The Land of the Misplaced Apostrophe's

It gets better, according to Glee.

2012-02-21T23:45:00.000-07:00

This is the quintessential 2012 phenomenon: a blog post about Glee addressing the issue of bullying. And you were there.

As an full-on Dave Karofsky fan, I was kinda bummed to see Max Adler be shuffled off the Glee set last season. His quick cameo about four episodes ago, wherein he showed up at a gay bar dressed like his corny good ol' boy self, suddenly enlightened and happy because he now had an identity: he was a cub! The scene was glib and tied the loose ends way too neatly. I considered it a failed opportunity.

Then last week hit, and we saw Karofsky suddenly re-entering the picture as an actual gorilla (because subtlety never struck the Glee writers' minds), all ga-ga over Kurt. And again, I rolled my eyes. Not believable in the slightest. Doesn't matter that if I were in Kurt's place, I'd be awfully torn between the big lug and Mr. Johnny Angel Blaine. But my stomach tightened painfully when one of Karofsky's football teammates saw the two of 'em sitting at a restaurant together on VD, and called him out on it. It was all over the blogs the next day. A set up for a gay teen bullying suicide episode! And the commentariat rose up as one: the writers had better not fuck it up. Expectations were low, since Glee has been so wan this season.

Well, I'm thrilled to say that the "teen suicide episode" didn't suck. This episode was epic in its ambition. In its worst, most heavy-handed moments, Glee hits after-school-special territory. Not to say that this episode wasn't heavy-handed. But let's call a spade a spade: we are in the midst of a culture war, replete with taking sides, full-fledged attacks, and numerous injuries and casualties. Tonight, Glee fired a powerful salvo against those who maim and kill with hatred, intolerance, and homophobia. Since people who take this stance often don't think highly of Hollywood, the actual effects of this episode remain to be seen. But that it was shown on prime-time TV is astounding, and its message will resonate. (Keep in mind...it's only been 15 years since Ellen came out on her show, the first character to do so, and ABC had to place a parental warning at the beginning of that episode. Now, out gay characters are commonplace, even boring sometimes.)

So let's start off with what went right. This is Glee, so of course, you're gonna have the soundtrack to life's big moments. Including killing yourself, apparently. As tacky as that sounds, this moment was hit out of the park. Karofsky's fright upon seeing "FAG" spray-painted in pink on his football locker while his teammates looked on in derision was palpable, and played perfectly. The scene lasted long enough to make you squirm...and just sit in that for what felt like an eternity. Darren Criss singing his lungs out on "Cough Syrup" was a beautiful white boy teen angst moment courtesy of Coldplay channeled through Young the Giant. It provided a great foil to Karofsky's tears and anguish on seeing his Facebook page hijacked by classmates outing him and telling him to go back into the closet (which he ultimately did...to step on a chair and stick his neck through a noose made from his belt).

It was also really tough to see that Karofsky came up against rejection everywhere he went. His friends (assumedly all jocks) were his worst enemies. (Not much help that he was at a new school and probably had few friends there.) His best friend told him he never wanted to talk to him again. Kurt rejected him out of hand, then refused to answer his phone calls. And when he tried to hit on a guy during this episode, he was flatly dismissed because he happened to be overweight, and was even told to just stay in the closet. High school football linemen in Lima, Ohio can't run to their parents asking for help with this dilemma, because they will be told they have a disease that hopefully can be cured.

On the other hand, there's always the Hollywood risk that issues will be resolved in one neat, 30-minute episode, and life will go on. Here, everyone felt remorse, shock, all the appropriate emotions. Kurt went to the hospital to atone for the sin of turning Karofsky down when he asked him out, then not returning his (nine!) phone calls. But in the eyes of Glee, apparently all it takes to make yourself feel better after a suicide attempt is to click your heels three times, say "there's no place like the future," and imagine yourself there. Cue holding hands, smiling through tears, and pledges to be friends, and...scene. (I can't be totally cynical about it though...that scene did effectively wring a few tears from me. And yes, people in that scenario need all the help and hope they can get. But it should be a bit more realistic. Oh...except this is Glee. GAAAH!)

The "peanut butter" scene was also too trite and set the stage for the aforementioned tidy ending. Schu's admittance that he had also tried to commit suicide did have some merit: yeah, it was simply for being caught cheating on a test, but that was his weak point; everybody has one, and they should be respected.

And the music during sectionals? Not much really hit me, aside from the madrigal singers...I'm such a sucker for polyphony. Seriously. Also, I gotta give it up to Amber Riley for some great acting during "Stronger." I'm biased, but bitch can do no wrong in my eyes.

So...on to the next hot topic of 2012: teenage texting while driving! Again, wielded with the grace of an elephant attempting pliés.

In A Daydream - The Freddy Jones Band

2012-02-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

While in college in the mid '90s, I was ensconced in my world of alternative rock, just as the term was losing its grip on being meaningful. Nirvana had changed the landscape for better and worse, effectively imploding pop culture and forcing it to start all over again. R.E.M. decided to become ironic noise rockers with varying degrees of success. Pearl Jam was defiantly following its muse down the rabbit path, willingly putting out music that would be sure not to achieve the commercial highs of its debut album. Live and Counting Crows had their moments, but man, talk about your flashes in the pan. And Stone Temple Pilots...well, the less said, the better. It was a rough time for popular music. And it mirrored my life at the time.

My younger brother, on the other hand, was enjoying his last few years with friends at home before shipping off to Boston for college. And his music reflected that as well. For him, the Dave Matthews Band was the big influence, along with all the music it spawned...Tom Cochrane, the Samples, Jackopierce, and a few years down the line, Hooter and the Blowtwads (uh...or something like that). With just a few exceptions, it all seemed so facile, shallow, and meaningless to me. Then again, I was striving for Significance, learning about the Nazi resistance and reading Nietzsche. While my brother was thriving and laying the groundwork for future success, I was busy killing myself with nihilistic existentialism. At the end of my first year of college, I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to learn or experience. Fat lot of good that did me.

So when I went away to Russia a few years later for 6 months, my brother took it upon himself to make me a tape of some of his favorite music. I graciously accepted it, pretty sure I wouldn't listen to it much. And I really didn't. But one song stuck out, far above all others in that genre I'd knocked for years. It was mellow. It was simple. And it was utterly transcendent.

When I first heard "In A Daydream," I was immediately taken back to the powdery ski slopes of the back bowls of Vail (yeah, I was a rich kid). I imagined myself coasting along the outer boundaries of Sun Down Bowl, turning effortlessly down acres of champagne powder while sparkling diamond crystals floated down beneath an opalescent sky with the Mount of the Holy Cross in the distance. I heard and felt the wind whooshing past and the smooth hiss of the snow beneath my skis. And I immediately exulted in the type of joy that makes your skin nearly burst. It was the most delirious, fantastic freedom I'd known.

Years later, I was fighting the powers that be in chiropractic school, utterly hating life. At some point, I remembered this song and how it had made me feel, so I downloaded it and enjoyed a few minutes of respite from hell every now and again. It never failed to help me feel better.

Leaving Chicago for good was an experience I'll never forget. The night before I left, I had suddenly and unwittingly alienated about the last friend I had there. The next morning, while moving things out of the house, a wicker basket viciously slashed my hand, as if to remind me one last time how unwelcome I was in Chicago. But on that plane, ascending to 35,000 feet, I put this song on, and knew that I was coming home, for good. It felt, again, like sweet freedom. But the most amusing part of this happened an hour after I landed. My mom picked me up from the airport, and we immediately went to lunch at a fancy country club. And here, I heard a Muzak rendition of "In A Daydream" come quietly over the speakers. And I felt that I was finally home...both the home that I had with my man, and the home I had with my family. It was a Tuesday morning, and the lyrics could not have been more apropos: "Tuesday morning never looked so good."

Years later, I recognize how important it is to surround yourself with things that support you, that encourage you toward success, that help make life better. I've long since given up trying to delve into the deepest thoughts of the greatest thinkers, thinking that will somehow make me a better person. My experience taught me that it could be painful and tremendously destructive. I've decided that there are too many destructive forces in the world already; if life is to be fully lived, it's to be enjoyed as much as possible. And "In A Daydream" helped lay the groundwork for this view.

(Oh, and because life has a sense of humor, I should mention that the Freddy Jones Band is from Chicago.)

Simply: why Bally('s) sucks.

2012-02-04T15:49:00.000-07:00

So, today: woke up to the 36th hour of nonstop snow falling in our fair city, slightly hoping I would hear my patients had cancelled before I left for my 25-mile commute. No such luck...but they did cancel before I got to work. So I turned around 5 miles shy, headed back north, and decided to stop in for a workout before breakfast. New place: the Bally Sport gym that just opened a month ago and replaced the more industrial-looking, smaller place a mile away. I walked through it a week ago just for fun, and it looked pretty damned nice. The music that was pumping was awesome too. I felt it could turn my mind away from ending my membership there and going to 24 Hour instead.

Today ended up being the big challenge for this place. The carpeted locker room area and wood-paneled lockers with new-fangled combo locks certainly pushed the upscale-posh-country club feel. Great new equipment, too. And I figured that since I had forgotten my headphones, I could depend on that awesome music to pull me through. But instead of adrenaline-pumping sounds, I got to get my hard-core, testosterone-fueled workout on with the help of those bone-crushing stalwarts, Coldplay, Train, and Selena.

Folks, this ain't the first time I've had to suffer the slings and arrows of shitty music while trying to unleash my inner monster. Daniel Powter (he of American Idol-closing-song "Bad Day" infamy) has shared in this. As have numerous guys bopping along to a beat that had made its way through at least one focus group. (One clueless dolt sang about how sad he was at losing his girlfriend with the feeling usually reserved for reading a grocery list out loud. Man card revoked.) You all know the type. This music well may have been why iPods were invented. And it is like kryptonite to my soul. So bad is this music, that I have threatened to leave Bally many times before. (Crappy, CRAPPY name, by the way...it begs to be called "Bally's," which isn't right.)

Compounding today's journey into workout hell were the television monitors around the weight area. People, I don't CARE that it's Saturday morning. I don't WANT to watch the Flintstones while doing squats! Nor do I want to watch the newest incarnation of Barney (the purple dinosaur, not Rubble), nor Spongebob Squarepants. I'm gonna take a guess and say that if you're a dad at a gym on a Saturday morning, this is precisely the drool-inspiring pap you wanted to get away from in the first place. And if you're not, you still want to avoid this stuff because...well, if you wanted to watch it, there's a couch a lot closer than this place, right? (For the record, the sole sports event on any television monitor was a basketball game on the exact opposite end of the gym, by the cardio equipment.)

Why, people of Bally? Why the everlovin' fuck? Are you trying to coddle the resolutionists until they finally give up of their own accord? Or are you trying to actively drive people out of the gym on their own? It's certainly working well for me. I swear, as God is my witness, I shall never enter another awkwardly-named Bally again without a set of trusty headphones again. Makes me actually want to build a home gym where I can blast as much Helmet, Black Sabbath, and Metallica as I want. And the TV monitor (if there is one) will show World's Strongest Man competitions. I'm not much for cardio machines or the circuit machines, for which some of that music seems ideal. Give me free weights, plain and simple. I became one of those meathead guys this past year who derives great joy from picking up heavy things and putting them back down again, cheerfully grunting all the while. Wish I'd discovered this years ago. But oh well, better late than never.

Bally, you are on notice. Again. GRR...

Jerell actually admitted to eating bacon the morning of the runway show!

2012-01-19T22:15:00.000-07:00

What is it about Project Runway that brings out the blogging in me? Oh yeah...it's the amethysts. Fun stuff. So, without further ado...the requisite solipsistic bullet points.

Miss Piggy, I admit, made for perhaps the guiltiest pleasure in PR history. There's something really subversive and wacky and fun about designing a dress for Miss Piggy. And the designers were appropriately excited. But what? Miss Piggy is sexy? A "fashionista for the 21st century"? Keep in mind these are comments about a piece of felt made in the shape of a pig. One of the most fabulous pieces of felt ever, to be sure, but enthusiasm for such things should have logical limits.
In more pointed news, yes, Gordana deserved to go, but sweet Jesus on shortbread, I would love to see some individualized challenges out there. For example: Mila? Make something - ANYTHING - without using black or white or any approximation thereof. Oh, and no geometric prints. April? Ditto, except for the geometric print prohibition; she doesn't need that. I'd love to see their heads spin once they are thrown into a room full of paisley pastels or tie-dye fabric. Everyone else on PR has at least some range.
I actually watch Suburgatory. There. I said it. What did I just say about guilty pleasures? Yeah. With major emphasis on "guilty," and a very faint, almost whispered "pleasure." It's TV that shouldn't exist. It panders and assumes that because I grew up in suburbia and resented it, I would swallow it whole and not see through its vapid nature. It makes Beavis and Butthead look downright incisive (which, well...). It's what I watch on Thursday nights after PR to pass time, apparently. And that's about all I can say about it. (But it's still kinda fun, right? God, I'm pathetic.)
Epigenetics. Simultaneously one of the most fascinating branches of science, and without question, the most frightening branch of science, bar none. In a nutshell: the food you eat and the way you live does not just influence your life, but the lives of generations (yes, plural) ahead of you. Scarily solid science backs this claim up. Needless to say, we're not exactly living the best and healthiest lives possible, and the general attitude of the masses is not enough to overcome the monolithic status quo on this one. Not to sound all conspiracy-theory or Malthusian about it, but if our species is doomed, or at least the good ol' US of A, this is one of the gunbarrels we're staring down. As Paul Simon said (yeah, yeah I know...): "maybe not in my lifetime, but in yours, I feel sure."
So...now that you're all happy and peppy and bursting with optimism, raspberry vodka, cake vodka and Sprite does kinda work. Not the taste sensation that's sweeping the nation, but it's not bad.

And Rosie O'Donnell: "Google Santorum. That's what I think of him."

2012-01-12T22:14:00.002-07:00

Random thoughts on tonight's trash telly gaystravaganza:

Want to get nice and REEEEALLY happy? Want your mouth to be minty fresh? Need to clean your palate for the one you love after a garlic and onion extravaganza? The stinger is your BFF. Mix 3 shots brandy and 1 shot peppermint schnapps (or white creme de menthe, or my personal favorite, Rumpleminze). Put in a shaker with crushed ice (not cubed...you need the ice to melt so it's diluted at least a bit.) Pour in a cocktail glass. Instant sophistication. Mr. Man thinks it's too Scope-like, but he hasn't had a vodka stinger like I have. Verdict is out on its hangover-producing properties, but I don't think it's a good one to have on a school night. (Except for that it goes so well with Project Runway All-Stars...see below.) Awfully strong. I'll let y'all know tomorrow.
If any of you ever see me wearing a snuggie or a Forever Lazy (is there a difference?), or if you see me ever, EVER watching Jersey Shore or Keeping Up With the Kardashians of my own volition, do not construe this as a cry for help. By that time, I'm too far gone. Euthanasia may be the only option. (I say this as lightly as possible...no, I'm not about taking my life. But this may be the ultimate sign that I have completely, utterly given up.)
Pajama Jeans: what say ye, oh fair women of the world? It seems just a half-step removed from the aforementioned sartorial disasters, but I sense a big draw to form-fitting jeans that don't feel like sausage casing, and I can respect that.
Andy Cohen: holy yums! I do like my men big and beefy, but he's just all kinds of adorable. He seems like the perfect pocket-gay, even if he's not quite that petite. But OMG (and you would expect this): boy is he the name-dropper! Do not join his Twitter feed unless you want to be overwhelmed with twats from all the hottest parties with all the hottest names every 15 seconds. I just couldn't keep up.
Project Runway All-Stars: Project Runway has not been this good in SEASONS. As a Denverite, I'm still firmly on Team Mondo (go Mexi-pixie!), but it has to be said: Rami and Austin are gonna bring it. And right there are the three best reasons to watch. Mondo just comes up with the wildest ideas and somehow pins them down to reality, and the results are stunning. (And I'm just talking about his clothes...not the ones he designs for his models! Just kidding...but the boy sure has a fun, unique personal style that I hope never goes away.) Austin is one of the most beautifully and unapologetically androgynous creatures ever to grace this plane, and his designs are equally gorgeous. And Rami's draping skills are unparalleled, but he has now shown two stunning looks that have no hint of draping, showing some impressive breadth that, let's be honest, was just waiting to bubble to the surface. Also? HOT beyond all hotness. His glasses just multiply it ten times. Again, I like my menzes bigger and beefier, but he'll do just fine, thank you very much. He's got the muscles, the smile, the stubble, the dark eyes, the olive skin...yeah...nomnomnom.
Oh, and can I say how very, very, VERY grateful I am that Absolutely Fabulous is back? Eddy and Pats will NEVER go out of style. You know a British comedy is good when it doesn't even feel like a British comedy, i.e., you can understand the humor perfectly, even if the accents can be a bit tough to decipher sometimes. The humor hasn't aged one bit, even if some of the actors have. Bless.

