Cupcake Answers Readers' Questions

First of all, I’d like to thank the multitudes of you who have been emailing me privately with comments and questions. I certainly understand the hesitation in commenting publicly on a blog. The knowledge that one’s position might someday be used as in evidence in a court case, or read by one’s mother (however charming the mother in question may be, as mine is---Hi, Mom!)-- Well, those possibilities are undeniably problematic. But as readers continue to write me to pose questions, and as many of the questions are similar, I have decided to devote a posting of Cupcake Central to the most popular themes of inquiry.

Cupcake, what would you do if you won a million dollars in the lottery?

Funny you should ask, dear reader, as only today I was wondering about that myself. The first thing I’d do is put a back porch on my house in Vermont because there’s a spot that’s just screaming for a back porch to be put on. I’d donate to animal rescue groups and the DNP, and then I’d put the rest into a trust and start a theatre and comedy club to develop new plays, mostly funny new plays because audiences are so often made to suffer. (How is it that what is considered "Art" is so rarely funny? Comedy had it's own Muse, one reflects...) Oh, and at some point I’d buy something that certifiably and unarguably belonged to Napoleon, ideally something that he’d held in his hand a lot, like a watch. Once, on eBay, I bid on some buttons from his coat. I stopped at $800, which seemed a lot, and though I lost them to a higher bidder, I wish I’d gone further. To be able to touch something that he held, something that he’d absently fingered while reviewing documents, looking over maps, pressing his hand inside his jacket in his idiosyncratic gesture that Davide made famous—That would be worth a lot to me. More than $800, unarguably.

What about Napoleon appeals to you so much? Wasn’t he a war-monger and the George W. Bush of his day?

Reader, for shame! I will not grace that irreverent question with an answer. But you can look for an upcoming post on The Little General on October 21, which will be the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. Perhaps then, when you hear my take on him, you will take back your inelegant and inaccurate (to a point) dispersions.


What is your favorite dessert food?

While the title of this blog would imply otherwise, my favorite dessert food is chocolate pudding. But I don’t eat it because I sugar makes me crazy (wired, then narcoleptic and depressed) and artificial sweeteners just don’t do pudding right. It’s a consistency thing.

And perhaps this says something about me. Like many other things I value tremendously, I enjoy it without the need to consume it. To think about something wonderful can be every bit as intense as having it. Sometimes, sadly, more so. I have often reflected that nothing is more satisfying than the first drag of a cigarette. And nothing so disappointing as the second.


You’re so pretty, funny, sweet and wise. How is it that you are single?

Thank you, generous reader, for your kind words. I am especially flattered that you have guessed my pulchritude through my words, since shy as I am, I have not posted photographs of myself. I keep daring myself to, but haven’t yet worked up the necessary gumption. Perhaps this goes with the hesitation in commenting on other people’s blogs, as mentioned above—and why I neglected my own blog for a couple of months. And other stupid choices I have made along the way, the examples of which might be legion, should I parade them in formation. I dare not begin to count.
This fear of declaring myself, of daring to take a solid and public stand, I think—--that’s what’s held me back from many things, including marriage. (I was engaged once. Suddenly, I felt an irresistable need to bolt to Australia for a few months. Somehow I forgot to keep in touch with my fiancé while I was gone. Oddly, he took umbrage at this omission and…that was that. As I recall, I experienced only jet lag and relief.)

I sometimes puzzle over my solitary status, usually on nights when all my friends are nestled in domestic situations leaving me, the cheese, to stand alone. ("To sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander the boulevards restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing…")


My Singledom is very much of my own making. And yet it is a mystery even to me. Should you turn upside down the Eight-Ball of my solitude, I’m guessing some of the enigmatic answers that would float to top would be: “Too Many Canines”; “Inappropriate, (sometimes bizarre) Choices in Men”; “Gathering No Moss”; “Commitmentphobia”; “Groucho Marx Syndrome” (as in I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would have me as a member)—and inevitably, “Ask Again.”


What gives you faith in mankind?

I often think that I don’t have faith in mankind. And then I remember September 11, standing on 6th Avenue watching the buildings burn. I remember the river of dust-covered people moving uptown that afternoon—the acrid smell in the air, the shell-shocked sense of doom. And that those of us who were not covered with dust, those of us who watched helplessly from a quarter mile away – kept offering help -- water, the use of a phone, a place to sit, a pair of better shoes for walking than the super-high heeled pumps the barefoot, crying woman was carrying—When I think of that, of how the instinctive response to that horror was the impulse to help--- then I think maybe the world isn’t as messed up as I sometimes believe.


Niven, Connory, Lazenby, Moore, Dalton, or Brosnin?



Dalton.

I fell for him when he played Heathcliff in a weird 70’s version of Wuthering Heights. When I saw it on TV, I was enthralled. For the rest of that summer, when a thunderstorm erupted, I’d force my reluctant cousin John to play a game called “Heathcliff” in which I'd wrap an army blanket around myself in what I hoped looked like a cloak, chasing him through the rain while calling after him, with great longing and desperation, “Heathcliff! Come back!!!” John hated this game and complains about it to this day. He is soon to move to Jersey City and will be surprised to discover that I plan to resurrect it. (Just kidding, JR.) We were, I think, 11 at the time. Looking back, I impressed that I could pretend with sufficient diligence to turn our suburban cul-de-sac into the Yorkshire Moors.
So, yes, Dalton. Absolutely.

Why are we here? Is man the measure of all things? What is our relationship with God?

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. I’m a playwright, not a philosopher. If you really wish me to answer those questions, it will take me a year to compose the drama, and 90 minutes of your time in a darkened theatre to watch, followed by two more hours arguing with your friends over dinner about what the hell I meant.


So that's it for now...sorry if I didn't get to your question. And keep those emails and comments coming. I love hearing from you.