I have to pluck my eyebrows tonight. I hate doing it, because it seems like a wicked waste of my time, but I have a shindig to attend on Friday where people may or may not be looking at me intently. I always feel guilty when I have an eye appointment and I have unkempt eyebrows; not unlike when I have a gyno appointment and I forget to shave my legs. I know these people are getting paid and all, and they’ve probably seen worse, but I don’t want them to think I was raised wrong. If people are coming to install sprinklers, the least you could do is mow the lawn.

I managed to kick the sadness of yesterday—again, with the help of my little sister. We were driving home and we were both in really sullen moods. The kind where nothing really sounds like a good idea; food, sleep, homework, TV—no suggestion cheers you up, or even changes your expression. I asked what she wanted for dinner and she just shrugged, and I knew we were down pretty low. So I made an illegal turn into Boston Market, where we got some turkey, cinnamon apples and yams, and went home and ate on the couch watch Britcoms on PBS. It made us laugh just enough that we forgot we needed cheering up in the first place. When baseline normalcy was restored, we watched Velvet Goldmine, because I’ve never seen it, and also because the alternative was Green Card, and my sister hates Andie MacDowell with the heat of a supernova. When the show was over, I turned the VCR off and looked over at my sister, who looked back at me expectantly. “Well,” I said, “That was… a movie.”

I stand by my first impression. I didn’t like it, nor hate it. It was a movie and I have seen it. Perhaps it was my apathetic mood of the evening, but I feel nothing about it—and a movie about bisexual glam rock stars should really evoke some feeling. I’m trying to have an opinion, but all I have are some impressions: The colors were interesting. Jonathan Rhys-Myers scares me, but makes a pretty Ziggy Stardust. Ewan MacGregor’s penis is bigger than I thought it would be. None of those are really positive or negative, though (except for the penis thing; that’s a plus for all who have EM fantasies, of which I am not one). Oh, and Christian Bale looks his absolute un-sexiest in this film. And I’m including the Machinist, where he weighed, like, a pound.

I do have one objection to the film, though: not enough on-screen gay sex. And I don’t object because I wanted to see it, but because it’s not fair that we can tune in to practically any channel any day and see either straight sex or lesbian sex, but two-man sex gets bleeped or blurred like people can still be tried for buggery. I postulate that there is a one-penis-per-sex-scene rule in Hollywood that is not widely publicized:

RESOLVED: In any scene with nudity or sexual content, viewers may see the unbridled entirety of:

1. A woman, alone.
2. A man, alone.
3. A man and a woman.
4. A man and two women.
5. A man and several women.
6. Two women.
7. Several women.

But the second only two men are in an intimate situation, it’s porn. What gives? Is there just too much penis? Is there a penis quota? Is it OK for women to have homosexual lovin’ on screen because neither of them has one? Are penises actually polarized, and react negatively to one another if more than one is in the room? Do they have creative differences with other penises, and refuse to work together? I have had account that this is not the case in real life—why are the movies trying to confuse us? Granted, I have not yet seen Brokeback Mountain, so I don’t know how much man-sex is actually shown nowadays, but I hope it is at least proportional to the average lesbian amount, let alone the free-range the straight couples get.

Or it could be that women are more secure in their sexuality, and can just handle a longer scene with another woman than a man can with another man. I guess six of one, half a dozen of the other.


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