Besides...tangerine tango? How cool a color name is that?

2012-01-04T11:45:00.002-07:00

So how did 2011 strike y'all? One of my better years, I must say. Kinda up there with 1987, 1989, the second half of 1994, 2001, yeah, as far as full years go, I have few complaints. Knowing full well that good times cycle with bad, I still hope to keep 2012 as good as 2011, if not better.

Here's a cool link I used to take control of 2011 like I had never done before. Sure, it took a while to do, but it's fun to look back on the previous year, see what went well, what didn't go so well, and plan great things for the future. I even did two of these plans...one for personal life, and one for my business. Yeah, if you wanted to be boring about it, it's basically New Years resolutions on steroids...but it works.

I'm in the midst of doing these for 2012 right now. Even making spreadsheets with the official 2012 Pantone Color of the Year (and if that isn't absurdity and inanity taken to its extreme, I don't know what is): tangerine tango.

Noodle, noodle, noodle...

"Tim Tebow is not a religious symbol."

2011-12-05T16:35:00.001-07:00

...so don't write about him using religious imagery, alright?

Good sweet godforsaken Jeebus in a frozen pillbox, people. I am SICK of it.

I've already written about the phenomenon that is Tim Tebow before. I was repulsed before, and I am utterly sick to my stomach now. Because I live in Denver, I get to read headlines once a week about this boy. Sometimes more, because, well, now his very un-Christian way of showing his Christianity at the end of games or in the end zone has become something of a national phenomenon, no longer simply a local thang. But everyone loves him. A friend of mine (whom, yes, I have also written about before) actually has Tebow's name written backwards as his middle name on Facebook, so deep does his enthusiasm go. And I throw up in my mouth a little whenever I see it.

People, this is making me about as nauseated as it did to have to handle eight years of having to utter the phrase "President Bush." And that, my fellow Americans, was well-nigh intolerable. (Ohio, I hold you and your, uh, questionable voting/counting methods in '04 responsible. I don't care you voted Obama in '08...we didn't need you after all the votes were tallied. Send my regards to Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Virginia for that one.)

Now I've heard it all. Tebow is...oh, God, I can barely bring myself to type it. Suffice it to say that I got this from Fox Sports. (See? Why am I even reading this tripe? Fox Sports? That should be kryptonite to me. But there it was, and my addled mind chose to read the article. Effective headline, though: "Tebow might be a true revelation"; it sickened me and made me want to read more.)

Okay: here's the quote.

"Tebow’s birth — a product of his mother’s faith and refusal to listen to doctors advising her to abort — might very well have been a religious miracle."

Great. The last thing we need is for our ailing football franchise - because that's really the most important thing here, to support our local sports team, right? - is for the latest golden boy to be branded a religious miracle because his parents did not abort. Regarding this situation, Tebow is the product of some dedicated and stubborn parents who wanted to keep their child, damn what the doctors said. And that he turned out alright is certainly much to their credit. And from a Whitman/Emersonian standpoint, yes, life is a miraculous thing, no sarcasm intended. But c'mon, people. A religious miracle? That goes about 100 steps too far.

But that's not all. Let's go one sentence previous.

"He’s a shrine to the power of a strong, committed, passionate two-parent upbringing."

A shrine!? Someone stop me before I slap this sports columnist silly. The point here is that Tebow's success is because he had two parents (heterosexual, bien sûr). The comparison is to other QBs like Michael Vick (that paragon of perfection who should still be serving time, and someone whom I sincerely hope karma will address at some point). Apparently, Vick limped along in a single-parent home, and that's why he fails. Tebow was ~~lucky~~ (no, sorry, my fellow Christians. You're right. Luck doesn't exist. It's blessed) blessed enough to have two parents. But seriously? That's the reason for his success? Dude, let me take you aside. (I reserve my "Honey, honey, honey, what's all this?" Karen Walker routine for my fellow gay boys. "Dude" makes more sense here.) There are millions upon millions of people here who were fortunate enough to grow up in two-parent families. I'm sure lots of quarterbacks, too. And I'd imagine that the vast majority of those QBs aren't bringing football teams back from ignominy. The vast majority of children raised by two parents aren't making headlines because of their successes. So don't ascribe Tebow's success to that. And STOP with the religious imagery, and do NOT call him a shrine or a miracle. Because everytime you do that, even God spits up in His mouth a little.

"I'm not scared. I'm outta here."

2011-11-02T13:40:00.000-06:00

(Part 3 in a series in honor of R.E.M.; here's part 1 and part 2.)

Up - Thanks to generally bad reviews (and to Monster, still), I don't have this one. And it sounds like I made the right choice. R.E.M. could write a whole album's worth of decent mid-tempo ballads in their sleep. But Bill Berry's understandable bowing-out crippled these guys. Still, they trudged on. And what do you do when you lack a drummer? You make ballads, of course! Well, it sounds like the post-Berry incarnation struggled at it. I will say that the few downloads I've made - the pensive "At My Most Beautiful" and the ethereal and pleasant "Daysleeper" - were not wastes of money. These are truly pretty, pretty songs. But the negative rumblings from around will probably keep me from purchasing Up as a whole.

Reveal - And the next album I never got, even though I did download some songs from it. Experimentation, pop-heavy and luscious. But it sounds like it wasn't entirely successful. These three guys faithfully channel the Beach Boys on "Beat a Drum" and "Beachball," both great songs. "Imitation of Life" hearkens back to Out of Time in its production and Fables of the Reconstruction in that the first four chords are an exact replica of "Driver 8." Apparently, Peter Buck didn't realize until a fan pointed it out to him; this might imply why the song doesn't stick after a few listens. I dunno. You'll have to look elsewhere for incisive critique on this album.

Around the Sun - The worst that things ever got. While I was in a Virgin Megastore lo these years ago, I listened to about 30 seconds of each of these songs, and stuck around "The Outsiders" long enough to hear Q-Tip do a terribly awkward and slow rap. And I was done. It sounded competent. It sounded tasteful. It sounded textureless. It sounded like Muzak. And it was awful...well, actually, it was worse than awful. It was mediocre. Do I need to say I never got this album either?

Accelerate - These guys needed to clear the air, and they knew it. They knew their career depended on it. So they went to work. And good goddamn, talk about your phoenician rebirth. An album ago, R.E.M. was content to merely exist in a corner, polite and unobtrusive. Now, they demand to be heard. Back are the buzzsaw guitars, the stadium-ready noise, the agitprop, and loads of great, great music. Michael Stipe yowls "wow!" on each of the first three songs - the best opening trio since at least Automatic for the People - and ends the whole album with a triumphant "yeaaah!" The whole album bristles with energy; even the one-and-a-half ballads are restless and uneasy, demanding and hoping for personal and political change. Far and away, this is R.E.M.'s best balls-to-the-wall rock album (Monster could only dream of being like this), and possibly their best latter-day album. Well, with the possible exception of...

Collapse Into Now - Their swan song. R.E.M. touches on all of the musical territory they've established since leaving I.R.S. Records - and does it masterfully, beautifully, with elegance, and perhaps just a bit of dust on the proceedings. The hard rock of Monster and Accelerate, the meandering, urgent buzz of New Adventures in Hi-Fi, the balladry of Automatic for the People, Up and Around the Sun, and the ethereal pop beauty of Out of Time and Reveal all have their moments here. (Heck, they even bring in Stipe's muse Patti Smith on his stream of consciousness ode "Blue.") And like many other R.E.M. albums, this one may not be easy to get into, but it slowly grows on you until it's warm as a comforter. Apparently, after the disaster of Around the Sun, these guys wanted to prove that they still could put out good music. With the last two albums, done and done.

Thanks, guys. It's been a great time.

"This decision is mine. I have lived a full life. And these are the eyes that I want you to remember."

2011-10-16T12:41:00.000-06:00

(Part 2 in a series of 3 in honor of R.E.M. and a reaction to their decision to break up; here's part 1.)

Green - So R.E.M. jumps to the majors. And the handwringing amongst the loyal begins. Verdict: not really warranted. Green is not a sellout. It does announce that these boys are going for as big and stadium-ready a sound as possible, but they're staying true to their instincts; it's easy to hear Green as an extension of Document, albeit somewhat more personal and musically more varied. Unfortunately, the album is a bit scattershot. I can't really explain "Stand," and "I Remember California" and "The Wrong Child" are dreadful. Still, songs like the oblique and kinetic "Pop Song 89," the delicate "Hairshirt," and the melancholy Big Statement "World Leader Pretend" almost redeem it.

Out of Time - Turns out that R.E.M. maybe just had to get their water legs after suddenly being thrust into the spotlight. Or maybe they just needed a long break after their exhausting world tour. But whatever the explanation, they sound like a band rejuvenated here, and maybe this is officially where the second phase of their career should actually begin. This one has received perhaps the most mixed reviews of all their albums. I think it depends on whether you like the perfect production over most of the music here, or whether it's too cloying. Me? I think it's absolutely fantastic. Beautiful, sweet pop gem after pop gem. Of course, "Losing My Religion" is the crown jewel, but there really isn't a bad moment here...not even Stipe's bucolic improvisation "Country Feedback," which I personally don't care for much. Let's make it easy and say what other songs aren't exactly my favorites: "Low," "Shiny Happy People" (duh), and "Half A World Away." Everything else is golden.

Automatic for the People - Basically the darker twin of Out of Time. Not as consistent, it has higher highs and lower lows. But it's still as lovely, pop-heavy, and accessible...and produced as impeccably as Out of Time. Just don't expect a shiny happy time. Yet when the orchestral sadness hits, expect that...uh..."Sweetness Follows." On the best songs, the lyrics will bring you down, then in the next breath, they'll convince you not to slash your wrists after all. Or they'll have you pining for younger days, or steeling yourself for an uncertain future. Really, really worthy. (Solipsistic note: I devoted nearly half the songs to my favorite mix tape in high school (hey kids! remember those?), and probably should have included a few more for good measure. I also transcribed the gorgeous "Nightswimming" to sheet music (full score as well as individual parts), then gave it to some orchestra friends to perform with me for our high school spring concert.)

Monster - Bill Berry apparently threatened to quit the band if they didn't put out an honest-to-Pete rock record after two unabashed pop albums. And here's the mess they came up with. To its credit, this album is certainly a bold maneuver; Monster laid the blueprint for many worthy songs afterward, and without it, latter-day R.E.M. would have been awfully monochromatic. But the album itself is just not that great. "What's the Frequency Kenneth?" boasts the least-inspired reverse guitar solo I've ever heard. And Michael Stipe sounds just wimpy and whiny on "Tongue" and "Strange Currencies." The rest of it just sounds like the band is trying too hard to rock, and if ever there was a doubt that R.E.M.'s strengths lie in midtempo ballads, Monster ended the argument once and for all. The only really worthy moments are "Crush With Eyeliner," a glamalicious number that just struts with attitude, and the first ten seconds of "Let Me In," which wash over you like a huge, cathartic, sonic tidal wave. It's a shame the rest of the song merely sounds masturbatory. (Actually, now that I hear it again, the urgent pulse behind "Bang and Blame" is pretty compelling, too.)

New Adventures in Hi-Fi - The first R.E.M. album (aside from Chronic Town and Dead Letter Office) I never got, thanks to Monster scaring me away. Until just a few weeks ago, at least. And my first thought on listening to this for the first time: "Oh, so this is what they were wanting to accomplish with Monster." But whereas that album had more than a few fun moments, New Adventures is the first in their catalog that actually feels like a bit of drudgery to sit through; not coincidentally, it's also their longest album. Bristling with electricity and dryness and movement, it's the sound of a band in the midst of crisis and transition, fighting with buzzsaw guitars and feedback to stay afloat against the powers that be. They do Neil Young and Crazy Horse proud in "Low Desert," tastefully cannibalize themselves with "Bittersweet Me," and somehow make an otherwise annoying siren seem essential to the urgent "Leave." Good road trip music, which makes sense, since it was more or less recorded on tour and has a similar feel to Jackson Browne's Running on Empty.

National Coming Out Day, 2011

2011-10-11T10:22:00.000-06:00

A short list of things (trivial and otherwise) I might have done in years past, were I not so infused with internalized homophobia:

Participated in a play or two in high school without fear of being termed a theater fag.
Hit the gym specifically to become more muscle-bound (since not only was I afraid of my attraction to bigger guys, I was afraid of what it might mean if I actively pursued becoming one of them myself).
And hence...been healthier and more self-confident.
Listened to the Smiths and Erasure more.
Felt more comfortable not entering into dead-end relationships with girls.
Broken fewer hearts.
Kissed a boy.
Been more open with a certain summer camp counselor - while I was a summer camp counselor, too! Nothing illegal here!

Then again, I might have also:

been beaten up more
been shunned by my family, possibly disowned
had very few people to relate to
had very few teachers I could rely on for help
been summarily fired for being more open with that summer camp counselor
been banned from Boy Scouts (oh...which might have rendered the summer camp scene moot)

But internalized homophobia did not keep me from:

looking at guys unendingly
having a crush on a high school girlfriend's linebacker brother (yes, you read right)
flaming out occasionally
listening to the Nylons and the occasional Broadway soundtrack
getting excited in 9th grade while reading Plato and discovering, quite graphically, that Socrates was at least bi, if not entirely homosexual. (the Charmides dialogue, if you are curious)

It's so weird, though, growing up with messages from friends, family, and society at large that do not jibe with what you're experiencing. Lots of grown-ups at the time told me that they would never want to live through being a teenager again, because my God all those hormones! For me, it wasn't so much about the uncontrollable sex urges, because in my case, they had to be controllable. Yet at the same time, so many of my friends were going girl crazy, and I thought I just had more restraint than they did. For me, the trials and travails of hormones manifested in some pretty profound anguish, and not in sex. Years later, I'm starting to see what the hormonal rush really was about, and I do feel like I lost out on a lot.

The act of coming out was the most important thing I ever accomplished. As I alluded to in a post a year ago, when I was finally out (halfway through college), it didn't matter that I had just failed a quiz, or that it was cold and rainy, or that I had just missed lunch and my stomach was rumbling, or whatever was conspiring to ruin my day. For the first time since those damned hormones began coursing through my body half a lifetime ago, I finally felt solid in who I was. I had a solid foundation upon which I could rest my identity. It was the most profoundly comforting feeling I'd ever had. And it was not sinful.

So what's done is done. I'm out, so are millions more of my brothers and sisters, and honestly, the world is becoming a better place because of it. People are pausing more when they say anti-gay things or voting against so-called "gay rights," knowing that oh yeah, there is that couple down the road from us, and they are actually kinda nice, and don't they seem "normal"? (Whatever that is.) And some parents are undoubtedly pausing as well, because, well, what if my son/daughter isn't straight? So they are having a harder time justifying those homophobic words and deeds. And it all started in huge part over 42 years ago because a handful of queer boys, butch lesbians, and drag queens revolted when police tried to arrest them and throw them in jail for the crime of peacefully gathering together and having a drink at a bar.

"Whistle as the wind blows..."

