De-Gay Me

Or Is There Something Gay About Me - Part II

It was just the icing on the cake. It was lovely. And for that I must thank Pete's granny, a little old lady in a big old house between the towns of Ironbridge and Shrewsbury, in a place seemingly with no name. Similarly, I straddle the divide between two states, wandering a no man's land somewhere between bubbling hyperactivity and bloated constipation. I've had far too much cake and caffeine today, and Granny Pete's tea party was indeed the final straw, a bridge too far, or – and this is my favourite from thesaurus.com – "the straw that broke the camel's back."

Before the straw got the better of this camel's back my self-esteem also took a severe clobbering. I was walking with some friends tonight when three separate parties in the park threw what can only be described as abuse my way. On all three occasions, rather shockingly, homosexuality and its wrongful assumption formed the core of the abuse. "Are you gay or something?" asked the first passer-by. Before I had the chance to make my choice – and I would have gone for "something", by the way – his friend, also clad in shell suit and baseball cap, chimed in: "He’s über-gay!" It was a surprisingly articulate insult from such a twat. The others were not so eloquent.

It's all sticks and stones though, isn't it? It didn't bother me too much to be called "über-gay" by a bunch of people who, I think it's fair to say since they made a gross assumption of my lifestyle, will assert their heterosexuality by fathering a child before high school is through. (And by that I mean 3:45pm.) What bothers me however is the presumptions people make based on such elementary things as having styled hair, wearing a blazer and holding a briefcase. Are those really the tell-tale signs? Had I been engaged in an act of man love at the time I might have understood the assumption. Tonight however I was clueless. And my friends, one of whom I was meeting for the first time, were a little weirded out.

"We need to work on my image, Pete," I said. "De-gay me or something." "I think you need a girl for that San," he replied. "Ideally."

Moonwalking in the office

Home is where the noise is

Home, I've decided, is not necessarily where the heart is. I left mine in (or near) San Francisco, but that wasn't home. (But then that, I suppose, was its appeal.) Home, on the other hand, is what you can't wait to return to but then – soon enough – can't wait to leave. It's upstairs in this 12 X 12 room, walled in thin plasterboard, surrounded by my sister's appalling taste in music and 25 almost identical new brick houses. It's the writers' block that's kept us apart and, at the same time, the hideous muse now pushing the keys.

Are we programmed to hate our homes to build our own? Is an innate aversion to the home a necessary impetus to procreate? If we all stayed at home we wouldn't reproduce. (Of course, in some southern states of the U.S. they manage both, but we only need look to their President to see why that’s a bad idea.)

In traditional Indian culture, rather unfortunately, the youngest son (in this case, muggins here) is expected to live with his parents indefinitely. That is through teenage rebellion, his roaring twenties and marital life. So, if an evening with the blood relatives seems a bit much at least I’ve something to look forward to.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Appear homosexual I'm metrosexual, I've been told – smart, well-dressed, urbane. It's what your granddad might call "dapper". It's what some call "a bit gay." It's also an issue I’ve already discussed (Is there something Gay about me?). This afternoon my urbanity may have gotten the better of me, as I peered desperately through the gaps in the crowd, trying to see the shoes that would complete her near-perfect outfit: a crisp white blouse, a snug black sweater vest and the sort of pink skirt asking for a breeze and a blush. It was Sex and the City, it was 1954, it was almost French, but it all stood on a pair of shoes. To stare at them is bad. To comment is worse. "I love your shoes," I said. Strike one.

Reject hints I had no sooner finished my declaration of love for her shoes, blinked and they were gone. The train had pulled into the platform and without a word she was on her beautifully housed feet, literally running away to another inconveniently distant carriage. "I’ll see you on the inside", I thought, and boarded the train.

Be weird "You know, you look like somebody off TV," I started, realising that I'd have to finish. "Have you ever seen The O.C.?" I realise now that Sex and the City would have been better - anything on HBO would have been better. Hell, The Sopranos would have done. "Yeah," she said. "Something in common," I thought. "Good." Going with that I went on. "Do you know the character Anna?" She shook her head. It might be a failed compliment, I thought, but there was still room to impress her with my acute knowledge of the show. "She was introduced in episode 105 and dated Seth before he and Summer got together." Strike three. And out.

Is there something gay about me?

