I’ve never really looked before but now you take my breath away – et al.

3. The effect of all three things is blatantly, unashamedly physical.

Yes, I will indulge in a few tears over Violet even though she’s fit enough on her deathbed to belt out “Parigi o cara” so sweet and strong it’s like a thousand perfect violins, please; and what’s more, as you’re offering I will have a delicious little shudder to think of Heathcliff smiling fixedly at something in the room Ellen can’t see. But most of all, I cannot wait to shake my booty. I will accept the advice from various sources that I gotta get up and get down, and if I have time this evening, I think I’ll love a little bit so that I know that I’m alive. Thank you ever so much.

My point is, I really liked KC’s Boogie Blast, and anybody who thinks that’s bad is a jerk. I think they'd pretty much all found God - Gloria Gaynor, in fact, gave me the impression that's who she thought we should save our love for in terms of someone who's lovin' us - and the years had been variously kind or not - Kathy Sledge looked good enough to eat with a spoon, KC didn't. But whatever. They'd hired some awesome musicians, including a bass player who I wanted to throw my panties at, and it was great.

Other than that in terms of high points, Wilco was lovely. I really had had no idea what to expect live, and yet it wasn’t what I expected; I haven't been that massaged into a good mood by a live performance since Neil Young in 1997. Jeff Tweedy has got really hairy, which was fine with me. Sugarplum and I had a hard time thinking of anybody who sings or plays that sort of music who isn’t. I still haven’t. Something else all lovely was the only actual blues we heard, Tony D at the tail end.

Oh, and leave me not fucking forget the Kentucky Headhunters. The drummer, who looked like I could break him over my knee, had a super-extended super-heavy drum solo that ended with him throwing away the sticks and laying into the set with his hands. And still sounding good. Class.

In terms of low points, happily there weren't many. I'd been excited about Saturday being Gospel Day, but when we approached the stage there was someone - I think Sherwin Gardner - shouting about his relationship with Jesus and the Islands, by which I think he meant the Caribbean. I've got no relationship with the Caribbean and Jesus and I are still in a bit of a snit because of that history of Christian oppression thing; if I'm going to hear about him there has to be harmony. Kathleen Edwards was nice but a little boring and I lost interest altogether when she sang a whiny song about how much she hates Toronto.

Metric had lovely music but the lead singer's "I'm-an-extra-cool-and-indifferent-Justine Frischmann" voice made me want to spit irritated nails. We gave it a good college try because the instrumentalization was double pretty. But when Emily Haines launched into a song with some nonsense "bam-shaka-lam-bam-bam-bam-boom" expression and made it sound bored and jaded on purpose, I was fucking soured. They need a new singer, and they need to give her/him melodic lines. Stat. Boo.

Oh my fuck, turn down the fucking suck

It’s sickening to my already sickened, red-eyed, Greyhound-stiff frame to think that Miss E.G. or the other Lebanese chicks I went to school with are in danger, or their families are. Real danger - ‘peril’ is, I believe, le mot juste. Not just the vague queasiness of commuting through financial districts of G-7 countries in the days after planes fly into the World Trade Centre, not the creepy get-home-fast feeling of biking through a nasty ghetto at night, not the nauseous menace of being firmly instructed by an ex that one will die an ignominious death at his hands – but the peril of fucking bombs falling on one’s fucking country via an organized military that has lots of practice dropping fucking bombs on one’s fucking country. A foreign country deciding it’s a good political decision to ‘imperil’ their lives. Precious, clever effervescent lives that have made me laugh until I wanted to pee, leant me their course notes, invited me to their homes, collaborated with my academic projects, fed me, bought me drinks, made relentless fun of the French with me, tut-tutted my erstwhile whoredom and given me man-advice; those ones, yes. It has been decided that it’s a good idea to subject those to peril.

Coke once wanted to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Not having anything to sell, I just want to box the world’s ears until they bleed. I’m pretty sure I’m operating at a fairly average level of sanity, but if Miss E.G. was hurt and the person responsible presented to me, I would try to beat him to death with anything in reach.* And imagine if she was my sister, my mother, my daughter . . . what connection with moral realities could I expect from myself then?

I know I haven’t been the most cheerful blogger on God’s green and intensely unfair Earth lately. Sorry. I’ll write about food tomorrow. Dips. Yes, I’ll write about dips. I love dips. And/or some of the lovely things from Bluesfest, like lovely Wilco.

*Hopefully a leg of lamb. And if you haven’t read the short stories of Roald Dahl, stop being such a fucking sucker, I’m already pissed off enough.