Perlman Steps Up

I have a great idea! Why don't all of you who support California's Proposition 8 let me vote on your marriages.

Sixty or so years ago, my brother's marriage would have been illegal in California. How sad that bigotry continues to rear its ugly head in the Golden State, funded in large part by out-of-staters who wish to see their religious beliefs enshrined in the state constitution.

You know what? Your LDS, or, for that matter, Catholic or Evangelical Christian churches are under no legal obligation to marry anyone they don't want to--and you know this. Don't believe in gay marriage? Well, don't have one. Or perform one. But Unitarian, UCC, and many Episcopal churches, as well as Reform temples, can and do perform gay marriages because their religious beliefs support equal marriage rights. Why should your religious beliefs be the ones that dictate whether or not two consenting adults can affirm their love for and commitment to each other and enjoy the same rights that you have?

So, my deepest gratitude to Maestro Perlman for his powerful and heartfelt ad against Proposition 8. I hope this makes it to TV.

And I hope that others in our business, gay and straight, make their voices heard--and reach into their pocketbooks. If you have some cash to spare, please consider donating here.

Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows

This is hilarious.

Unfortunately, I must refrain from sending it to the new woman in my life.

Why?

Because she's a....

Republican

My ability to sleep with the enemy (okay, she's smart, sweet, cute, and good in bed, so she's definitely not my enemy, but you get the point) is yet another example of the musician's ability to compartmentalize. When you have the kind of job where you have to walk on stage when you're sick, injured, grieving, heartbroken, stressed, or in pain, and not only play all those notes right but actually say something with them, being able to shut the door on stuff you can't afford to think about is crucial.

So she and I just don't talk politics. One of us will be upset on election day, and the other will have to at least attempt to be comforting---even when she'd rather be uncorking the champagne. And we'll just have to muddle through the weirdness together.

It'll be all right. After all, my ex and I voted the same way in every election, and look where it got us.

In Memoriam

Stan Hall

Ruben Ornedo

September 11, 2001

Mi Vida Aburrida

Or maybe it's only outwardly boring. I like to tell myself that the gift of ADD gives me a rich inner life.

I'm still going back and forth between flutes and headjoints---instrumentalists are always searching for the perfect set-up or the perfect instrument. I'm not sure one exists, unfortunately. Partaking of this flute buffet makes my practicing interesting, if nothing else: "Let's do the Mozart again, but this time let's put a light wall headjoint on the heavy wall body, or let's put a headjoint with this metal on a body of a different metal, and see what happens."

I literally played a major recital earlier this year where I didn't decide which flute to play until the morning of the concert.

Good thing I have the serenity of Buddha, right?

It's not that. Once an instrumentalist achieves a basic level of professional competence, she will have established a general sound, no matter which instrument goes to work with her that day. It's just that some days one flute feels more comfortable to play, or is in better adjustment, or the repertoire demands its unique qualities. Or, in my case, I had a freak lip injury that day and flute number one was the only one I could get a decent sound out of.

And even after all that chowing down at the flute smorgasbord, I'm still only eighty-five percent happy with my instruments. That means I will end up forking over more money for another headjoint for flute number two, which is still on the crude side but has lots of potential. Flute number one still gets to go out in public, if I'm doing repertoire that doesn't require a lot of low-register projection. Or have a lot of C sharps.

What else have I been up to?

Well, I've decided that it's time to have a personal life again. The "internets" (is it just me, or was Dubya especially drunk when he came up with that one?) are a fun place to cruise. And at times, it can feel a bit like "Survivor." You know--outwit, outplay, outlast. And I think right now I might be on the island with the female cyber-dating equivalent of Richard Hatch.

Let me 'splain.

Recently, I exchanged some emails with a woman who seemed intelligent, fun, and cute--although she's a little on the butch side for me. But I thought, "It might be fun to meet her to see if we have any chemistry; if not, maybe she'd become a friend." Like me, she has a high-stress, schedule-from-Hell profession, so it took us a while to work out a meeting time. But the scheduled meet-up never happened, because on the appointed day, she suddenly experienced a perfect storm of technological failure. Emails that mysteriously didn't get sent, dead I-phone batteries, and so on.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

So I'm thinking, "Either she's the token flake in a very unflaky profession, or she's, uh, truth-challenged. And I'm not sure which." So I gave her my phone number and waited to see if I'd hear from her or not.

[crickets chirping]

After a week and a half, she emailed again to say that she still wants to meet, but has lost my number. And it was all I could do to not reply, "So you struck out with all the other women you emailed, and you figured you'd come back to see if I'd still be interested."