2011-09-29T08:30:00.000-06:00

R.I.P. R.E.M. One of two or three of the most formative bands in my life, and although I was sorely bummed to hear that they had decided to call it a day (to quote directly), after some thought, I was fine with it. Although they haven't put out dross lately, neither has their recent output been staggering.

Now, simply because I can, and I'm that kind of blogger (witness, oh, just about everything I've written here), here's my short takes on R.E.M.'s output, and what you should listen to at least once before you write it off.

Chronic Town - Never heard all the way through. But those short 30-second teasers sure sound fun. I may pick it up, just for the fun of it now. It certainly sounds like nothing else out there at the time...even amongst their fellow Athens comrades, R.E.M. sounds original, mature yet green behind the ears.

Murmur - I'm one of maybe two or three R.E.M. fans in the world who just doesn't get this album. "Perfect Circle" is, indeed, perfect and complete in its incompleteness...spidery and delicate, mysterious and soothing all at the same time. Bill Berry once said that to him, R.E.M. never felt like a band until they performed this song for the first time; for him, this is where it all coalesced. And I dig "Laughing," too...I mean, how many singers, no matter how literate, would ever write a song about Laocoon? But otherwise, I just don't get the adulation this album garners. "Talk About The Passion" is wimpy and boring. "Radio Free Europe" is also yawn-worthy. (The Hibtone recording is more kinetic and scads better, but still not awesome.) And don't get me started on "Moral Kiosk."Just like Big Star's Third/Sister Lovers, this one is easier to appreciate than love. And yes, it still sounds like nothing out there, existing in its own unverse. Murmurs and arpeggios never sounded so cryptic. But that's no reason to think it's the best album of 1983, or one of the top 10 of the 1980s (both inexplicably averred by Rolling Stone).

Reckoning - Son of Murmur. But perhaps a bit better. Sue me for being obvious, but "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville" and "So. Central Rain (I'm Sorry)" were two of my favorites from the early years. And "Harborcoat" was more exciting than anything on Murmur. (It did take like three decades to finally comprehend why "Seven Chinese Brothers" was so great, though, when I heard the Decemberists nearly duplicate it exactly with "Calamity Song.") The tone was still the same, though, and most of the songs remained inscrutable.

Fables of the Reconstruction - Very transitional. All of a sudden, the production became a lot cleaner, even as Michael Stipe's mumbles remained. But the excitement on Reckoning was suddenly suppressed and subdued and uncomfortable. I mean, any album that leads off with such a tense and unsettling song as "Feeling Gravitys Pull" can't be happy (even if that song is pretty excellent). And even the easier-going songs like "Green Grow the Rushes" have an undercurrent of unease. Best song: "Wendell Gee," a beautiful tearjerker about a misfit who somehow dies by entering a tree whose excavated middle he replaced with chicken wire. When the wire turned into lizard skin, the tree collapsed on him. Seriously. It doesn't get much weirder than that.

Lifes Rich Pageant - R.E.M. clears its throat, throws off all the murk, the overgrown kudzu, the mumbling, and the pristine mystery, and dives headlong into full-blown rock and roll. Thank GOD. This is one of their best two or three albums, and the best of their early years. Optimistic, passionate (not just "talking about the passion," but finally living fully in it), idealistic, loud, and messy, here is where I'd recommend anyone who hasn't gotten into early R.E.M. should start. Even if it's not particularly representative of anything earlier than that, it's better. Best songs: "Begin the Begin," "These Days," "Fall On Me," "Cuyahoga," "I Believe," "What If We Give It Away?", "Swan Swan H," "Superman."

Document - And R.E.M. remains bad-ass. Even clearer enunciation and production, more approachable songs, and the boldest, most political record yet. It's a shame that the second side kinda sucks (exceptions: "The One I Love," [yes, really], and the frenetic "Lightnin' Hopkins."), but the first side is damn near unimpeachable.

Eponymous and Dead Letter Office - The end of part 1 of R.E.M.'s career (basically, their contract with IRS Records). Eponymous is the greatest hits (with the aforementioned Hibtone recording of "Radio Free Europe," a cleaned-up "(Don't Go Back To) Rockville," and a cheesy version of "Finest Worksong" with unwelcome brass. Dead Letter Office is R.E.M. clearing out its back pages, B-sides, outtakes, and random paraphernalia. Instructive and often amusing, particularly when the band drunkenly slurs "King of the Road" or performs "Voice of Harold," which is really Michael Stipe singing the liner notes to some gospel perfomance, set to "Seven Chinese Brothers." Also discloses some of R.E.M.'s influences (Aerosmith, Velvet Underground). Even more worthy now that Chronic Town has been appended to it.

More to come later...

At least no one spilled a drink on me, right?

2011-09-22T23:46:00.003-06:00

How to feel like Martha Dumptruck:

Go out on the town to do karaoke.
Forget to tell friends you're going out.
Find out that the bar you went to suddenly has a vastly different crowd.
Don't drink. (Alcohol, that is.)
Pick one of the most middle-of-the-road, boring songs you can think of to sing.
Sing it...ah, okay-like. Not fabulous.
Get tired of the spot.
Leave and go to another karaoke spot...this one at a watering hole with an established clientele.
Order more non-alcoholic drinks, and get the eye (not the good kind) from the bartender.
Feel sheepish, and order what you think is the smallest dessert on the menu to ease your qualms.
Freak out when you get a behemoth of a dessert. (Yes, you do have to eat it all, says your inner Jewish mom.)
Sing "Miss Chatelaine" by k.d. lang. In her register.
Once you're done, have the drag queen who is hosting ask you where you tucked your balls. (Let me reiterate: a drag queen is asking you this.)
Walk off and finish eating your huge slice of cake.
Notice that only one other person there seems to be eating, and it's rabbit food.
Did I mention no friends around? At all.

At least I can take solace in the fact that eventually, Martha ended up spending a fun evening of movies and popcorn with Veronica. Self-effacement, sweetie darlings. I do it all for you.

I'm torn.

2011-09-22T08:51:00.003-06:00

I'm allergic to sensitive chick music. (Is that harsh? Oh well.) Now, by this, I don't mean goddesses like Aretha. Nor powerhouses like PJ Harvey. Not even the gentler, and yes, sensitive but still kick-ass singer-songwriters like Carole King or Joni Mitchell. All of them RULE.

Heck, I could make this easy: Lilith Fair. Pretty much says it all, right? There is a LOT to be said about empowering women, and I'm all for it. But Lilith Fair was pretty soporific, no? One of the many reasons why the '90s sucked. The following are kryptonite to me (with a few scattered song exceptions here and there):

Natalie Imbruglia
Lisa Loeb
Sarah McLachlan
Paula Cole
Jewel
Sixpence None the Richer
The Cranberries

The Cardigans (yeah, even though they were college radio darlings)
Dido
Natalie Merchant (on her own...10,000 Maniacs had some good stuff)
Tori Amos

So there's the soundtrack to my personal hell. Here are the few exceptions from off the top of my head:

The Sundays - Reading, Writing and Arithmetic was a pretty good album. It made for a smooth, inoffensive transition to me to liking the Smiths (which I swore I would not, could not, should not like or even expose myself to back in high school, because only faggots and weirdos listened to the Smiths, right? UGGGH...). "Here's Where The Story Ends" was captivating; Harriet Wheeler's voice mesmerized me, the video was super cool, and I could gaze at David Gavurin for hours - and did. In private, of course. And yes, I know that these guys were largely responsible for the list I made above. But as Nirvana (and the Pixies before them) proved, the fount can be awesome, while everything else that follows sucks.

Frente! - I never got into their version of "Bizarre Love Triangle." But that's not a prerequisite to liking them, right? Marvin the Album was super fun. "Accidently Kelly Street" was a cute and bouncy kidlike ditty. Best line, from "Cuscutlan": "And I don't wanna die/I'm as innocent as anybody/I don't even know how to spell 'revolutionary'/Jesus in the sky." A long-lost...well, maybe not classic, but it sure is worthy. Those guys deserved a larger audience.

Get It While You Can - Janis Joplin

2011-09-16T21:47:00.005-06:00

Ten years ago today, I had just finished the most amazing weekend with a guy who had suddenly entered my life just three weeks prior. He was wonderful, sweet, caring, generous, funny, a blast to be around, and what was really cool, he really really liked me! We met at a bar - pretty standard. But when we met, we both were celebrating being single, free, and fabulous!

Um. Oops. What they say about love hitting exactly when you're not looking for it? Yeah. Exactly.

Some drunk guy, whom we've never seen since, introduced us on the dance floor. He seemed happy to dance with anyone and everyone, and while he was elsewhere, I grabbed Mr. Man and started chatting with him off the dance floor. And a half hour later, I had a date set with him two days later!

Mr. Man (who was then working for the airlines) told me he was going to see Madonna in L.A. on September 14th, and wanted to offer me a second ticket. Oh...and then he offered to fly up to Portland (where I was living at the time), pick me up, and fly me down to L.A. first class for the weekend! Yeah. He had me.

Until September 11th hit. So much for flying. So instead, still determined to see Madonna and each other, we drove - him from Denver, me from Portland. And we met at the Ramada in West Hollywood and spent one fantastic weekend together. Madonna wasn't half bad, either...especially when she stopped in the middle of the concert to affirm our decision to go ahead with our lives and have fun, damn what those terrorists may have tried to do.

As I left, I had a whirlwind of emotions and uncertainty hit me. He's in Denver! You're in Portland! Long distance relationships don't last! You're in the middle of med school! Med school relationships don't last! What are you thinking? But finally, I just thought, "You know what? Fuck you. I've got a really good feeling about this guy, and I want to pursue things with him."

And right there, on I-5 headed north, came this amazing song on the radio by Our Lady of Southern Comfort. Needless to say, it fully affirmed exactly what I was thinking. And ten years later, Mr. Man and I are still going strong. God bless Janis Joplin. RIP.

On The Occasion Of A Most Impressive Breakfast.

2011-08-19T14:39:00.005-06:00

Slow day down here at work. Colleagues have all left for the day, and my stomach commenced to grumbling for lunch. So I traipsed on down to Toast, one of my favorite comfort food joints in town. There's many blessings to working in the downtown district of one of the best towns/suburbs in Denver, and this here is one of 'em.

I walked in for lunch today, well after 1:00 (my yoozh nowadays), to a nearly-empty diner. The manager, a gruff bull with shaved head and a perpetual don't-fuck-with-me expression, still managed a natural smile and seated me. Then came my server...a beefy twentysomething guy with patchy three-day stubble and an adorable smile. Swoon. Friendly as anything, too.

In comes the requisite freshly squeezed orange juice before breakfast, in the classic textured plastic glass you associate with diners and cafeterias. I've had other great things there...the gargantuan sausage and gravy hotcakes, the chorizo breakfast burrito, the Nutella French toast...all fantastic. But today, I was basic...just chose the sausage and eggs with potatoes and a side of biscuits and gravy.

Well. Good GOD. I'm raving about a simple breakfast like this? That should tell you something.

Le Peep calls their eggs "pampered." Um, no. I don't want to be reminded of diapers while I'm eating eggs. Besides, that word (along with "gosh") just weirds me out like the word "moist" inexplicably weirds out the rest of the world. The eggs at Toast are the exact opposite of "pampered." (And for me to rave about eggs, that says a lot. Aside from scrambled and in omelettes, and with plenty of accoutrements, I won't even touch eggs.) In the back, they must have been whipped to within an inch of vaporization, and cooked with a cappuccino steamer. Not a single mucus-like strand of egg white anywhere. Perfectly fluffy...and with none of that icky, uh, liquid that you sometimes see on other egg dishes. Oh, and they say two eggs, but it looked like they served me four. Maybe they like me. I'm not quite a regular there, but I do go in a few times a month.

The sausage links were firm, thick, spicy, and luscious. I will avoid any double entendres from here on through.

Potatoes...pretty well cooked, sliced, and seasoned. No complaints here...as far as adding substance to a meal goes, these were pretty great.

But OHMYGOD...the biscuits and gravy. I have no idea why I have been here for over a year and have only today tried them. Best sausage gravy EVER. It tasted like it was made with black-label bacon drippings. Damn near perfection.

When I was done paying, the server handed me the receipt and gave me a wink. And again, set my heart all aflutter. Then flashed a peace sign when I left. As I walked out, I just thought...man...let me give him a few beers, and he might be up for some, uh, M2M fun!

I stopped back at the office right after...uh...breakfast? lunch? to pound this out. You're welcome. Now go patronize Toast when you're hungry for some excellent breakfast like a good kid. And tell 'em I sent ya when you're done.

The estimated blackboard pauses opposite his thesis.

2011-07-19T17:29:00.008-06:00

Prefab Sprout - Jordan: The Comeback: Painful. Critics swoon over Prefab Sprout. And I demand that they justify themselves. This overlong album (by about 17 songs) grates horrendously. Twee and kaleidoscopic. It's so bad, I'm reduced to poor commentary with incomplete sentences made only of adjectives. The only song I really think is worthwhile is "Scarlet Nights," a touching yet rollicking farewell to a dying relative. (And if you can't tolerate even that, you're completely forgiven.)

The Iron Lady: I was too young to really get Margaret Thatcher. To me, Maggie was just a stern British headmistress on the news who was the last person you wanted as a babysitter. Oh, and the punks hated her. Normally, a movie about her would barely raise an eyebrow. But this has me itching to see more. And Meryl Streep could clinch an Oscar - or at least a nomination - on the basis of this trailer alone. Hell, she's not even onscreen for half her part!

Uh...um...this. This actually outdoes People of Wal-Mart. I mean, I kind of slightly enjoy POWM once every few years. But then I get to thinking...hmm. These people are genetically related to me. I could, theoretically, breed with one of these people and we could turn out a specimen that is not incompatible with life. All the DNA fits, we share the same number of chromosomes...it could happen. (Though, of course, the same could be said about a chihuahua and a Great Dane. Theoretically.) And it's at that point that I'm out.
See, with these two glass-eyed walking poster children for Ugly Anorexics of America, I don't even enjoy looking at them. There's no schadenfreude, no amusing rolling of the eyes. It's just disgust that paparazzi have deemed these genetic freaks somehow worthy of tabloids. I mean, they don't do anything interesting. They don't even move. They just stand, wear expensive, ugly...uh...clothes, and look homely. But combine this phenomenon with some of the most nauseating conspicuous consumption and saddest use for reptiles, and we have reached the level of obscenity. If this is what these twins are good for, then put 'em out of my misery. I have a garden to cultivate. Ship 'em off to Siberia. Or a cat farm. (I'm convinced they're gonna be the subject of the next Grey Gardens.)

"With thy blast of thunder/O tear me asunder!"

2011-07-13T20:34:00.008-06:00

Storms. Good god, I love 'em. Too often here in Denver, we get the huge clouds, the darkened skies, the thunder, a fair bit of wind, some lightning, and some big raindrops. But all too often, they just tease us with what sounds like it could be some rip-roarin' fun, then move on with nothing to show for it except further evidence that we're just an inch of rain or so from living in a full-on desert.
For some reason, while Texas and so much of the south is reeling from a gawdawful drought, we've been getting rain, rain, rain, for once. And last night was the wildest of it all. I wandered outside to skies that were lit up almost constantly from lightning behind the most frightening, forbidding squall line I've ever seen. (Cue "Ride of the Valkyries" or "Night on Bald Mountain.") Seriously, the sky was dark midnight purplish-blue, and the thunder, for quite a while, was ominously silent. Only the wind played with the trees, freakishly, tickling the leaves in preparation for an onslaught.
And man, did it come. I haven't seen a storm pummel the earth like this one did in years. Some people get frightened to death of thunderstorms. I have to be a part of it. I run outside and stand, flee, exult in the middle of it all, and am whipped around by the wind, stung by the rain, blinded by the lightning, and riven by the thunder deep in my bones. And I run back inside, my body flooded with water, shivering, and screaming, "I'M ALIIIVE!!!" It's my soul's all-too-swift escape from a beige, cubicled world.