Maybe I picked something up in San Francisco where a straight man, to quote an episode of Frasier, is “like a Snickers bar at a Fat Camp”; maybe the abuse of neighbouring comprehensive, the Borough, was true and the seven years at an all-boys Grammar School are responsible; or maybe I’m just one of the fortunate few – a straight guy with a queer eye. Whatever the reason, there’s a blip on the gaydar and it’s me, and another case of mistaken sexual identity.

I’m not saying that I wasn’t a little bit excited when my shoes appeared on Queer Eye, or that I’m not flattered by the subtle and nervous advances of the salesman in Zara. And I did appreciate the drinks bought for me by the bearded guy in Berkeley, but I’m just saying, and for the Disco record, that I won’t be giving up my, er, seat at the gay bar, or visiting a gay bar whatsoever: I am not gay.

This wrong assumption, I’m sure, has cost me many opportunities to prove my heterosexuality, and I write now with the intention of straightening out this kafuffle, once and for all. Sure, I may watch re-runs of Frasier, shop at a clothes store called Zara, and occasionally use the word kafuffle, but to reiterate, I’m as straight as the next guy. Wait..that guy has a one in eight chance of being gay. Er...I'm like the guy next to him.

The Salon

Some homes have a gardener, a cleaner, some might have a Mexican pool cleaner; we have a hairdresser. The only Tiffany I have ever known (outside of Eighties pop music) has been keeping our family groomed for the past three years. I, on the principle that I don’t trust hairdressers with appalling hair, am growing mine and won't fall prey to her stationery scissors. This morning however my sleep was cut short by the unsettling sound of shears and the sharp sermon of a woman scorned. Tiffany, I can tell you, has been dumped by her boyfriend of two years and her conversation this morning extended beyond the usual "been on holiday?" banter we have come to expect from stylists. When she was done my mum came into my room. "Bloody hell," she said. "We're going to need a new hairdresser." I can just imagine the conversation: "It's not you, Tiffany. It’s me…"

Simply the Breast

There is one phrase that encapsulates all the things I hate, three words, four syllables and all walls of a nutshell, in which tabloid newspapers, eighties softrock and ITV can be found. Simply the Best is that phrase, was a big hit for Tina Turner in the Eighties, is the slogan of small businesses nationwide, and the name of a new ITV game show designed to pull viewers back to the once primetime Saturday night slot. It comes hot on the heels of a Channel 4 documentary, Who Killed Saturday Night TV?, and hopes to resurrect ratings by enlisting the cheekiness of Phil Tufnell and the breasts of Kirsty Gallacher, which are - frankly - worthy of the phrase and reason enough (or alone) to tune in tomorrow at 7:30pm.

The Expensive Handshake

Three years, eighteen classes, around £15,000, and it all boils down to one handshake. "Sandeep Kumar Sharma" Principal Roger Gould called, as I handed him my slip of paper, half-wishing that I'd altered it to read, "the Amazing...", "the Incredible...", or simply "sansharma.com". Careful not to trip, I walked slowly across the stage towards a flamboyantly dressed Pro-Chancellor and bent down to shake his hand. "Congratulations," he said. "Thank you," I returned, ready to clutch my gown and take flight. But he wouldn't let go. His chalky, white hand clasped mine and - I gasped - he went on. "What will you do now?" Well, I was actually planning on sitting down and watching the rest of the show, but I could hardly say that. "Um, a masters...probably." "Ah!" he exclaimed, perhaps more excited at the prospect than I was. "Here? At Lancaster?" "Er, no...I don't think so," I replied, not meaning to sound so condescending to the man handing me my degree. But then he wasn't. He was just shaking my hand, and as he released his grip I took one look at the crowd of proud parents and investors, and around for a scroll, a book token – something in return for my hard graft. Nothing. "Good luck," he added, before I left the stage, thinking that an actual certificate might be more attractive to employers.

The Untouchables

There are few stories more inspirational than that of Monica & Gabriela Irimia and their ascent from obscurity in Transylvania, Romania to superstardom in the testing pop charts and unusually tough music industries of the UK, Germany and Japan. In 2002, now known as the Cheeky Girls, they broke into the charts of those countries with their debut single "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)" and today, almost two years later, they reached another highpoint, performing at a Twins and Triplets Festival at the Telford Town Park.

Although currently without a record label, the Romanian rump ravers were not without fans this afternoon as they performed a revue of their greatest hits. That's three songs: "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)", "Take Your Shoes off" and "Hooray, Hooray (It’s A Cheeky Holiday)". Not willing to pay the £10 admission charge or to pose as triplets to enable free entry, John, Pete and I snuck through the surprisingly slack security to enjoy an afternoon of 'live' music.