And to tell the truth, I'm still kind of interested--but not enough to risk appearing too eager, too needy, or, God forbid, desperate. Because I'm not. I'd like to date, but I'm in no hurry to settle down--especially with someone who might be toxic. (Been there, done that.) Plus, the little pitchfork-wielding Iberian sitting on my shoulder keeps saying, "Mija, she has disrespected you by not calling you back immediately and groveling. Not only is she dead to you, but her children's children's children are dead to you, too." (Not that she has any kids, but you get the point.)

So I'm torn between doing the polite thing and contacting her to set up a time to meet, or letting her twist in the wind for a couple of days. Or even blocking her permanently. I don't even know this person, yet I almost feel as though she and I are sitting at the poker table, holding our cards very close to our vests while we take the measure of each other.

Outwit, outplay, outlast......

Put Another Candle on Her Birthday Cake...

Oh, wait. She's dead.

Sigh.

Happy 89th to my crush from beyond the grave, the late, great violinist Ginette Neveu. I hope she's up in Heaven playing Walton, Barber, Rozsa, and Shostakovich--all those great concertos she didn't live to perform.

Like I've said, I usually don't look twice at women this, um, sturdy. Plus, having heard a recording of one of her radio interviews, I can attest to the fact that when Ginette opened her mouth to speak, a tool belt fell out. Let's face it--Mademoiselle Neveu was butch enough to make The Nadj look like Tinkerbelle in comparison.

No matter. Someday when I get to Heaven, I'm going to take her out for dinner.

And I'm going to hope real hard that she'll put out afterward.

Sanitized for My Protection

"Long time, no see, Miz Parker"

"I'm handlin' it."

For those non-lesbians among you, that little exchange is from Desert Hearts. What a sweet, romantic movie. It has great music from the likes of Patsy Cline, Elvis, Jim Reeves, Kitty Wells, and Ella Fitzgerald, first-rate production design, and amazing performances from Patricia Charbonneau, Helen Shaver, and the late Audra Lindley---especially Audra, who flat-out walked away with every scene she was in. And, best of all, it boasts one of the hottest lesbian love scenes on film--sexy, intimate, tender, and intense.

And guess who accidentally left the DVD box for that sweet, romantic movie on her coffee table, and didn't notice it was there until after her teenaged student had gone home.

How unlike me. I'm usually so good at sanitizing my work space. I keep any items that might reveal my sexual orientation--or the fact that I even have one--out of my students' view. I hate having to closet myself when I'm wearing my teaching hat, but I have to protect my livelihood. But what's worse is that I suspect that the student I was teaching that day is gay, and just starting to come to terms with it. I don't know whether the kid noticed Desert Hearts on my coffee table or not, but, either way, it would probably mean a lot to her to know that that nice flute teacher who makes her laugh is a lesbian---a lesbian who is not dead, evil, drunk, dysfunctional, suicidal, or even merely touchy and humorless. With all the stereotypes (and, unfortunately, real-life bad examples) out there, it would be nice for the kid to see that she can grow up to lead a happy, productive life--even if she turns out to like girls instead of boys.

I sure as Hell could have used a role model or two when I was growing up. The world would be a much better place if gay and lesbian teachers could be open about who they are.

Let's Make A Deal!

Or maybe not.

I was having a rare moment of self-assessment today. Rare because I'm a flutist, and our tendencies toward sociopathy are common knowledge. We don't self-assess. We simply tear through life--and all those who stand in the way of our landing that principal chair in the (per-service, 20-week season) Chamber Orchestra of the Frozen Tundra--like perky blond buzz saws. Except that buzz saws are usually a lot keener than most flutists.

So I decided to take a moment to assess my chances of success on the lesbian dating market. After much reflection, I realized that the devil will be handing out popsicles before I ever get laid again.

I'm a walking, talking, real-life lesbian deal-breaker. And not for the reasons one might think.

Is it because I'm not attractive, or not a nice person? No, I'm decent looking, I guess, in a quirky, slightly ethnic girl-next-door way. And my personality is relatively non-toxic.

Do I have any bad habits?

Not really. I don't smoke, and I'm not a big drinker. Other drugs? Nothing stronger than caffeine.

Am I a moocher?

No. I do just fine financially, thanks.

Any stalker exes?

Not that I know of.


So what's the problem?


I think the problem is that I don't fit in with the humorless, politically correct, please-respect-my-boundaries chip on the shoulder attitude often found in the greater lesbian culture. I've said it here before, and it's true.

I need wit and humor in my life, even if it's sometimes sarcastic, snarky, or even inappropriate. What I don't need is an angry glare, followed by, "What do you mean by that? You know, I've been meaning to tell you that your posts in the 'Nan Michiganwomyn' threads on DataLounge wound. Do you know that what you think is funny actually denigrates our community and plays into the hands of our oppressors?"

Please. Lighten. Up.

I need someone who understands that life is too short--and too much fun--to be pissed off all the time. That it's all right to laugh at ourselves on occasion.

Needle in a haystack, anyone?