The White Peril 白禍

Dear Mariah:

Because of you, I almost had the perfect weekend.

I mean, it's because of you that I had to add the "almost." Of course, Atsushi would have had to be here for it to be really perfect, but we had an appropriately tender anniversary call, and he seems less stressed by work lately, which is as perfect as things get while he's away. Yesterday, I got the most delicious little spring sweater at Zegna to wear when we have dinner this Saturday. My best friend appears to be cementing a new relationship with a man I approve of. On Saturday night, everyone was in a great mood--ran into guys I hadn't seen for ages but always enjoy talking too--and there was none of that slightly-strained merrymaking you sometimes get into over the New Year.

And then while I was talking to a cute, flirtatious Australian guy, I glanced up, and there was your hideous "Get Your Number" video. TOTALLY DESTROYED the combination of conviviality and aesthetic pleasure (did I mention that the boys at GB had managed to mix me a particularly yummy vodka tonic that go-round?).

Seriously, Mariah, or Mimi, or whoever you are now, I'm glad for your comeback. It's horrible to see people suffer in public, and with that suicidal website post and your career tanking and the nervous breakdown...well, I'm no more a fan of your music than I was before, but I'm glad you were able to come up with another album that sold in the gajillions because you clearly needed it to make you feel better.

Now that you do feel better, can we make the next project not looking like a whore? As another cute, flirtatious guy (this one from New York) remarked when that horrid video played yet again, you're working the "busted tramp" thing, and it's so...bad...so very, very bad. It's a lie that all (or most) gay men are misogynists, but it's not a lie that some are, and I fear you've managed to fall in with a stylist or two who really don't have your best interests at heart.

Same with your video director. Next time he says, "Okay, now that you've gotten into the shiny dress with the micro-miniskirt and the plunging neckline that exposes your appallingly obvious new rack-inflation job, I want you to perch on the edge of this here sofa with your knees three feet apart," here's your response--and I want you to practice this, dear: "LIKE HELL I WILL, BUSTER."

You'll be doing all of us a favor.

Still kinda feeling icky,

Sean K.

Most unnecessary book ever:

In between intense writing sessions for her next studio album, expected in 2007, Alanis Morissette will spend this year working on a memoir.

To which the only sensible response is "Good grief, woman--is there anything you haven't told us already?"

Apparently so. Look and be afraid:

"It will be all the wisdom I've accrued in the thirty-one years of my life [Be VERY afraid.--SRK]," the singer-songwriter says with a laugh. "A lot about relationships, fame, travel, body-image issues, spirit -- with a lot of self-deprecating humor peppered throughout, 'cause I just can't help it."

I happen to like Alanis. Jagged Little Pill exploded the summer after graduation, when I was living with a bunch of friends for a last few months in Philadelphia and we were all excited about the future and stuff, so I have great memories of that record. Also, unlike a lot of other confessional-bitch singer/songwriters (Hi, Tori!), Alanis doesn't mix in all kinds of fey and twee crap to convince you that she really is nice and cuddly after all. And she writes fantastic tunes--I'm a sucker for a good melody.

An Alanis memoir, though? Kinda thinking I don't really need it.

We let straight folk believe the Global Homosexual Conspiracy is organized around recruiting new members because...well, they seem to get a spy-novel sort of thrill out of thinking so, and why rob people of a source of excitement? Especially when all they'd have left to console themselves with if disillusioned is Rolling Rock and Lean Cuisine.

Anyway, the real purpose of the gay network was illustrated last night when I was out with a few people from our Taipei office at the night market. The Chinese New Year is coming up, so I figured that, since Atsushi has taken an interest in feng shui lately--don't ask me, I don't know either--I'd get him something lucky and Taiwanese. So we looked. There were dog statuettes whose contribution toward our household prosperity and longevity would, unfortunately, have been offset by the degree to which they would have fuglified our decor. Not a bargain, as far as I'm concerned. There were red and gold scrolls and things, but most of the nice ones were too big to fit in my carry-on.

We were getting desperate, so one of the girls from the office made an exaggerated leave-it-to-me-darling flourish with one hand and clapped her cell phone to her ear with the other. As we walked, you could hear her addressing whoever was at the other end as "sweetie." You got snatches of sentences like "No, he wants something AUSPICIOUS...for the Year of the DOG, you know?...yeah, it's for his BOYFRIEND." Minutes later, she hung up. She'd been talking to one of her gay friends. She had to cut out right then--family dinner, or something--but we were left with directions to a shop that furnished very cute bibelots and instructions to call his partner if we got lost. (Amazing the way no gay couple in any country I know of is rationed more than one partner who can give reliable directions.) I remain unconvinced they'll ensure Atsushi's good luck for the year--I'm not really superstitious, though it's nice to think you can guarantee that sort of thing by buying the same kind of useless wood/clay/mineral objets you would have lusted after anyway. But I have something suitably cool to present to him as my お土産 from Taiwan, thanks to two of our unseen boys who, on a work night, let themselves get roped into a twenty-minute discussion about helping a stranger shop. Membership has its privileges.