Storms like that inspire a myriad of Facebook posts, of course. Unfortunately, I notice how many people were amazed by all the "lightening." And I die a little inside.

(Added: Not five minutes after I posted this, did another wild storm hit town. You know exactly what I did. Only this time, I had to wait until the hail passed. My revelries do know bounds, after all.)

"The illegal cigarette waits for the formal airport."

2011-07-10T20:37:00.000-06:00

Ambien - No long and heavily-researched rant here. But I've heard so many horror stories about this drug. One friend took Ambien before taking a flight to South America. The next thing he knew, he was being yanked off the plane forcibly by security, and was nearly arrested until he mentioned that he had taken Ambien. Other people have engaged in simple sleep-eating and sleep-driving, sleep-crashing, and coming to hours later with no recollection of said stupid actions. I'm sure you can Google to your heart's content and find more stories.

If the FDA had a conscience of any kind, it would yank this drug posthaste. As it is, I have NO trust and NO respect for the FDA. And for those people who claim that Ambien does such good for you? Go and get your insomnia treated safely and effectively...and ideally, naturally. You do not suffer from an Ambien deficiency. Figure out what's wrong. Then treat it appropriately.

Counting change the right way - I'm so gonna date myself for this...at least, I'm sure I will. But go purchase something for $17.36. Plunk down a yuppie food stamp. And the cashier will undoubtedly (assuming there's not an automatic change dispenser) look at the $2.64 change display, and haul out two ones, two quarters, a dime, and four pennies. In that order. It's the tiniest of pet peeves. But. It ain't right.

The next person I see saying "thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, fifty, seventy-five, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty" while counting out the change in that order and handing it to me in that order, I will automatically tell to keep the change for themselves. Just because that's how it should be done, yo.

Transmissions from suburbia

2011-06-27T09:33:00.009-06:00

Things that are making this morning one of the coolest in memory:

Completed landscaping. When Mr. Man and I moved out to bum-fuck Kansas two years ago, we inherited a HUGE house as part of a short sale, and got the deal of the century. And although the house was far from being a money pit or "rustic," it did need some desperate TLC, particularly if two self-respecting guppies were gonna take up residence. New carpet, a new back patio, MAJOR work on the front lawn, a new tree to replace a dead one, new fences...you get the picture. This year, the Backyard of Killer Weeds has been magically transformed, by the power of expert landscapers, into the Stepford Backyard. Neat new lawn, a coupla mature trees and some tastefully placed shrubs (especially lilacs...Mr. Man loves lilacs), rocks bordering it all, three garden plots...it's magically suburbalicious. Looking forward to the 1st annual back patio party in a few months, once the sod is all set. Gonna be epic. I'll be sure to wear my seersucker pants and make fresh Cape Cods for everyone.

Bob Mould/Sugar. Unfortunately, not Hüsker Dü. That shit is INTENSE. Anyone who can sit through New Day Rising the whole way through is better than me. Zen Arcade, as good as it is, puts me in a warped and bitter mood, the likes of which I nowadays try to avoid. But once Bob left for poppier pastures, he appealed a bit more. I scored Copper Blue a few months ago, and I've been hearing it a little at a time. What I hear, I like. Fits the day, too. (I also feel I should be listening to XTC and Robyn Hitchcock to make the day complete.)

Cooler weather. I'm not afraid of blazing weather. I just like to contrast it occasionally. Today, hovering around 80 degrees feels blissful. Perfect blue sky, not a cloud. Brilliant sun. Feels like the type of day you run through a sprinkler, or go to the local waterpark.

Green/mint tea. Boy, I'm really scraping the bottom here. Made green tea this morning and added in some freshly cut mint that our neighbors brought over from their garden last night. Some is going into a pot for our future benefit (Mr. Man now craves mojitos), and some is going into my green tea.

That white peach I just ate.

"...much too sleepy and self-centered to ever hurt another person."

2011-06-11T07:34:00.002-06:00

I've enjoyed Tina Fey, sure. I won't claim outright crazy fandom...I've never watched an episode of 30 Rock, nor do I know much of her comic stylings beyond her spot-on Sarah Palin skits. But I do like what I've read from/about her thus far. She seems a good egg.

But THIS brought me to a whole new level. God bless Tina Fey. There's a special place in heaven for her.

2011 Scripps National Spelling Bee

2011-06-03T00:02:00.009-06:00

Now THAT is how a national bee should go! Easily the best bee I have ever seen - a far cry from last year's debacle (and for that matter, a far cry from the bees from the '80s and '90s). And I was lucky and blessed enough to see it in person. Man, was I blessed. Best seats in the ballroom, no less: front and center, right behind the judges!

Imagine hearing about a bee where the five top spellers ran through four consecutive rounds without missing a word. You'd think that maybe they all just lucked out on some easy words, right? Well, this year, this could not have been any further from the truth. Seriously, do any of these words strike you as easy? Uayeb. (No, that's not me writing backwards or in code. That's a real word. Mayan, even.) Zortzico. (From the Basque, which is universally acknowledged as the most difficult language.) Sarangousty. (Persian, this one.) Huipil. Puszta. Zwischenspiel. Abhinaya. Preux. (One of the most inscrutable words given; this one is roughly pronounced "pruh.") And all of them spelled correctly. That gives you an idea of the caliber of spellers that were up there. This was not a bee where luck came into play. It may have been the fairest bee I've yet seen. No speller breezed through on some word where others were pulverized by some skullbuster or other. These kids all went through a terrible crucible, and for four rounds, survived flawlessly. ("Easiest" words: solferino, pelerine, opodeldoc, capoeira, haori.)

As you know, Sukanya Roy won. I had the pleasure of meeting her and her parents tonight. She is but a wisp of a girl, shy and timid, but friendly and smiling, and when she speaks, it seems her voice trembles, regardless of whether it's on stage or with friends. But despite her appearance, I suspect that there's a very strong moral compass in her, along with a developing backbone. (She wants to dedicate her life to eradicating poverty worldwide.) Her parents were also very friendly and appreciative. And despite the fact that the title could have easily - and deservedly - gone to any of the top five finishers, Sukanya earned that title as well as anyone I have yet seen. (Here, runner-up and Canadian Laura Newcombe and third-place finisher Joanna Ye both deserve standing ovations for their efforts, poise, and intact senses of humor throughout the finals.)

And I am tickled to say it was the Denver representative, Dhivya Murugan, who captured the hearts of the audience during the finals. Seriously - cute as a button. She was the youngest finalist, a fifth-grader (!) and she soared through words like "helichrysum" and "crevecoeur," only to bow out with a smile on "ephelides," a word that Dr. Bailly defined simply as "freckles." She tied for sixth in the nation. And I got to meet her and her parents as well. Absolutely sweet and wonderful, all of 'em.

On the other side of the coin, the bee showed one of its cruelest sides for the very first time this year. Hanif Brown, Jr., the representative from the ever-competitive Jamaica, got the word "nataka," a style of drama prevalent in Indian theater. (I heard it, and thought that Dr. Bailly really should have pointed out a homonym with the clothing line Nautica.) Hanif, a deliberate speller, seemed even more deliberate than usual. After awhile, the head judge asked Hanif if he noticed the clock. He, uh, kinda acknowledged it.
But the time ran short, and he showed absolutely no sign of starting to spell. It felt like all the air was being sucked out of the ballroom. My jaw began to drop. Hanif was absolutely unresponsive! I saw the clock...0:03...0:02...0:01...The time ran out. And the judges gave what I felt was a good five second grace period.

DING!

But then, Hanif began to spell. After the fact. And he spelled the damned word right - ten seconds too late. And he was out. We were all in shock, and so sorry for Hanif. (It's kind of ironic, knowing that a fellow Jamaican speller probably instigated the time limit at nationals years ago with a notorious eight-minute stall before misspelling "aplustre.")

Interestingly, both this year's bee and last year's were pretty comparable in terms of the caliber of spellers. But 2010 was not only a premature bloodbath that led into one of the most controversial bees in history, it was not fun to watch, and a perfect example of how badly spelling bees can conform to a primetime format, replete with commercial breaks. (Example: forcing a prolonged commercial break between the penultimate word and the winning word is a travesty.) This year demonstrated the same difficulty with primetime, but for the opposite reason: two hours into the finals, there were still eight spellers onstage, and ESPN had not allotted more air time to the bee. (And this was after a semifinal that went 95 minutes longer than anticipated!) But whereas last year's bee felt like a desiccated bone in terms of palatability, this year's was a veritable feast of competition, and anyone who tuned in got to see the bee at its very best.

Other highlights:

Fifth-placer Dakota Jones's adorable, winning smile.
Fourth-placer Arvind Mahankali's uproarious response to receiving "Jugendstil": "You can steal?"
Mashad Arora's (seriously) movie star-caliber eyes. (But don't quote me. Quote Shonda!)
Prakash Mishra's modesty and - again - winning smile.
Surjo Bandyopadhyay's hilarious demeanor onstage. ("Fail," he blurted, after missing "nachschlag.")

"Don, just give him the damned word!"

2011-05-29T10:33:00.001-06:00

This undoubtedly qualifies as one of the most solipsistic blog posts EVER. But hey...it's now officially Bee Week 2011, so here's something for those of you into bee arcana.

The important words in my spelling career:

February - one of the first words I got in my first-ever spelling bee, when I was 8, at (of all places) a shopping mall. I got the word right, but was almost disqualified by the pronouncer for forgetting to capitalize the F. Fortunately, the judge ruled that it wasn't an issue.

population - My winning word that day. The bee bug bit, I got addicted to the feeling of winning, and thus began my obsession.

salve - The first word I ever really struggled with in a spelling bee, in 4th grade. It shot me through with terror. It obviously wasn't "save," but I couldn't figure it out. Through a murky vision, that "l" came to me, and I was, uh, salved.

cadre - The word I missed in that 4th grade bee, which meant I tied for 2nd place. Did it with a "k." Walked off stage with tears in my eyes, then was told to go back, just in case fate decided I had another shot at the top. No such luck. And man, when I walked back into my classroom, I hid my head in my arms and BAWLED. Quietly, of course, but man, I was useless for the rest of the day. Which, fortunately, was just another half hour.

ennui - A 4th grader getting this right on a written test at districts? I was excited, particularly when I overheard 8th graders asking each other what the hell that word was. It was a sign.

curliewurly - Hands down, the most fun word I've ever spelled onstage. I had made it past the written test and was on my way to 3rd place in districts. When this hummer came along, I just laughed and zoomed through it. It wasn't the word I got out on - actually, I don't remember what knocked me out. I was too happy to have made it so far, besting 7th and 8th graders along the way.

gynarchy - One of the 75 words I misspelled on the 2 hour, 100-word test at regionals in 4th grade. Naturally, that was the end of my career that year. That was one hellaciously brutal test. A few years later, the powers that be took pity on us kids and whittled it down to 50 words.

dewclaw - My winning word at the school bee in 5th grade.

onomatopoeia - HAAATE. The damned judges at districts remembered me from the previous year, and decided to hurl a curve ball at me in the very first round, hoping to knock me down. Mission, unfortunately, accomplished. What's worse, the second hardest word in that round was "bivouac." Everything else paled in comparison. But worst of all, once I stood up to get my word, there was a significant pause as the judges stopped, conferred with each other, and flipped through the word list to come up with this stinger. Just for me. Gee, thanks.

ratatouille - After an exponential leap in studying words, roots, and etymology in 6th grade, I won our district bee with what was then an impressive word with a wicked ending. Nowadays, it's just a Disney movie that kids are apt to recognize.

zoophilist - And that studying paid off: I made it to regionals, eked my way past the written test, and finally triumphed. A picture of brace-faced me pumping my fists and grimacing in what looked like more pain than happiness appeared on the cover of the Rocky Mountain News the next day. Didn't win me any dates...but it did get me to Washington that year.

shmnfkn - The very first word I heard given to me at Nationals that year.

shrunken - The first word I heard after I asked, scared out of my wits, for the pronouncer to repeat the word. I breathed a HUUUGE sigh of relief, rattled it off, and returned to my seat.

psittacine - The end of my 6th grade spelling career. I knew it was over when the pronouncer told me it was a homonym, then said "citizen." Had no clue whatsoever. But I was thrilled to have just made it that far. 41st in the nation ain't half bad, amirite?

cointise - My quasi-Waterloo at districts in 7th grade. Here I thought I knew the Words of the Champions back, forth, up, down, sideways, in photo negative, and every other which way. Heh. When the pronouncer gave me this one, my blood turned to ice, and I knew it was over. Well, relatively speaking. I had been ready to battle to the death with my archnemesis. Unfortunately, it was not to be. She got it right, then tiptoed through "concetto" for the win. RRRGH. I still made it to regionals, though.

incontrovertible - The first "out of the dictionary" word from regionals that year that I was given. Really controversial, since the pronouncer pulled an "onomatopoeia"-like trick on me, announcing that "this next word seems a bit too easy for you," and giving me this one instead. No worries. (The other one, which I don't remember, would have been just as fine. And yes, it was easier, but certainly within the realm of reason for that round.)

appellant - And off to Washington I went after this one. The pronouncer tried to do the exact same thing he did with "incontrovertible," but this time, virtually everyone yelled at the pronouncer and forced him to give me this word (and inspired the title of this post). Yeesh. Drama, drama, drama.

telencephalon - My swan song for 7th grade. I let nerves get to me - the kind that say, "Hey...you're taking a bit too long up here. Hurry it up, willya?" Shouldn't have listened. If I'd have given myself just 15 more seconds, I would have realized that this word denoting a tiny part of the brain contained the root enceph, meaning "brain." But fate told me to put an "a" where that second "e" belonged.

balmacaan - I wasn't given this word. It was given when there were only two spellers left onstage, in a nearly interminable endgame. Both missed it. But when I heard it, I went ballistic. I knew it! And once I heard them both misspell it, I knew that being up there among the top of the top was within reach. Maybe next year.

caoutchouc - Exact same scenario as "balmacaan." It just further reinforced the sense that I could make it as far as those top two had. Ironic, then, that for much of 8th grade, I felt that it was time to put the books up.

feral - Winning word from my 8th grade school bee. For a few interminable minutes, I could not for the life of me figure it out. I was top three, and had made the cutoff to regionals by that point, but damned if I wasn't gonna win! Finally it came to me. And on I went.

cotehardie - The first word in regionals that year that I had absolutely NO idea how to spell. NONE. By that point, the bee had been distilled into a battle between me and a classmate/friend of my archnemesis, who had fallen out earlier on "discigerous." My nerves were so shot by then, I actually unknowingly made the unforgivable mistake of spelling, starting over, then changing the letters. Certain death. Fortunately, the other speller also missed it. When we heard the correct spelling, we both looked at each other like "What in the WORLD was THAT?"

medlar - To keep this brief, it was nearly the exact same scenario as "cotehardie." We both missed it, and we both continued.

writhen - FINALLY, after an hour of torture, and after two minutes of trying unsuccessfully to picture this word, it came to me, and I nailed it. Thus ended, by far, the toughest competition I had ever been in. The second-place finisher forced me to claw my way back to Washington, and put up one hell of a fight. Honestly, he could have made it to Washington just as, uh, "easily." Here is where luck really came into play.

ideaphoria - The first word I struggled with at Nationals my last year. As it happens, it occurred as the first word I spelled when the competition had come down to the final two. Honestly, everything up to that point had been a cake walk. (It happens when you study for five years and make it to Nationals for three of 'em. Experience and time help.) Although I ended up spelling it correctly, I stood up there for like five minutes, racking my brain. Years later, it pains me to think of this: Ideaphoria means "capacity for creative thought or imagination." What was holding me back? I didn't know what that fourth letter was. In essence, I couldn't put together that another word for "creative thought" was "idea." Embarrassing.

spoliator - As I mentioned in a previous post about the National Spelling Bee...duh.

Mr. Cellophane - Chicago

2011-05-27T01:59:00.013-06:00

I never woulda guessed this one would have made it here. Then again, it's not always 2 in the morning, and I'm not always under the affluence of incohol. But for those of you who are dying for those "fly on the wall" moments, Chicago at 2 in the morning provides 'em. (Note, if you will, the time of this blog post.)