Although not persuaded to take off my shoes I was nevertheless impressed with their showmanship, if a little disappointed that – despite the invite – I was unable to touch their bums. Better luck next time, eh?

Three Days, Two boys, No Girls

My high school buddy, Pete and I have been hitting up the Midlands like the Hilton sisters do Manhattan. He, having returned from a year in Portugal, and I, from the similarly exotic Lancaster University (and once upon a time, California), have alternated days in each others company in an implicit programme of support.

On Saturday we met in the park where a very young boy, clearly having just grasped English, observed with some confusion that we were "two boys, no girls". Unperturbed by the juvenile naysayer we staged a gatecrash of the school governors' ball in an attempt to remedy the noted circumstance. But without suitable attire and not a quart of booze we instead and rather feebly snuck behind some trees and listened to the band.

Monday we ventured further and to the England's second city and home to its most peculiar accent, Birmingham. It is also a hotbed, we have decided, of hot totty. (And that readers, I assure you, is my first and last use of the word.) We fished sushi from a conveyer belt and established a music club whose members, currently Pete and I, buy and burn CDs for each other. First to the flames were The Killers and The Walkmen with their stellar albums, Hot Fuss and Bows + Arrows.

Wednesday, and we extended our party to three boys (still no girls) with the induction of (ooh ah) John McGrath, a current Lancaster student and recent alumnus of the University of North Carolina. With him we saw Shrek 2 and, like two ogres and a donkey, looked out at a summer together in this swamp of a town, dreaming of a land Far-Far Away where we might live Happily Ever-After.

An English July

"We ought to get you out of those wet clothes," the cliché said, before peeling off my jeans, jacket and shirt – soaked not in the sunshine of summer but the torrential downpour of an English July. And glad I am too, to be in my pyjamas and out of the flooded Weston Park stately home where, peering at my watch, Jools Holland and his Rhythm & Blues Orchestra are probably still performing.

Unperturbed by the sort of apocalyptic weather akin to the Old Testament (or the more recent smash, The Day After Tomorrow), Jools Holland waited out the driving rain, lightning and an actual tornado, before playing to a Staffordshire crowd perhaps more prepared for a plague of locusts than a lively revue of Rhythm & Blues. I wondered if the audience of middle-class white folk would otherwise listen to R&B had the tickets not been so overpriced and Holland's ensemble billed as a band rather than an "orchestra". I wanted somehow to transplant them to Beale Street, Memphis and see how they enjoyed themselves at a bar with W.C. Handy.

Tonight though, the largely inanimate crowd (save for the occasional twitch) were having a grand time, constructing elaborate dining tables complete with candelabra and quiche and all to some of the finest background music money could buy. It was an evening of triumph over adversity and a shining example of the British innate ability to make the most of a bad situation. In a country where tornadoes can occur in July it's a very good, if essential trait to have.

Rock the Temple

You know you've made it when you're recognised at the temple. True story: Today was the birthday of a multi-limbed Hindu deity, and in Birmingham the believers were out in full force to celebrate. It is true that there ain't no party like a Hindu party, and of course, sansharma.com was there to testify.

Once there I found it odd that so many "Aunties" (as is the blanket term for older female Indians) were paying me the sort of attention usually reserved for elephant-headed idols and monkey-tailed Gods, when one turned to me and whispered, "We’ve seen your web site." Even more strange, I thought, since the site is unknown to the general temple going public. "I didn’t know if your parents knew," she added cautiously. Knew what, I wandered. My experiments with the Hindu diet? The dabbling in horseplay? My penchant for non-Punjabi women? (All of which are recklessly documented on the site.)

She declined to elaborate and returned to the festivities, leaving me to wonder how I would cope with my new-found fame, or rather infamy. Maybe I ought to get a disguise...elephant head?

Oasis live at Glastonbury! (On BBC 2)

Not quite the same...although we're only ten minutes into their set and I've already seen three pairs of tits in the crowd (and that's not including the two on stage). Still, I'm looking forward to the V Festival in August, the Pixies and their triumphant and profitable return. Greatest Hits CD anyone? Oooh, Kings of Leon are on next. Goodnight.

River Man

Totally feeling Nick Drake tonight.

