Overload
There are so many things that I could write about that I barely know where to begin.
Should I go chronologically or thematically? Such is the dilemma for a writer. Additionally, shouldn’t I be writing my articles or the editorial for work instead of putzing around on my blog? Mostly all I can say is that I have very many regrets that I didn’t yet receive my new digital camera for the events of this past week or so.
#1. Madame Butterfly
So my cousin came into town on Friday and she took me to the opera in SF. The observations and reactions are many and I barely know where to begin.
a. I find it intriguing that an Italian should choose to portray with equal amounts of stereotypicisms of both prototypical Americans and prototypical Japanese. The American is a crass, loud, and insensitive lout. With a “flower” in every port and painful insensitivity to the social mores of the culture that he is currently trampling through. The Japanese woman is an utterly supplicating, sacrificial, and co-dependent woman who denies any individual desires on behalf of her ardent desire for acceptance. That these stereotypes should be further accentuated based on gender makes these differences far more extreme. The fact that a good third of the audience attending the opera involved Asian women with White men as couples attending the opera touches me as slightly ironic. I could be angry about this image but I leave it for those who still care with hypersensitivity regarding this social dynamic. For me, now it becomes just another day in San Francisco.
b. The young boy, named both sorrow and joy, Pinkerton’s son, sports a flag as a cape, blanket, & pillow during this production of Madam Butterfly. This is something new that I don’t recall seeing before when I last saw this production. Though post 9.11 there is a higher sensitivity to this icon as a defining representation of all that is American, I found the flag’s use during this production to be…well, slightly pandering. As much as I am proud to be an American and all that the mayhem that this identification includes, I still feel that the visceral and emotional attachment to this symbol has become painfully diluted in it’s heavy handed distribution through all media, mediums, conversations, and spoken points by our nation’s leaders. I wouldn’t burn the flag, but I still believe in that right to do so…and at this point in the great American mindset, such a confession would be akin to admitting that you think Osama’s kind of cute with his big brown eyes.
c. I have a new (probably never going to be started much less finished) story idea that I’d like to do about a hapa boy. Do you wonder, as I do, how sorrow/joy pinkerton grows up? How he addresses a history of suicide on his mother’s side of the family (Both Cio-cio-san and her father who was ordered by the Mikado to kill himself). How he grows up hating his father who treated his mother with disdain and tore him away from the home that he knew in Japan to middle America where, in spite of his blonde hair and blue eyes, he is still treated as an outsider? How his “mother” the second and *true* wife of his father, treats him? Though she tries to be kind, she considers him the son of a whore/geisha that his husband merely dallied with and whom she is now responsible? How, perhaps, if she were barren, she would resent sorrow/joy even more? Or if she had a child, a son perhaps, that it would recall conflict and angst much like that suffered by Ishmael vs Isaac. Or Cain vs Abel? Or Jacob and Easu?
Would young pinkerton aspire to love a woman who is Japanese like his mother? Or white like his father? Would he ever accept the love of either in spite of himself and his reservations?
Just some thoughts. And you know what… that’s about as much as I can think about this idea for right now but any feedback in the comments would be graciously appreciated.
#2. Pride Pride Pride
Damn skippy. So I volunteered for Pink Saturday down in the Castro. Happy Pride. $2 donation please? Yup, if you saw a ridiculous little girl running around with Sr. Sakitome over at 19th & Castro, that’d be me. Big fun. I got hit on by a police man, two ladies, and a gentleman that I thought was gay at first. Nice. With 2 fierce screwdrivers, I was too hung over this morning to really go into the city to watch the parade. Delight all my soul. It’s much joy to be gay friendly. Thanks for letting me participate.
And oh yeah, to the ghetto skanky bastard of a driver that totally scammed us for a ride, yes I have your fricking champagne glass. And two scotch glasses too.
$20 for a 6 block drive? Yeah, you bastard. Right.
#3. Too much sushi.
Friday, I found a cute little sushi place for lunch in San Ramon. Quaint, and quite filling in such a divey little place. Saturday, my cousin wanted to hit the sushi place at the bottom of the hill from where I live. Slightly boojie by comparison but marvy. At some point in the past Ernie and I ate there and saw a frou frou lady (you know, one of those ladies that ‘lunch’) stomp her feet and stick her lower lip out, pouting, because they weren’t serving anymore. And tonight, all you can eat sushiliciousness with the gang.
I am far beyond sated. I’ve eaten all you can eat sushi with the lovely Bella Bella Bella Bella Belinda, Ernie (aka Easy E) Paris (Papa Pareeze), Ritchi (Not the Mack, honest) Macapinlac, Jen with Adobo, Loquacious Dave, and a few other kind friends. Roll me over, yo. I’m full.
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