Chicago (the town) is my least favorite city of all time, but Chicago (the musical) may just be my favorite musical. Ah, irony. Get me nice and happy (vodka or rum only, please...I like to be at least semi-functional the next morning), pop Chicago in the DVD player, and watch me go to town. Seriously. I will vamp and lip-synch to most of the songs there. In the dark. With no one watching me. I will praise, then kvetch about that funny honey of mine. I will proclaim that when you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you. I will tango with the best and sassiest and angriest of the murderesses in the cellblock. And I will become Roxie Hart, just to say that the name on everybody's lips is gonna be - sing it! - Roxie.

Perhaps more than all other songs, "Mr. Cellophane" catches me at my most vulnerable, and I relate to it more than anything on Chicago. Irony, I know, for someone who has been more visible than about 95% of most Americans. But I have a terrible tendency to fall into self-pity and melancholia. Even more ironic is the fact that I often crave solitude; I don't bemoan it. I'm not quite Greta Garbo, mind you, but I do have my moments, and if given the choice, most times, I'd rather spend a quiet night either alone or with just a select friend or two or three. (Don't get me wrong...I do enjoy a wild night out on the town every once in a while.)

But when you look at Amos, pitiful character that he is, you can't help but feel for him. His wife double-crosses him, becomes pregnant with another man while behind bars, lies to him on the stand, and then abandons him after she's declared innocent. And that's his fate, end of story. Roxie goes on to stardom with her arch-nemesis, and ignores the only guy who offered her unconditional love? Ouch.

I dunno. Something about that abandonment and sorrow just strikes a really deep chord in me, and I'm not sure why. People do like me, for the most part. But I often come off as aloof, which is a shame. I've been blown off in social situations many times, probably no more than most anyone else, but I think I've let this hit me more than most. Still, I'm alternately exhilarated and frightened to death to perform this song on karaoke. It ain't no "Just a Gigolo," that's for sure. Very sobering and soul-baring, which ain't exactly the domain of karaoke. But again, I've emoted enough for a stage in the den of my home, singing and acting along with John C. Reilly. I ain't nowhere near good enough to be Amos on stage, but in my head, I can fully empathize and inhabit his character. Who knows? Maybe some night, I'll screw up the courage, down enough liquid courage, and see what happens on stage. Maybe in DC, where if I screw up, no one of consequence will care, and I can bring it back home all polished up.

(Fun Uncle Spike fact: in 2007, whilst celebrating my birthday, in the safety and comfort of my living room, I downed four appletinis. Maybe five. The last three were spiked with cinnamon schnapps. I totally bonded with Chicago. And spent the next two days recovering. PAAAAIN. To this day, I cannot tolerate appletinis.)

Headed back to D.C.!

2011-05-22T19:20:00.006-06:00

Fourteen years ago, I said an abrupt farewell to the National Spelling Bee. My time as a staffer was tragically cut short by the death of my aunt and uncle in a plane accident, and so I left early to fly across the country for a funeral. But I did take the time to watch the bee on TV, and I witnessed my then-favorite, Rebecca Sealfon, take the trophy with what has to be the most fervent spelling of a final word ever. Yes, she was, uh, more than a little neurotic, and she kept the bee staff on their/our game, but having met her in 1996, I got a good sense of her intellect, and I predicted that she'd be back in full force the next year and a great candidate to win.

Last year, I watched the semifinals live, just to see if anyone stood out. Although she didn't get a particularly hard first semifinal word (osteomyelitis), and breezed through on it, I singled out Anamika Veeramani as the one to watch. And indeed, she won it all and maintained an admirable sense of composure and calm in a bee that had a hell of a lot of drama - more than just about any other bee I've ever witnessed.

But those are the only claims to me successfully picking who would win. So far, at least.

So here's some good news: I'm headed to Washington to see the national bee in person for the first time in 15 years! There was no real reason, other than I had felt it was time to go back, just for the fun of it. It's bound to be a blast. It'll be great to reconnect with friends from all those years ago who happen to work on the staff. There'll be the requisite "all champions" photo op, which will be fun. I'll be spending time with family just outside of D.C. And a few friends from Baltimore will also be around. But otherwise, it's gonna be me more or less on my own.

Since I'll be watching live, I'll definitely have to keep my poker face - something I'm not particularly skilled at. Part of the fun of the bee is spelling along with the kids, turning to your significant other/friend/invisible friend in astonishment or disgust at how hard/easy this word is, and expressing the emotions that you KNOW everyone in the auditorium is feeling, but can't express.

Yep, fun! Can't wait to head to D.C. again.

Seel-yeh Beer-ghee-teh?

2011-05-16T17:37:00.009-06:00

(Prompted by a college classmate's recent posting about the birth of her first daughter.)

If you're announcing the girl's name, and then you immediately have to post a pronunciation guide for both the first and the middle name, you FAIL. When your daughter grows up, she will harbor resentment toward you in a special place in her heart. Go back to baby-naming 101.

(Incidentally, what does it mean that I, who most likely will not have kids, have such strong opinions about baby names?)

Also? "Don't tell your parents that Obama is dead when you meant Osama. Because it causes tears. Whoops."

2011-05-02T09:50:00.012-06:00

In re: Osama bin Laden: A few FB thoughts from friends of all stripes (well, maybe not Republicans).

"Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, And let not thy heart be glad when he is overthrown"
- Proverbs 24:17

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction... The chain reaction of evil-hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars-must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation." - MLK, Jr.

I refuse to celebrate the killing of another human being, regardless of their past acts. It is good that he is gone, but the hive of evil has millions of insects.

Wow, finally. It's hard to be glad that someone is dead, but what a relief!

deep ambivalence on the death of Osama bin Laden...killing begets killing begets killing. where will it end?

Osama is dead! I, along with everyone else directly affected by 9/11 can finally begin to heal. The event changed my life and having the killer killed puts me at peace. Justice was FINALLY served. Go Obama, Go Military!

Death happens. So does life. Osama bin Laden's death will only bring to life another homicidal maniac lurking in the midst. Because unfortunately, someone is bound to fill his shoes. Rejoice if you must, but please remember life's brutal cycle. And NEVER forget those who perished as a result.

May 1st Prayer...Now I lay me down to sleep...one less terrorist this world does keep...with all my heart I give my thanks...to those in uniform regardless of ranks...you serve our country and serve it well...with humble hearts your stories tell...so as I rest my weary eyes...while freedom rings our flag still flies...you give your all, do what you must...with God we live and God we trust....

Obama did in two years what "that other guy" couldn't do in seven. #justsaying

Where were you? I was at choir rehearsal with about 80 fellow men, and the guy standing next to me suddenly showed me a text from his, uh, current love/sex interest (I'm not sure how to term him). Then he got another text from his partner of 20 years saying the same. From that point, it was on. He and I were on our phones, hunting down news coverage that might have said something. Huff Post? Nope. CNN? Nah. The local TV station? Not that either. Their servers must have been overloaded. We did this for about 10 minutes, until I realized...duh! Facebook! And it was there that I saw ten consecutive posts from friends saying that bin Laden had finally been killed. Sign of the times, right? I'll give HP and the local networks a bye on this one, but CNN? Really? Get new servers or upgrade your old ones. That should NEVER have happened.

And my thoughts? I was pretty thrilled last night. I'll admit, the posts up above sobered me up a bit. My thoughts were more like this. Not all the way to yelling "U-S-A! U-S-A!" jingoistically while waving the flag and pounding some brewskis, but certainly less measured than my friends, for the most part. For the time being, this is a good thing, right? Just good to keep in mind that yes, someone is bound to take his place, and he's now a martyr for the cause. Always a gray lining.

And then there was the Trekkie with a starfleet insignia on his chest...

2011-04-30T11:59:00.007-06:00

Does anyone understand the appeal of tattoos, or why people get them? I don't have one, and I feel no compulsion to get one. But I'm so curious about why. I ask this with no judgment.

I hit the free weights at the gym, and many of the badass guys working out with me have tattoos all up and down their arms and legs (and I'd imagine, were they to remover their shirts, we'd see lots of 'em on their back and maybe their chest). And I just wonder. Again, I can't judge, really...if I don't understand why they do it, I can't say anything.

Even one of my clinicians back in chiropractic school had an insanely ornate and large tattoo that stretched across her lower back. It took multiple sessions to complete. Really, it was beautiful - far and away the most beautiful tattoo I've ever seen. I think it was a tattoo of a Hindu deity, and was not just designed with the typical black ink, but bright reds, yellows, and greens permeated it. But again, I don't understand why. And more to the point, why would one get a tattoo on a part of the body you wouldn't even be able to see or admire easily?

The most audacious tattoo I've ever seen was also one of the simplest ever: a single plus sign on the left deltoid region. This forever branded the guy as being HIV-positive (yes, he was gay, and displayed it on a profile on a social/sexual networking site). No comment, other than that I would never. For more reasons than one.

So there you have it. Fellow bloggers of the world wide webiverse, and random stumblers upon this screed, I ask you...whither tattoos?

Adventures in Puddletown, part 3

2011-04-22T23:11:00.001-06:00

Ugh. Clusterfuck of a day today. Spent the first part of the day working with my blessed bookkeeper (which reminds me: send her flowers) who helped me deal with an absurd tax situation. Long story short, the state thinks I owe them a craptacular amount of sales tax. This might be true if the tax rate were about 50%. Ain’t no WAY.

Had a second issue about work. Won’t bore you about it, but it made me bust my ass home and pack in record time for my trip out to Puddletown. Got to the airport, and I was nearly pathologically harried. Like to the point where if I had really stopped to think about it, I would have thought the universe was sending me a sign.

As it turns out, it might have been. You see, this trip was for a business seminar. I signed up for it a few months ago. I thought it kind of weird that I had yet to receive materials for it. So once at the gate, I called the organizer up. She kinda hesitated, then said, “Um, we rescheduled the seminar, because we didn’t want to interfere with Easter.” Cue righteous rage on my part. Scandinavian rage, so you know it was subdued. Still, HOLY HELL. No one had told me about it. And some research on the part of the organizer revealed that she had indeed sent out an e-mail to that effect, but had neglected to put my e-mail address on it. FUUUCK.

So here I am in Portland, for no real reason anymore. Man, I feel like the proverbial fish out of water. I’ma try to make the best of it, though. And there are some things so far. Like the fact that when I landed, it was SUNNY. And once I got my car and drove around, I saw that there wasn’t a muthafuckin’ cloud in the sky. Nowhere. People have been saying today has been the nicest day all YEAR. And tomorrow’s gonna be even nicer, warmer.

Also, I got to indulge in the joy that is La Buca. This tiny trattoria was the site of my first meal the day I moved to Portland. I got the “abituale”: penne with vodka cream sauce and spicy Italian sausage. So damned simple, but so damned good. Actually, the first bite was kinda ennh, but the more I ate, the more I remembered just how heavenly it was. Food like that really could become habitual.

There was also Ben & Jerry’s. The ice cream shop. ‘Nuff said.

Back to the clusterfuck. Simply navigating Portland can be infuriating. Got lost on the way to DJ Jazzy D’s place, then finally found it 15 minutes after I shoulda been there. Then I began unpacking, and realized that with a phone with maybe 2% power remaining, I had forgotten to pack a phone charger. It was off to the local one-stop-shopping bazaar, and thank GOD they were open late. So now my phone is happily charging away.

I was hoping to head out on the town tonight, badly. But it’s been such a blast to my sanity today, I think it’s for the best I stay back and just sleep it off. Seriously…the concept of a totally free weekend that suddenly fell from the sky weirds me out. Maybe I’ll head to the coast or do some hiking, get back to nature. Karaoke is most assuredly in my future, too. I’d take a free weekend in Puerto Vallarta or Maui any day, but Portland is not on the short list. Well, I’ll just make do. A good big breakfast will do me well for starters, then I’ll go from there.

Play With Me - Thompson Twins

2011-04-18T11:43:00.007-06:00

The Cool World soundtrack is one of the better-kept secrets of the 1990s. The movie kinda sucked (badly enough that I didn't even see it; I'm just going by what most people/critics tell me). But the soundtrack is something else. It's what Hard Harry would have played had he gotten out of jail early and become a club DJ. Dark, seductive, throbbing...it's tough to resist.

The best song on here is actually from the Thompson Twins. They trump everyone else here, including the likes of David Bowie, Ministry, Moby, Brian Eno, and My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult. That's pretty heady company just to be in.

When a song begins with a siren and a woman moaning seductively in the background, you know you're in for something pretty hot. And rarely has sex and violence sounded so enticing. Aside from this vixen repeatedly cooing "play with me," it's all instrumental, slightly industrial. You also hear occasional menacing laughter and a thug's brutal howling, all above a pounding dance beat that is eons removed from the G-rated pop most people associate with the Thompson Twins' earnest '80s ditties.

Listen to this one at full blast, preferably at night. Dance your ass off to it. Shadowbox those demons away. And afterward, you'll feel about as spent and released as the song's closing post-orgasmic sigh. (For some reason, the video won't load well, so here's the link.)

"Le roi est mort, vive le plutocratie."

2011-04-12T20:31:00.024-06:00

Oog. Being sick sucks. I saw two patients this morning, both pretty involved and really cool cases. But toward the end of the second one, it quickly became apparent that I was running on fumes. I had to head home, and man, when you're sick, it really sucks to have a 45-minute commute. *ducks to avoid heavy metal objects thrown at head* I know lots of you out there have longer commutes, but for Denver, this is quite the big deal.

And now, the news...

Those of you in FB Land who have friends who tend to lean to the left and post their predilections for all to see have undoubtedly received this beauty over the past day or so:

Remember when teachers, public employees, libraries, Planned Parenthood, NPR and PBS crashed the stock market, wiped out half of our 401Ks, took trillions in TARP money, spilled oil in the Gulf of Mexico, gave themselves billions in bonuses, and paid no taxes? Yeah, me neither. Pass it on!

Pretty stinging indictment, this. Well, at least on paper or on your screen. Pithy, accurate, brilliant. Sure, it'll make people think. But in the long run, will it make much difference?

I don't think many people would argue that our country is in awful shape. Bloggers EVERYWHERE are commenting about it. Hell, Roger Ebert recently penned a brilliant, if devastating, look at the inequality of wealth distribution in our plutocracy. And you thought (well, actually, I did think) that he mainly reviewed movies and such. (Oh, you hadn't heard? Democracy in America is dead, folks.) The thing that really makes this awful is the fact that it doesn't matter where you land on the political spectrum...most likely you think our country is going down the wrong path. I myself tend to lean left, and as such, get the humor when, say, The Onion marks the occasion of the death of the American Dream, or when Steven Colbert blasts Jon Kyl for saying that Planned Parenthood devotes 90% of its resources to abortions (margin of error: 87%.) But it's devastating to know the truth or the sentiment behind these stories. Also, folks on the right are just as pissed...witness the rise of the phenomenon that rhymes with "Me Farting." And I feel about like I did when I was reading the writings of Soviet era dissidents in college...just an inescapable sense of hopelessness, that nothing can change for the better.

In my mind, the last time we had such a volatile political landscape was in the 1960s. Speaking from the POV of someone who was never there, I still get the feeling that there was some really strong idealism there that tempered it somewhat. I may be wrong. But I sure don't see any evidence of idealism or hope from either side, aside from Obama's slogan. The Tea Party is primarily reactionary; I don't think they have thought through what they stand for as much as what they stand against. But they do seem to be accomplishing some things. As for the political left, all I seem to read about is how disorganized and weak the Democrats are, kowtowing to the Republicans and Teabaggers.

On a more personal level, over the past four years, I have borne close witness to five bills in our state legislature, all for great causes, being struck down by...well, by the Teabaggers (and their libertarian forebears). I've seen how a bill becomes a law (or doesn't), and it ain't NOTHING as appealing or fun as Schoolhouse Rock would have us believe. I really would rather watch sausage being made. And this is incredibly dispiriting. The days of Jimmy Stewart, ever the cockeyed optimist, going to Washington to stand up for the common man, are so far away they might as well be gone. If I'm thinking like this now, you KNOW I don't ever want to be involved in politics ever again.