Get Rich or Claim Benefit

"I'm a little worried about my future," started a pint-size Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. "I just want it to be..." And so, taller but no more assured I embark on my career, whatever that may be, with those very same words. Hopefully, like Hoffman in the Mike Nichols classic, I can look forward to a summer of casual sex with a friend of my parents'. On second thought however that's not quite as appealing as it sounds. But then neither is the job hunt that awaits me. It's a very dull and uneventful safari, looking out for a vacancy amongst the tall blades of grass, and waiting to take my best shot.

What I'm looking for however will need to provide beyond the next Student Loan instalment purely because there won’t be one. For the first time in my life school's out forever, and my next step might be on the career ladder to money, a mortgage and a Mondeo. Before I submit to suburbia and visit the local Ford dealership however I want to think about my options. Pursuing a masters and the semi-independence of University life sounds infinitely more attractive than living at home with my parents, the Martians.

I need to think of something, and fast. I'm on a train, quite literally, to a sort of Friends Reunited weekend in Edinburgh, where the question, "what are you going to do now?", will be raised as often as glasses, I imagine. "Off to Mars," I’ll say. "On a NASA scholarship." And for those similarly undecided, one word: "Plastics."

iPod...therefore I am

Most of my friends are indeed small and white, but very few are as attractive as my most recent and least sensible online purchase, the iPod - Apple's super-sexy digital music player, capable of storing 5000 songs whilst weighing less than two CDs and maintaining a sort of smug, minimalist cool. Still, nobody is more smug than its owner, who today - he admits - sported its exclusive white earphones with several test outfits, coming to the conclusion that the iPod looks best against a black shirt [model's own].

During my 'test walk' onto campus, my iPod's first time, I picked up a copy of Rolling Stone magazine to read that I am not alone in my revelry of the little white device. "From the moment I saw it, I was stunned," says Moby in the cover story, '50 Moments That Changed the History of Rock & Roll.' The story continues, "By the end of 2003, the iPod has become a cultural phenomenon. Close to 3 million of the devices have now been sold, and they’re expected to soon outsell portable CD players... 'I never used to see people walking around listening to music on the streets,' said Moby. 'Now everywhere I go, I see the iPod’s white headphones.'" Everywhere he goes? Obviously not a well travelled man is that Moby. At a street value of £259 it would take a lot of rich kids or, in my case, those with overdraft and abandon, to pack the streets with the sound of digital music.

On my return and with my newly aquired membership I logged on to the iPodLounge web site, only to feel pride like a lump of sick in my throat at the really sad user submitted photos of "iPods Around the World". I swallowed, and determined not to be the kind of person who photographs themselves with digital music players, promptly replaced those uncomfortable, bass-light white earphones for the black Sony ones I've used for years. Realising that nothing quite replaces the interactivity of human relationships I called my friend, Rachel, for a game of racquetball. She's small and white too, but unlike the iPod she listens, and is less likely to inspire the cult-like worship of Geekdom and its disco king, Moby. No offence, Rachel.

Poet Tree: 'Anniversary' & 'The Wedding Planner'

With the news that the bank has extended my overdraft ("to help meet with the demands of being a graduate"), I went online and made one final stupid purchase, a very demanding 20 GB MP3 player by the name of iPod. More on that soon once it arrives, and I become far more attractive to the potential mugger. Meanwhile, I was preparing my computer for its arrival, you know, giving my desktop a Macover, clearing some space, re-organising files, etc., when I found some poetry that I had written for an English class at UC Davis and had completely forgotten about. The class was ENL166: Love and Contemporary American Poetry, was as awful as that sounds and taught by a blubbering old lady who consistently closed her show in tears.

In a more composed moment she assigned us the task of writing our own 'love poetry', some of which I nervously include here, as a first stab at verse. The first is about the three year anniversary of my relationship with Beth, my girlfriend at the time, who incidentally broke up with me not long after I wrote this, and hopefully not as a result! I'm under no impression that this is actually any good but I thought that, at least the sentiment, makes for more cultured blog filler.

Anniversary

There is a good foot between us¹ and an hour and a half.² Then of course, the leagues above me that you are. People look at you as we walk past: Are they together?

We walk together in this new place, your hand in mine, the bag on my shoulders and the weight of the world lifted. I admire your skin, as always.

Supple, delicate, kind! Your fingers would slide between mine and clasp at my palm! But now they clutch the handset

and finger the cord. We laugh, we cry we argue but in the pauses the silence is dark. I strain to see the alabaster skin that coats your hands like the low afternoon sun.