Let me continue my descent into the void. We're in the land of bread and circuses, and have been for decades now; I defy anyone to prove otherwise. But it's particularly tough when the circuses take the form of some hilarious but stinging satire, broadcast to millions, with at least part of the goal being to rile up the masses...and nothing happens...at least to my eye.

One last thing: Teabaggers are all up in arms about how Obama is trying to turn our country socialist. It hasn't happened, folks, and it probably won't. But I'll repeat what I said up above: while our economy is still functioning, we have lost all semblance of democracy. THAT is what I think is the true tragedy. If we did have a democracy, the asshole bankers of Wall Street (to point a finger at a salient target) would be brought to justice and punished severely for their actions. Nope. They're protected by their millions and millions. I would SO love to run across one of 'em by happenstance at some point and go all Steven Slater on their sorry ass.

And in the meantime, Thomas Jefferson is turning in his grave something awful.

Oh, and thank you very much for introducing us to the Gayken.

2011-04-08T16:22:00.013-06:00

I swear on a stack of reel-to-reels, I have never, ever, seen a whole episode of American Idol. Many of my fellow chorines in our local gay men's chorus (some of whom have, yes, tried out for AI) would gasp and clutch their pearls at the mere thought. Why?

Simon bores me, for one, even more than he grates on my nerves. And if he bores me, you know the other judges don't have a chance. (Don't even talk to me about the hostess, Ryan Seacrest.) Second, I'm not a fan of most pop music nowadays. Glee has had to somehow introduce me to the 21st century version of (teen) pop, and even then, meh. Third, the whole show reeks of product. It doesn't exist to make a young singer's dream come true. It exists to throw an unassuming winner (or 2nd or 3rd or 4th place winner) into the music machine and produce sound units, the likes of which will (assumedly) sell well and ensure profits to the recording company. Cynical? Yeah...but the stuff AI turns out doesn't sound one iota different from the rest of the blather you hear on the radio nowadays. Which is why I don't listen. Hell, aside from one fun song, I don't even care for Kelly Clarkson. (And no, it isn't "Since U Been Gone.")

The most annoying bit is the invention-slash-popularization of the melisma. A fatwa on the heads of Mariah Carey and especially Christina Aguilera for that. Yes, they have great voices with impressive ranges. Which means they don't need to rely on all those swoops up and down and everywhere. You at point A, gurl? You need to get to point B? Fuckin' get there. Don't go through points Q, L, 13, turd, ζ, Þ, Ж, פ, and syzygy to get there. You'll get lost and sound like a noob along the way. But because these two are apparently among the most admired singers of...uh...the generation beneath me, the AIers think that the more melismas, the better.

Now, having bitched, I'll say that I was present and accounted for, sir, for the crowning of Miss Clarkson as the first AI winner. How evil was it, then, that she, immediately upon winning, had to try and sing "A Moment Like This"? She's trying to, uh, enjoy and live in this moment, accept congratulations from her fans and hold back tears, not sing about it, fucktards! GAWD.

The one...I hate to say redeeming quality, but the one thing that I can thank AI for is for Jennifer Hudson. Seen her in Showgirls? Damn, she deserved that Oscar. Outsang and outperformed everyone, including Beyonce and Eddie Murphy. Although I suspect you could just see her singing "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" and be done with the rest of the movie. And it shows you how stupid America is that they voted her off so early.

An enabling troop misdirects a psychologist jail.

2011-03-23T22:22:00.006-06:00

Bethenny Frankel - Some people just inspire a particular brand of unadulterated, illogical HAAATE. Vomitous hatred. Witness Bethenny Frankel. Of all the obnoxious Housewives of Bravo, she's the most repugnant. I'd rather spend 24 hours trapped in a bell jar with Snookie than an hour with Bethenny. She of the most insincere smile EVER started grating on my nerves when she worked her way up to 2nd place in Martha Stewart's criminally underrated version of The Apprentice, and I hoped that was the last we'd see of her. But a few years later, I saw her infiltrate "The Real Housewives of New York City." I threw my fan across the room, shook my fingernails, and pranced out of the room, all "I can't. I just can't." But that wasn't enough. After that, she had TWO companion series. I know there's a lesson to learn from her about self-promotion and marketing, but dear GOD put this woman out of my misery!

Wayne Brady - Fell in love with him pretty much at first sight on "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" Damn, but those tight sweaters did wonders for his chest and arms. Not to mention those hyperkinetic impromptu pushups...the best ones seen publicly since Jack Palance. Haven't seen Wayne for awhile, but then noticed tonight that he was gonna be on next week's Drag Race. SWOON.

Frank Neuhauser - Frank who? That's what most people would say. But for spelling bee aficionados like myself, Monday was a sad day. Frank Neuhauser died, aged 97. He was the winner of the first National Spelling Bee, back in 1925. It was a tiny bee...only 9 contestants at the time, with words like "catch" and "black" in the first round. His winning word, the comparably difficult "gladiolus," would be an easy word at nationals nowadays - even in the first round. He's been a guest at some of the most recent national competitions, and I'm bummed that I never got a chance to meet him. Perhaps, instead, I'll plant a gladiolus or two in his honor in the yard this year as we do our landscaping. (And incidentally, isn't that picture of him in that article signing autographs sweet? He looks so happy. And even cooler, how great is it that kids are crowding around him and paying him such respect? You don't see that sort of thing much anymore.)

Claire Danes - What in the world has happened to her? Where have you gone, Angela Chase? God. One of my favorite snarkmeisters of all time, clad in flannel and tights and angst and one of the coolest haircuts of the '90s. Excellent hair color, too. Man, she wore the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I felt it, too. Misery loved company. But have you seen her recently? All that attitude has dried up and blown away. She's become a faceless Hollywood modelesque starlet, the likes of which I almost wouldn't have recognized, were it not pointed out to me that it really was Claire Danes. I guess it would be unfair to demand that she stay the same Angela Chase through the years, but I hoped she would have retained some of that angst. (See also: Ryder, Winona, though to a lesser extent.)

Adventures in Puddletown, part 2

2011-03-12T08:09:00.009-07:00

So, a minor update on yours truly before we get to the subject matter you all came to enjoy. Woke up bright and early to a crisp, sunny morning. Running out the door, spilled coffee on my tie, so I had to run back upstairs. Showed up at Bally to get in a workout before work, but it was closed and wouldn't open until 8, damn it all. Then I show up at work, and the computer we all rely on to print out schedules is exhibiting the black screen of death and constantly rebooting. It's gonna be one of those mornings. At least I have Avenue Q to look forward to this afternoon. And perhaps a switch of my club membership over to 24 Hour Fitness. I've heard they're better, anyhow.

Anyhoo...back up to Portland...

Blue Moon - There's a chain of pub-style restaurants in Portland called McMenamins, with basically the same menu. Some variation here and there, but if you want good, reliable pub grub, this is the place. Blue Moon is my favorite, if only because it was the closest one to the blessed studio I inhabited at 2151 NW Johnson for six months. A good dark interior, lots of pool tables, floor-to-ceiling windows, and of course, the place smells like beer, like a good pub should. Since it's Portland, you know there's gonna be tons of microbrews on the menu. Oh, and the bonus this time? Tater tots with my burger.

3 Friends - The bohemian coffeehouse (oh, wait...this is Portland, right? All coffeehouses are bohemian here, even the Starbucks...es) where us gay boys would meet before a night on the town, or at least dinner. We'd spend the first half hour just hanging out, then spend the next fracking half hour trying to decide where to eat dinner. Did I say bohemian? Yeah. Barely-running toilets, lots of wacky artwork, couches unafraid to show their inner parts to the world, and a front doorknob that rattled and jiggled like crazy, like it was about to fall off. That was the early 2000s. When I returned, apparently nothing had changed...except for the doorknob, which was now wired onto the rest of the door. I considered contributing some of my well-earned to the "get this damned door a new handle!" fund...and maybe I should have. Oh, and much less gay during the day. Oh well.

Marco's - I didn't go to this umbrella-ceilinged breakfast nook this time, but back in the day, Marco's had THE most awesome omelettes and coffee. And by coffee, I mean espresso-strength. I would have loved to drink more than one cup, but I would have been zooming all day and all of the night if I dared. And by omelettes, I mean gobs of molten cheese and thick black-label bacon with just enough egg to cover the whole thing.

Coffee Time - A personal anecdote: the night before I was to move away from my studio in NW Portland, I spent ALL night packing. So at 7:00 the next morning, I decided I owed it to myself to get some coffee and coffeecake at this place a block away. Very bohemian here...dreads, lip piercings, appropriate '90s noise blasting through the speakers, that sort of thing. Got my goods, downed them, then decided to get just a half hour nap before finishing up packing. I didn't even get that. Only 15 minutes later, I got a call from Mr. Man.
Three weeks prior, we had met for the first time, and he offered me a ticket to see Madonna in LA. He also offered to fly to Portland from Denver, pick me up, and then fly down first class.

But over the phone, with panic in his voice, he told me that we were not going to be flying anywhere anytime soon. Terrorists had just flown two planes into the World Trade Center.

(Incidentally, if you like the bumper sticker up top, pick it up here! Because keeping Portland weird simply isn't enough.)

Adventures in Puddletown, part 1

2011-03-07T16:10:00.012-07:00

I'm sitting here in PDX, waiting on a flight back to Denver that's now delayed 2.5 or 3.5 hours, depending on whether I believe the Orbitz updates sent to my Android or the flight departure boards. Either way, I'm now afforded some downtime before the phantom flight arrives from Denver.

I can't believe it's been almost 5 years since I was last in Puddletown, and almost 8 since I last drove here. As such, my rented transportation appliance enabled me to indulge in some pretty cool nostalgia. I mean, I spent a good 4 years here, possibly the most life-changing years of all. But although it was a good place to live for four years, I probably could not live here.

For one, people here drive WAAAY too slowly. (Oregon is the only western state with a speed limit of 65 - slowest of 'em all.) When I first moved here, I was thrilled that Portland drivers seemed to be so polite, allowing me to cross multiple lanes when I realized that I had to turn right, not left. They drove slowly and allowed me in without hesitation if I needed to cut in front of them unexpectedly. And it stayed that way for three weeks. But then I learned how to navigate Puddletown, and by then, I realized that this driving-slightly-under-the-speed-limit thing was not politesse, but the MO. Well, I like to drive, I like to be in control, and I am positively thrilled to be moving at a glacial pace on the road. Especially if I have a flame thrower or a bazooka handy with which to obliterate mealymouthed drivers in front of me.

From a weather perspective, I love four well-defined seasons, and Portland only has two: rain and sun. And even with that, the rain isn't all that wild. More like annoying drizzle that falls from pea soup skies - no texture to the clouds at all. If you hear more than three thunderclaps in a year, that's pretty severe. And if more than 1/4 inch of snow falls, the whole city shuts down. For those of you in warmer climes, you may commiserate, but guess what: this Colorado boy scoffs unapologetically at this sort of thing. So there. But on the other hand, summer in the Pacific Northwest is one awesome secret. Gorgeous, warm, comfortable, very little rain (!), and sun for weeks on end. Even can get amazingly hot, with heat waves above 100, the likes of which even Denver rarely sees.

A traipse down nostalgia lane here:

Russellville - The apartment complex where Mr. Man and I first lived together. We drove together from Denver and arrived in Portland in time for a very uneventful New Year's Day, 2002. Thus continued my stint in medical school, and thus began possibly the worst phase of Mr. Man's life: being unemployed in a town he'd never been in, with no friends, arriving from the land of 300 days of sunshine a year and landing smack-dab in the middle of a typical gray, miserable, sunless winter. You never realize how much you depend on the sun for sustenance until you're forcibly deprived of it for months on end. And man, it made him depressed. Going back "home" to the place we first started forging our relationship under some pretty difficult circumstances was really poignant.

NCNM - The reason I moved to Portland for 4 years. Kick-ass school. It was great to return, and everything brought me back: the smells, the staircases, the stories of the water that somehow had magical powers of fertility (in our class of 100, we had 10 births). But man, sitting for hours in this weekend seminar also brought back the drudgery and annoyance of being ground under by schoolwork. Don't miss it one bit. And I have to admit...the more I see the typical naturopathic student, the more it makes me cringe. It's the (almost always) woman that looks entitled to being upwardly mobile, driving a Prius, doing yoga multiple times a week, shopping almost exclusively at Whole Foods or the like (because even for these students, shopping at co-ops is a bit beneath them), wearing the latest Columbia gear...oh, heck, you see them in magazines like Real Simple or Martha Stewart Living. You kinda wonder if they've ever been mediocre at any point in their lives, or had to deal with any sort of poverty or even middle-class status.

CC Slaughters - The gay club I used to go to all the time, very neighborhood bar-ish. Loved it. It used to have gay porn playing on the monitors to scare away the straight boys. I cultivated my first bartender there...at least until Mr. Man happened on the scene, and the bartender suddenly grew jealous and my drinks suddenly grew more opaque. I came back on Mardi Gras weekend, filled with guys I once would have considered more or less my peers, but who now are anklebiters to me. Damn, I'm getting old. (Incidentally, I also happened to see a guy who I once dated a few times and unwittingly screwed over. Also also, saw the guy I had my first LTR with. Last I saw him was actually at Slaughters, the night before I drove away from Portland in 2003. Being a particularly furry cub, he was being tossed around and groped by horny bears, and just lapping up the attention. Kinda disturbing to see that...not to mention that it also made me jealous as hell. Oh well.)

Delta Cafe - Good Southern cooking just doesn't exist in Denver, so I got my fix here. It was the second restaurant I went to when I first moved to Puddletown. If you don't mind a really bohemian vibe and Sonic Youth blasting from the speakers, it's all good. Man, is it good. Collards practically soaking in bacon drippings. Some hellaciously decadent mac 'n' cheese. Fiied chicken that puts KFC to shame. Jambalaya, gumbo, etouffee, red beans and rice, andouille sausage...the whole thing just gets me hungry...and I just had lunch not even an hour ago.

Only The Strong - Midnight Oil

2011-02-28T11:06:00.010-07:00

Let's go back to 1994. I'd completed my hellacious first year of college. I was reeling from my first sexual experiences with a man, subsequently falling HARD for him, and freaking out about what it all meant. (Of course, I was in no space to talk to anyone about it.) I was in the midst of a terrible existential (no, really) crisis. The conclusion I came to from not knowing the purpose of education, and knowing that I had devoted my entire life to education scared me to death. Add in an uplifting class on the resistance to Nazism, with special emphasis on the Warsaw ghetto. Add in a class on Russian literature, heavy on the gulag experience. Also add in a severely mind-warping tutorial on Nietzsche. I was so fucked in the brain by the time my first year was done.

The only thing that saved me was my weekly radio shows, wherein I'd escape and play music only for me, me, me, and scream at the powers that be for two hours, 1984-style. So at summer camp that year, where I rocked the pool and the lake as the aquatics director, I began plotting my second year. It would be, again, all about me, me, me, but this time, it'd be 100% of the time, and not just those two hours a week. I'd live life exactly as I wanted, and if anyone got hurt in the process, fuck 'em. (As it turns out, I'm generally restrained enough that this particular mindset ended up hurting only one person, and it was in the service of ending a relationship that shoulda never begun in the first place.) I needed some major inspiration, so I went wild on the music.

My malaise that fall was blown away in a testosteronic gale of noise and punk: the Ramones, Wire, the Sex Pistols, the Descendents, Minor Threat, Sonic Youth, and the Dead Kennedys, to name a few. (SO shoulda gotten Helmet, too...alas, that was not to be for a good 13 more years.) And the following spring, I picked up the long-overdue 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1 from Midnight Oil.