You step down onto the platform, a bag in your grip, smiling. The journey was long but comfortable: Three years and an hour and a half. You put your hand back in mine.

The pauses glow in the afternoon sun and we walk together as people look on and wonder. I hold on to your hand as we walk, and admire your skin, afraid to let go as always.

¹A reference to our difference in height. ²At the time Beth was living in Berkeley while I was living in Davis, an hour and a half away.

This next poem might make a bit more sense if you're familiar with the Indian wedding process. But then I don't think that's supposed to make any sense!

The Wedding Planner

A white horse, of course. And a fifteen piece
Brass band playing The Beatles.
Naturally, the best man should wear
A white suit and sit behind
The groom veiled in strands of gold.
It would be nice to have those
Indoor fireworks – white lights – maybe
Chris De Burgh’s, ‘Lady In Red’.
Cups of tea in China cups should
Await the guests. Don’t forget to
Have a Mercedes ready for
The bride, who by the way
Should be Brahmin/Hindu/Punjabi.¹

¹Caste/Religion/Origin

Burn It: 'Songs to Wake Up to'

It seems logical really, to follow on from the first in the Burn It series, 'Songs to Fall Asleep to', with this, a compilation designed to lure you out the right side of your bed, or if Dylan would have his way (see below), your window. Besides, the help of Dylan et al is much appreciated on a morning like this, grey with cloud and lined with the damp Tarmac of a good night's rain. If the day follows like this playlist however, it will be a good one. And by track 8 you're going to get lucky. Albeit with James Brown. ;-)

Good Morning: Songs to Wake Up to (Total Time: 1:15:50)

1. 'April Come She Will' - Simon and Garfunkel What better way to start the day than with Paul Simon twiddling away on his guitar on this, one of my favourite Simon and Garfunkel songs, and a memorable moment from the film, The Graduate. The economy of the lyric and melody evoke the changing seasons and a young Dustin Hoffman, alternating between hotel room rendezvous avec Madame Robinson and lazy days around the pool. Inspiring.
2. 'Sunrise' - Norah Jones Not my favourite Norah Jones moment, but nevertheless it here begins a cycle of songs to welcome in the sun and forcefully control the weather. I would also like to draw attention to its awful, awful video, which can be seen here.
3. 'Summer Sun' - Koop You could always flatter the sun into coming out.
4. 'Don't Rain On My Parade' - Bobby Darin "Hey world, here I am...", Darin sings and with gusto attempts to ward off adverse weather conditions. If you're having a parade Darin's delivery and the punchy big band sound will ensure that it will not be rained on. And that's a promise.
5. 'Laissons Entrer le Soleil' - Julien Clerc Mildly annoying French pop song introduced to me by an American ex-girlfriend who at the time was living in France and getting into the worst European music. Some things I don't miss ;-) Nevertheless, the refrain, "let the sunshine in", might do the trick or at least get you out of bed, if only to turn it off.
6. 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life' - Stevie Wonder That's more like it. Classic Stevie Wonder, before he totally replaced live sound for synthesizers and sincerity for sentimental drivel, like 'I Just Called to Say I Love You'. Why he did that I may never know. He plays every instrument on this track from the amazing Talking Book album and sounds fantastic.
7. 'Good Morning Baby' - Bic Runga and Dan Wilson The cute New Zealand singer and the slightly less attractive Dan Wilson of Semisonic would make average looking kids, but here a pleasant track for the American Pie Soundtrack. And a great start to the upcoming trio of songs for people not alone in their beds this morning.
8. '(Get Up I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine' - James Brown Because I love the use of brackets in song titles, and because the thought of a screamingly horny James Brown would make anyone leap out of bed, 'Sex Machine' is included here as an archetypically unbridled expression of masculinity with an signature funky hook from the Godfather himself. "Get on up..."
9. 'Instant Pleasure' - Rufus Wainwright Probably an even better way to start the day than a Simon and Garfunkel folk meander, Rufus sings, "I don't want somebody to love me/Just give me sex whenever I want it..." For all the, er, morning people out there.
10. 'Red Morning Light' - Kings of Leon I loved the beardy Southern rockers' 2003 debut, Youth and Young Manhood, and 'Red Morning Light' is a as dirty and deep fried as anything else on the album, full of greasy licks and howling vocals: "You always like it undercover/Tucked in between your dirty shee-e-eets."
11. 'The Ascent of Stan' - Ben Folds Included a) because of the pretty melody and piano part, and b) because it sounds like 'The Ascent of San', as I rise from my bed.
12. 'Take Me Out' - Franz Ferdinand NME darlings Franz Ferdinand are actually very good and perhaps the best band ever named after a World War sparking Archduke.
13. 'Orpheus' - Ash On the sunnier side of metal, Ash deliver another radio-ready rocker with a sentiment I think we can all relate to: "I need sunshine in the morning..." We all do mate. It's an essential source of Vitamin D.
14. 'Can You Please Crawl Out of Your Window?' - Bob Dylan One of my favourite songs, the rare 'Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?' is incredibly strange lyrically, but for 1965 Dylan, it was really just another day at the office. Sure, it seems to make no sense, but it is convincing all the same. Not that I'm heading for the window or anything.
15. 'Here Comes Your Man' - Pixies One of the more accessible Pixies tracks, 'Here Comes Your Man' is a nigh-perfect three-and-a-half minute pop song and a great theme for the early riser.
16. 'Bright Side of the Road' - Van Morrison With a punchy brass section, a charming melody and an all-girl backing, you can't help but smile listening to this from Van the Man's 1979 release, Into the Music.
17. 'Mrs Potter's Lullaby' - Counting Crows Despite its title and the opening line, "Well I woke up in mid-afternoon cause that's when it all hurts the most/I dream I never know anyone at the party and I'm always the host", this winding narrative makes for great morning listening, uncharacteristically optimistic and lyrically a strong point for the Crows, who incidentally got their break filling in for an absent Van Morrison at his Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction in 1994. That influence shows here, and apparently the song was written after singer Adam Duritz saw Jennifer Aniston on Friends. She heard it and they dated. Must start writing songs...
18. 'The Boy With the Thorn In His Side' - The Smiths Since we're on about meanings, this one, I suspect is about a love that dare not speak its name. That is, gay love. It's also a remarkably upbeat Smiths song with characteristically quirky lyrics: "...behind the hatred there lies/A murderous desire for love."
19. 'Just When You're Thinking Things Are Over' - The Charlatans Lovely, uplifting and highly decorative. This will get you on your feet.
20. 'So Alive' - Ryan Adams Alt-Country bad boy goes electric and does a very good Bono impression on this track from Rock N Roll, Adams' mockingly good response to the label execs who deemed his latest offering Love Is Hell "too dark" for release. The latter record would only surface, the execs bargained, if Adams delivered a big, shiny new rock and roll record. And true to its promise, Rock N Roll, is certainly that, or rather a reflection of the singer's impeccable music collection, with titles such as 'This Is It', reworking the Strokes' 'Is This It', 'The Drugs Not Working', the Verve's 'The Drugs Don't Work,' and 'She's Lost Total Control', a play on Joy Division's 'She's Lost Control.' For something original, albeit a bit depressing, check out Love Is Hell. For our purposes, 'So Alive' rocks.

Bird dropping hits singing Lauper in mouth

Sorry, it was a story too funny not to copy and paste up. PopDirt.com's headline was Bird Tries To Shut Cyndi Lauper Up In Boston, which is marginally better.

Associated Press
May. 25, 2004 07:57 AM

BOSTON - Cyndi Lauper has gone above and beyond what should be expected from a performer.

The Boston Herald reports Lauper was performing at a concert sponsored by a radio station WXKS when a bird relieved itself over her head.

It's bad enough that it hit Lauper. It's even worse knowing Lauper had her mouth open for a high note and the bird made a one-in-a-million shot.

Lauper delicately turned away from the crowd and wiped her tongue on her shirt - and finished the set.

http://www.azcentral.com/offbeat/articles/0525Lauper-ON.html

Picture This: 'Patrick Hagopian'

Having literally just - minutes ago - posed for this wonderful photograph with my professor, Dr Patrick Hagopian, in which we appear either to be holding hands or dancing, but nevertheless having some kind of fun beyond the standard teacher/student relationship, I have decided to establish a new regular feature to my blog. 'Picture This', like 'Burn It', invites you - the reader - to share with me some of my favourite sensory pleasures.

Tonight's offering was taken at the tail end of an American Studies social event, where Dr Hagopian was presented with a gift from his students. I think his appreciation, his sheer joy, comes through in these pictures. Feel free to append this photo with a caption of your choosing. There will be prizes for the best.