Midnight Oil has always been one of my favorite bands. I can't think of another band that's so forthright, intelligent, consistent, and filled with warlike righteous rage. And on this album, packed with powerful calls to action and personal statements, "Only The Strong" is one of their fieriest.

The lead singer, Peter Garrett, is a wild, menacing presence, a nearly 7 foot tall behemoth of a man, with a shiny bald pate, intense eagle eyes, and some of the most spastic dance moves ever attempted onstage. The entire album is worth it just to hear Garrett snarl, "Speak to me, speak to me. I'm at the edge of myself...I'm DYYYING to talk." And on each chorus, his singing goes from righteous declamation to furious anger to shredded, bloody vocal cords. Truly awesome and somewhat frightening; singing this wild and unhinged is seldom heard outside of Minor Threat or the Pixies. And likewise, the guitars swoop and careen barely in tune, sounding like metal being warped out of shape. Drums hammer out a martial beat with pinpoint accuracy, interspersed with machine-gun breaks and breathless moments of silence.

It's weird to say this, but the album version is the most intense version I've yet heard...the live versions aren't quite up there. Regardless, to say this song is an adrenaline rush doesn't go nearly far enough. Put on your headphones and listen to "Only The Strong" at full volume. If you don't feel punch-drunk and cleansed by the end of this one, you must be on some sort of narcotic. You want to live at the edge of life, at the edge of yourself, push boundaries, rebel against powers that be, and take what is rightfully yours? Here's the beginning of your soundtrack.

The pin sighs into the eye!

2011-02-16T22:41:00.009-07:00

Random thoughts, just 'cause I can...

First, from the Glee department. Of course. Mr. Man wanted to watch it tonight. He told me he knew I wanted to watch it, so I should just give in. (I was planning on watching the Onion News and Portlandia instead.) Well, I heard it was the Bieber episode, so my enthusiasm was suitably anemic. And my disinterest, tinged with disgust, at the phenomenon of Bieber is unchanged. Give 'im about eight years. Then check in with me.
Otherwise, I have two lovers, and I'm ashamed. First up: Lauren. Good God, she is a force of all that is good and snarky and standoffish in this world. Holding Puck (sexiest guy on there, by FAR...oh, wait, check that...there's Karofsky...and we're taking his shitty attitude out of the equation) at arm's length, teasing and toying with him and blueballing him is just priceless. But the best part? She actually sang "I Know What Boys Like" as her "anthem." God bless her. She's now my favorite.
Second? Santana. Bitch is on a rampage. Evil incarnate. Sue should either be proud or afraid Santana's gonna take over. And considering how fucking sappy Sue got tonight...well, meh.
Favorite new word: noob. Just realized today it stood for "newbie," but really, the greatness of this word just transcends. I mean, just say it. Noob. It's so absurd. Nothing can touch it...not nerd, dork, geek, dweeb, Zappa, nothing. Well, except maybe SNUH (for all you Simpsons fans).
My credit card company just offered me 5 songs on iTunes for free. And I didn't really think it was all that big a deal. But let's break this down. Even back in the day, CDs that were as little as 5 songs (and I'm thinking Pink Floyd and their epics that could stretch for over 20 minutes sometimes) went for $13-$15. Factor in inflation, and yeah...that's one hella good deal. I'd be stupid to pass it up.
Travels over the first 3 months of the year: Tucson, Portland, and Dallas. Not bad. And it had BETTER not snow in Dallas like it did last year! (Yeah. Welcome to Dallas. First day of spring, and 3 inches on the ground.)
Angry Birds. Stay away. Stay the FUCK away if you value your life. It sucks the free time out of your life more effectively than any Hindu god could.

"Heaven is a place...a place where nothing...nothing ever happens."

2011-02-14T14:13:00.007-07:00

Yeah. In so many ways, heaven = nothing.

Life's pretty damned good when you can escape somewhere to do nothing at all. Sleep. Eat. Read. Hike. (Some...not too much.) Play the pee-ya-nuh to your heart's content. And ruminate on life.

Only issue with this one was the weather. Left Denver when it was -17. All thrilled and such to be leaving and heading down to the warmth of Tucson. Except I landed in Tucson and it was 25. Yeah. Record low temperatures for three days, people. Sunny, to be sure...I mean, it is Tucson, right? But lows of 18 do not compute in the land of saguaros, prickly pears and agave. It is February, after all, so I don't expect it to be shorts weather all the time. Still...gaaah.

Otherwise, food was great, company was great, it was wonderful to sleep and take naps whenever the hell I wanted, and eventually it did get above 70 for a few days. Oh, and did I mention the silence? 23 hours a day of it. Enough to drive many people crazy, but to me, that's just balm to the soul. Actually, silence = no talking. It didn't keep me from hooking up the tunes or yes, playing the piano (which I hadn't done any of since...well, since last time I was there, lo these 4 years ago.) Both with headphones, so as not to disturb anyone else.

While I was there, I got to decompress for a few days, then take a look at my life, see where I needed to go next, then make plans for the future. Exciting stuff. Really. It's just when you get back home and are sideswiped regularly by...well, real life, you realize how difficult it is to stick to said plans. But worth it.

"The sun always shines on TV..."

2011-01-28T09:00:00.005-07:00

"Twenty-five years ago today..." begin the major headlines today. Between JFK being assassinated and 9/11, this was the most salient and terrible tragedy for which an entire generation could ask, "Where were you when...?"

Everyone was glued to their TVs to see history in the making. A large crew, one of the largest in space shuttle history. Included in it were the first Japanese-American, the first African-American, and two women. Sally Ride was the first woman on a space shuttle, having flown years before, but even more to the point, this flight included the first civilian (who also happened to be a woman). An ebullient, wide-eyed schoolteacher from Concord, New Hampshire, Christa McAuliffe symbolized and galvanized the excitement that Americans had for the space shuttle program. (Remember her picture in Life magazine, where she was frozen in a Toyota-like pose, leaping for joy? She was chosen from among thousands of schoolteachers who applied to fly on the space shuttle. Including my own 5th grade teacher.)

You can say, "what's especially tragic about this is..." and come up with any number of things. But for me, two things stand out. First, since a schoolteacher was on that flight, it was a guarantee that more children would be watching this particular launch than any other in history. And more children would see the most tragic and painful error that NASA had to endure. Those children, so excited about the space shuttle program - and about space exploration itself - would suddenly witness the program's potential for fatal flaws, for the fact that sometimes people die in the service of exploration, of advancement. Children start off thinking that adults are powerful, that they don't make mistakes, and ideally, it's just gradually that they realize that they are just as fallible as anyone. But for that realization to hit with the force of a sledgehammer is excruciating. With that comes some painful growing up. Suddenly, a bit of innocence and idealism is gone forever. And that's why it was such a "where were you when" moment for everyone.

The second thing was something I only read about today. Surely, I figured, no one could have survived such a huge explosion. I mean, thousands of pounds of hydrogen gas suddenly exploded, subjecting the crew on board to a walloping shock wave, insanely searing temperatures, and shrapnel flying at tornado-like velocity. No one could have survived that, right? Well, read this, taken from today's MSN.com slideshow: "Investigators suggested that some of Challenger's crew members may have survived the explosion itself but died in the fall down to earth." Horrific. That may qualify as the worst sentence I read all year.

Extravaganza Eleganza!

2011-01-24T21:50:00.008-07:00

I do love me some drag queens. I mean, they got honest-to-god bravery, the likes of which 95% of men do not have. In such a male-centric world, these beautiful creatures dare to upend gender norms and not only dress as women, but dress as the wildest, most extreme women imaginable. They press buttons, they instigate, infuriate, provoke, and create. And they contribute far more to popular culture than most people imagine. If nothing else, they were an essential, crucial part of the group of gay men and lesbians who rebelled at Stonewall. With their fabulous high heels, they kicked the asses of those cops and began a revolution the likes of which have reverberated around the world and will continue to for years and years to come. If you know and love a gay man, lesbian, bisexual man or woman, transgendered man or woman, anyone questioning, or a nongendered person (yes, these people do exist, rare though they are), you owe a debt of gratitude to your local drag queen.

So it's no surprise that I also love me some RuPaul, and the wild creation that is RuPaul's Drag Race. I've been a fervent believer from the beginning. Even when I didn't have Logo on cable, I watched all the episodes online. From the first season, I saw Denver reprazent with the inimitable, insane Nina Flowers, who landed second place. (I still think she was robbed, but just barely; Bebe Zahara Benet is an astonishingly beautiful woman.) That gurl, more than any queen I've ever seen, transcends traditional drag (if there really is such a thing), and transforms herself into a creature that is beyond gender. And let me tell you - Nina's makeup skills are SICK. No one can touch her. (Incidentally, I had the excellent fortune one summer day at the local waterpark to meet up with Jorge Flores - Nina out of drag - and I can tell you, at least at this juncture, he was as gracious and friendly a guy as you could ever meet. Hugs, smiles, and genuine greetings for everyone, new and old friends alike.)

Saw tonight's premiere episode of the third season, and, well, here's my take. Bullet-pointed, natch. (You know me too well.)

Raja - THE one to beat. Attitude for days, confidence that won't quit. She ain't the prettiest, but she has thrown down, and on this first episode, she was unstoppable.

Big girls - Three of 'em? YEAH! If there's any place in gay culture where big girls can really thrive, drag is it. And what's even better, on their debut, none of 'em were lip synching for their lives. The one with the best name - Mimi Imfurst - was even in the top three! HALLELU! Fabulous spin on a Christmas theme, being an overgrown Virgin Mary. Having said that...

Mimi Imfurst - She needs to watch it. Breakdowns like hers, even backstage, are not becoming of a queen. When she admitted to the judges that she was surprised that she was not in the bottom three, she served notice that her self-esteem left a lot to be desired. And low confidence gets you nowhere quick.

Shangela - Ouch. Second time back, and she still is lip synching for her life the first time around. Glad she made it through, but again, the judges have their sights on her.

Phoenix - Unlike her sassy sister from last season who soared to 2nd place, this one is feeling awfully thin. She ain't long for this competition.

The pit crew - Duh-ROOL. Only complaint: Far too few of 'em.

Mike Ruiz - Ditto. Only complaint: Did he HAVE to be in The A-List: New York? He's FAR better than that. That show just about ruined him for me.

Best quote of the night - "Do you know how many Muppets I had to kill to make this thing?" Said about a green boa by a queen who, unfortunately, did not make it to the show.

Little known fact: I have done drag twice in my life. First time was at a queer ball at a college just across the river from ours. FUN, FUN, FUN. Had my friends doll me up, and my best friend loaned me a slinky black dress and her heels. Somehow, I fit them. I thought I looked hideous, but apparently I looked good enough that - I swear on all that is true and right in this world - lesbians at this ball were hitting on me. Weirded me out, and also: do you know how self-defeating that is? Talk about your genderfuck. On the plus side, I performed onstage that night. I did "Respect" by the queen of all queens herself, Aretha Franklin. Didn't have it choreographed at all, but went up there with nothing but attitude. And amongst some really tough competition, I landed my first dollar tip, but even wilder, I won the tiara. (Well, one of 'em. To be fair, I shared the title with a guy who performed a perfect "Respect Yourself" by Madonna that was honestly choreographed to within an inch of its life. Goes to show you that in drag, either way will take you far.)

The second time, I was performing at our med school's no-talent show. ("What? You have no talent? Not an excuse. Get up there and strut your stuff!") In a black dress, lavender hair, and a BRIGHT red boa, and dubbed Lady Belladonna, I performed Peggy Lee's "I'm A Woman" with as much sass as I could muster. Brought the house DOWN. Pictures and even a video of my performance still exist...somewhere. I ain't telling.

Retreats

2011-01-16T23:26:00.004-07:00

Around this time each year, I start to go a bit batty. The holidays are over, but days are still short. Work piles up. The levity that comes with warmer breezes and more daylight is just out of reach. Pagans and wiccans (of which I am not one) acknowledge this in their holiday Imbolc, which welcomes the spring hopefully just around the corner. Groundhog Day is the more popular version of Imbolc, depleted of any sort of pagan (read: threatening to Christianity) meaning.

Part of me digs the high pomp and circumstance of ritual that accompanies some holidays. But at this time of year, I'm just DONE with that sort of thing. The simpler, the better. And I yearn for the introversion that eluded me over Christmas - literally, the darkest time of the year.

The February after I graduated college, I still found myself living in the town of cows, colleges, and contentment. And really hating life for the above reasons. So, on the friendly advice of one of my professors, I took a long weekend and holed up in a monastery in the middle of nowhere, just to ground myself. Did next to nothing except read some, write some, sleep a lot, and exist in warm, comfortable silence, with all my most basic needs provided for. It was heaven. And I returned, rejuvenated (even just a little bit) and ready to live life again.

Since then, retreats have been an essential contribution to my sanity. I haven't done them every year, but I miss them when I choose to forego them. And the last one I did was in 2008. So I'm heading out again this year - aptly enough, on Imbolc itself - to a small place in Arizona to indulge myself again. The place is awfully spartan - few creature comforts, simple food, and enforced silence for all times except dinner. Austere and forbidding landscape, too, full of cacti and pungent chaparral. But the place did offer a nice library, with lots of religious and philosophical writings. Physically, it might seem horrible. But the last time I was here, in 2007, I described my experience there as drinking a big triple thick rich dark chocolate-and-Bailey's milkshake for the soul. Unbelievably wonderful, but also so deep and intoxicating, it was almost too much for me to take. I can't wait to go back and drink deeply again.

How NOT to start a new year...

2011-01-02T14:40:00.006-07:00

AKA ramblings on why I'm glad the holiday season is (almost) over*

======

Item the first: Jägermeister is NOT my friend.

Item the second: Can't remember the last time I got in such a strenuous abdominal/diaphragm workout, voluntary or no. (Note: this is closely related to item the first.)

Item the third: Repeat item the first.

Item the fourth: How fucking old am I? Shouldn't shenanigans of this sort have ended years ago?

======

Yeah, decorations, Christmas trees, lots of baking and cooking, parties, and such. But man, does it place a strain on my ability to maintain a clean house! Just loaded the dishwasher to overflowing, and there's still enough dishes to run a second load. Not to mention the other chores I've been neglecting. I'm such a huge fan of simplicity and efficiency, and this time of year, I recognize I have to just let all those values drop for a month or two. But ah...the good a clean house can do for the soul once the holidays are over is just plain bliss.

======

Good God, this fudge recipe is AWESOME. It's like I've never had fudge before. I'm not even that big a fan of chocolate. Waistline be damned. (And it may well be so now.) A half cup each corn syrup and heavy cream. Bring to a boil. Take off the heat, add 3 cups chocolate chips, 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, and 1/2 tablespoon vanilla. (A cup or so of walnuts too, if you want 'em.) Stir in and bring back to heat until the chips are all melted. Pour in a foil-lined 8x8 pan and refrigerate a few hours. And slice and eat away.

======

*The holiday season will not officially end out here in Bum-Fuck Kansas Estates until our post-holiday party on the 15th. Prayers for the longevity of our tree, whose needles are getting pretty damned hard, are welcome.

Chocolate Amethyst

2010-12-29T20:00:00.003-07:00

I often enter the world of creativity when it comes to alcohol. Mr. Man prefers his tried-and-true rum and diet Coke, time and again. (Well, sometimes he switches to diet Dr. Pepper, and if he wants to sin, he'll indulge in the real stuff. But rarely.) But I'll try all sorts of different concoctions. No mixologist, I, however. More often than not, my drinks are valiant attempts, and that's as far as they go.

A year ago, almost exactly, inspiration struck like it will from time to time. But this time, the attempt was a hit. So here's the recipe:

Chocolate Amethyst

2 shots vanilla vodka
1 shot vodka
1 shot white creme de cacao
1/2 shot Chambord

Shake together with ice in a martini shaker, and serve in a cocktail glass.

Simple, right? So, more blogging to regale ya:

It turns out a pretty light lavender. (Usually lighter than it appears in this picture.) I originally tried it with dark creme de cacao. From a taste perspective, sure, it's the same. But to really evoke the name "Amethyst," you have to use white creme de cacao.

Mr. Man thought it would be especially decadent with Godiva liqueur. I didn't think it would make that much of a difference. So one night, because it's fun to drink these, we did a blind taste test, and found the taste about 99.9% the same. I liked the creme de cacao just the slightest bit more, and Mr. Man thought Godiva won out, but just by a sliver. But again, the color is part of the drink, so out went the Godiva.

The first sip may taste a bit cough syrupy. That's, unfortunately, what happens quite often when you use Chambord. But get past that first sip, and the rest is divine.

Mr. Man, well-connected social whore that he is, broadcast news of the Amethyst far and wide soon after its discovery. By far and wide, I mean to friends in places like India, Brazil, Australia, and the Netherlands. And, of course, stateside. Funny how the world wide webiverse works like that, ain't?

A few iterations followed, with varying degrees of success.

Substitute creme de banana for the Chambord, and you have a wonderful banana split-flavored concoction. Especially good with cream added in.
Substitute 1/4 shot of creme de menthe for the Chambord, and there's a good chocolate mint drink. Do NOT go overboard with the creme de menthe, lest you end up with vanilla-flavored Scope.
Limoncello instead of Chambord results in Generic Sweet Martini #248A.

One last fun fact: the word "amethyst" is derived from a Greek word that means "not intoxicating" or "not intoxicated." Apparently the gem amethyst was rumored to prevent intoxication. Amusing, right?

So there's your drink for the new year. Happy 2011!

Serve. Ask. Tell. And celebrate.

2010-12-21T13:15:00.008-07:00

I'm a bit late on this, but huzzah! DADT is repealed! It marks, in a very significant, official way, that homophobia will officially no longer be tolerated, just as President Truman's executive order back in the 1940s effectively ended official tolerance of racism.

I just saw President Obama sign the repeal of DADT into law this morning. Of course, he thanked the soldiers present today, saying that with little doubt, gay soldiers fought during the conflicts through our country's history...blasting the British in our fight for independence, marching along the front lines at Gettysburg, storming the beaches at Iwo Jima, dying and being consecrated forever for service in Vietnam, and currently serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. Military service is frequently ugly, and the policies that back it up are often questionable and sometimes reprehensible, but seriously, this repeal is major cause for celebration.

I remember watching some CNN or MSNBC show recently when the House passed the DADT repeal (before the Senate acted like morons). Rep. Barney Frank was interviewed about what it means, and how he felt about it. His first response? "I feel safer." I was first jarred by this response. Wasn't this all about LGBT rights? Then on further thought, the cynic in me thought that he was just saying something particularly politically savvy. Well, he was, but man, he's right: Eliminating DADT is just as much an issue of national security as it is LGBT rights. And for the majority of Americans, that's really the main issue.

A political promise made to our nation, and to gay men and lesbians across this nation, has been kept. And with such a huge, visible, nationwide discriminatory policy struck down, a huge step in LGBT civil rights has been taken. The positive ramifications of this action should reverberate for decades to come.

Thank you, Senators Lieberman and Collins, for fighting to keep this issue alive. And well done, President Obama. Thank you for keeping your promise.

Of fools and kings...

2010-12-09T16:05:00.007-07:00

...and I think we "fools" in this case might be smarter than the kings.

(Or: rants about the inability of our fucking government to repeal a stupid, stupid law, despite all evidence showing that it should.)

Now, I ain't no politico. (Imagine me as an armchair warrior, saying that with a good Southern drawl, slow and deliberate.) I seldom get riled up over politics. I usually keep my head down, and don't talk about things over which, aside from voting in this (har-de-har-har) democratic nation, I basically have very little control. But this is a fucking travesty.

As one of my friends put it, only in America can a 17-vote majority not pass legislation. I'm talking, of course, about Don't Ask Don't Tell. (There's a seldom-mentioned third part to that: Don't Pursue, but meh...niggling details, right?) Didn't pass today by a vote of 57-40. (Needed 60 to pass.) Gadamighty, but I am so disillusioned by our gummint. Indulge me in some no-solution spleen-venting, m'kay?

I have no desire to be in the military, nor have I ever. But I do have a great deal of respect for the men and women who live and work in service to our country in one of the most honorable ways I know. Soldiers put themselves in harm's way regularly. They do what they can to protect our country and preserve the stability thereof that helps to ensure a pretty damned productive society. I like the statement, overblown though it may be in some cases, that soldiers write a blank check to the nation for the total up to and including their lives. Quite true.

Not gonna go that much into the extra sacrifice that gay men and lesbians make. We all know it. Under DADT, they can't tell the truth about who they are and what, at a very core level, defines them. They live a lie so they can serve their country. Being honest about who they are places them at risk of being discharged. It also places them at significant risk of being harassed, physically and otherwise, although that's decreasing day by day as we're becoming more visible and more accepted.

But here's what really galls me. Despite such overwhelming evidence that out gay men and lesbians do not pose a risk to a unit's morale and ability to function; despite a recommendation by the motherfucking PENTAGON, for crying out loud, that DADT should be repealed; despite a majority of servicemen and servicewomen who believe that DADT should be repealed; despite a majority of Americans who believe that DADT should be repealed, it remains intact due to the asshattery of Congress.

If I ever met John McCain (thanks to Sarah Silverman, I know his name rhymes with "shit stain"), I'd spit in his face. Hypocrite that he is, he originally stated that he would go with whatever recommendation the Pentagon handed down regarding DADT. I'm sure he did that figuring that such a conservative, old-guard entity would never recommend anything other than maintaining the status quo. Well, oops. Now with this recommendation, he's been making flippy floppy and leading the charge to keep DADT intact. He's stated that more research needs to be done, more thought needs to be put in, and it shouldn't be repealed. He's even gone so far as to say that the recommendation is that DADT can be repealed, but the recommendation doesn't say it should. Good God. Get me a battleaxe.

With this position, McCain is saying that we should continue to accept convicted felons into the military to serve our nation, however warped they might be. But out gay men and lesbians, regardless of how morally upright they might be, or how powerful, or intelligent, or diplomatic, or dedicated, or self-sacrificing, or honorable they might be, should not hold a position in our military, and if found out, should be discharged. In essence, gay men and lesbians (assuming they are not felons themselves) hold a lower status in the military than felons.

He's also saying that the priority should be placed on discharging out gay men and lesbians, regardless of the position they hold, or of the scarcity of their talents. Witness the soldier whose fluency in a number of Middle Eastern languages, and subsequent value as an intelligence expert, was trumped by who he's attracted to. Never mind that there was no one nearly as qualified as he was to do his job. Never mind that his expertise - which I'm sure came in pretty handy about 5 years ago - was judged inconsequential when placed beside his orientation. And especially never mind that the end result of this could have contributed to a breach of security in our country, no matter how small. (He and over 13,000 other soldiers were discharged because of DADT. How's about THAT for a loss of valuable men and women who would otherwise protect our country?) McCain and his fellow blithering idiots believe that we should just plain get rid of the queers.

Other stupid-asses who have made it into holding public office believe that gay men are, across the board, wispy little fairies with limp wrists and who can't hold their own physically. Or at least that's what they say publicly. (Pandering to their constituents?) I'd love to invite them to some of the gay bars I frequent and show them the guys there - physically daunting, huge in some cases, who are awfully muscle-bound and know how to use their muscles. I'd love to introduce them to the gay men I know who are - right now - serving our country faithfully and loyally (one of them out, no less), and whose compatriots consider them tremendous assets. I'd love to show them gay men who don't know the first thing about flaming, and wouldn't know how to flip their wrists convincingly if their lives depended on it. But they could certainly handle an M-16 if given the proper training.

Oh, and of course, there's the argument that gay men are all ravenous sex machines who would try to come on to straight men if they were placed in close quarters together. Please. Soldiers - regardless of orientation - are there to do a job, and they know it. Straight men have largely proven that they can function in the field with women without disrupting morale. If a straight man is that insecure about a gay man potentially coming on to him, he needs to address why he's so insecure. (To be fair, if a gay man ends up coming on to a straight man and it does interfere with morale, then disciplinary action should be taken.) (Another non-sequitur: one of my favorite ways to totally deflate straight guys who think I'm checking them out: "Don't flatter yourself." Catches 'em off-guard every time.)

I'm done.

DADT MUST GO. NOW.

Powder blue and fuchsia...I'm thinking wedding colors now.

2010-12-08T21:32:00.011-07:00

If you want to raise my hackles at the post office and make me wish silent death by repeated 30-gauge needle pricks, here's what you do:

- In December, wear a tennis skirt.
- Make it as bright and obnoxious a fuchsia as you can. The better to set off your unusually tan legs for this time of year, right?
- As a top, wear a '70s powder blue quilted jacket.
- Roll the sleeves back juuust enough to show the plaid pattern that brands it a Burberry.
- Do your hair back like a tennis player. Scrunchies are really fashionable.
- But don't worry about any other pretenses about being a tennis player. After all, it's December. *facepalm*
- Carry a Louis Vuitton bag.
- Check your Blackberry about that baby shower that Ashley and Kimberly are throwing for Madison.
- Look as entitled as you know you are. Blasé works as well.
- Don't even glance back at the 15-person line that's been forming behind you.
- And most of all, lug five or six packages - unpacked, unsealed, and not in envelopes - just for the poor unsuspecting postal worker to deal with for the next 15 minutes.

Why I hated 8th grade, part 529.

2010-12-04T16:27:00.011-07:00

Omphaloskepsis: excessive introspection, self absorption, or concentration on a single issue.

Interesting dream this morning. While visiting a friend in San Francisco, I began reliving unfun times at my 8th-grade yuppie training facility. Some background: Back in the day, I decided rather stupidly to jump ship from a middle school I rather liked into a richie-rich prep school with a three paragraph-long dress code. (The parents thought that I had exhausted the curriculum at the former school, and they really wanted to say their son was going to one of the most prestigious schools in town.) Bad enough that being 13 or so is already tumultuous. Add on the fact that the kids at this school were snobs who had already formed their cliques. They were not going to be interested in having a nerd with braces, large square-rimmed glasses, an unflattering buzz cut, and more-than-lacking social skills soil them with his uncool ways. So I gritted my teeth and endured 8th grade with no lack of Sturm und Drang.

So, back to my dream. Recounted to my friend how much I hated that place. He then produced a letter out of thin air and told me to read it. It was from a guy who was among the quieter, nerdier types who, despite this, was still in one of the cool cliques (due to his longer tenure there). His letter was actually really complimentary. He said he wished we could have been better friends, and in the end, he wished me well. Whoda thunk?

Enter Facebook, for better or worse. I found...well, not this guy. Not immediately, at least. I first found another guy I had known in this former life of mine, who had well over 600 friends. And amongst them, I found quite a few names from said former life. It was wild to see how many people I had known in the past, and how many people I had turned my back on. And not necessarily for the worse, either. There were lots of kids I just plain didn't get along with. The pictures I saw were pretty telling, too. These people are now living, in part, the life I wanted to avoid as much as possible. Yuppie families, consisting of real estate agents, architects, self-employed people, and the like. All showing off their happy babies and young kids. Beautiful people smiling over fancy dinners, functions, benefits, and charity gatherings. (Never mind that I'm actually kind of a guppie myself, and self-employed too.)

Back in the day, I hated these kids more than I can say. They were my ultimate nemesis. I saw a lot of what I did not want my life to be like. I saw a lot of who I did not want to be friends with. Unfortunately, what I did not see was a good view of how I wanted my life to be like.

One thing I've learned while being self-employed is that if you are to be successful, you have to have a razor-sharp clear vision of what that success looks like. And that has been incredibly difficult for me to envision. I've always known the opposite. It's awfully tough to look at things that are traditionally associated with success, and not reject them out of hand. When I was younger, my view of "success" involved a lot of business casual, a lot of snifters and highballs in the den while discussing business, a lot of easy-listening crap from the 1970s, and not a whole lot of iconoclastic fun. And the kids of these so-called successful grown-ups seemed entitled, spoiled, and either pranksterish frat boys in the making or holier-than-thou princesses. I was usually the target of these kids. Again, this wasn't how I wanted to live my life. The problem was, I couldn't find exactly how I wanted to live my life for a long, long time.

Even now, I have a hard time sometimes talking about things I love in my life, things for which I have a great passion or a great desire to see/do. Music is up there, as is writing...

Okay. This is getting even too solipsistic and What Color is your Parachute-ish even for me. I'll spare you the details.

Oh, and that dream? I'm certain there's a big lesson in there for me about how I should give these people who I grew up with a second chance. Or something.

PSA re: AIDS

2010-12-03T11:25:00.009-07:00

Yeah, a few days late for World AIDS Day, but oh well.

The current scene regarding AIDS and HIV is one of apathy and complacency. One of my friends (in the army, no less) frightens me...young, attractive, sweet guy, who's negative, but who nonetheless is regularly putting himself in the crosshairs, sexually speaking. Like so many guys like him, he has the feeling he's invincible. (Didn't we all when we were young?)

I hear stories about "bug chasers," guys with an apparent death wish, who actually WANT to contract HIV, so they just get the supposed-inevitable done and over with. I simply cannot imagine.

On the upside, the drugs being used nowadays are indisputable lifesavers. I know a few guys who contracted HIV in the 1980s, and somehow lived through it. They're still alive and in relatively good health today. It's now more common for PWAs to actually die of something else other than AIDS. Unfortunately, death from side effects of the drugs (usually liver failure) is one of the more common scenarios nowadays.

Apathy and complacency is frightening against a disease of this sort. Which is why I find it really important, on a regular basis, to take out either the movie or (preferably) the book version of And the Band Played On. It's a compelling documentary about how AIDS was spread, the research that was hamstrung by homophobia everywhere from the federal and local government to the gay men who fell victim to it, and the pissing contest between the Americans and the French who only wanted to claim the title of the first country to discover HIV.

Another great, essential movie is Longtime Companion, which was the euphemistic title given to those surviving partners of AIDS victims. The New York Times couldn't say "his boyfriend" or "his partner" in the obituaries, again, due to internal and external homophobia. This one is more of a story of how HIV ended up slaughtering a community of friends in New York and Fire Island, and the emotional fallout from it. A certain tearjerker, with the memorable line, "What do you think happens when we die?" "We get to have sex again."

Those happy, hedonistic days of the 1970s ended up being the dreadful conduit through which HIV could flourish. A virus that could be spread so easily, enable a victim to live symptom-free for up to 6 years, then begin wreaking havoc on the immune system is just frightening. It's a perfect recipe for an epidemic, especially knowing how wild gay men lived back in the day. How many potential partners could you sleep with in six years? Some guys couldn't count the number of partners they had in just one year...upwards of 300 in some cases? The mind boggles.

If I had my druthers, I'd sit my friend down and have him watch both movies back-to-back, just so he can see what the generation before him had to endure. Living with AIDS is a lot easier now than it was 30 years ago...hell, living with AIDS is actually possible. But it doesn't diminish the import of trying to fight it and (hopefully) coming up with a cure of some sort.

Top of the World - Shonen Knife

2010-11-26T12:13:00.004-07:00

Very little to say about this, except that it is in heavy contention for the happiest, sunshiniest, poppiest, most joyous song I've ever heard. Take Karen Carpenter's original, performed with measured contentedness and a sprightly but low-key beat. Now let an all-female power pop/punk group from Japan grab hold and blast through it.

Shonen Knife doesn't care that their rhythms might be a bit off, or that they can't quite sing "world" right, what with its tricky "rl" combination. That's what make it so fun. They power through "Top of the World" with such unabashed playfulness, it's impossible not to enjoy it. Or dance like a Muppet or a Peanuts character with it. For me, songs like this, even more than Nirvana, guaranteed that the 1990s would not suck.

From "If I Were A Carpenter":

A slightly edgier live version complete with lyrics:

An evening in the life...

2010-11-18T19:28:00.006-07:00

Because this is what y'all live for, right? A glimpse into the dark underbelly of yours truly. And how exciting could this get? Strap yourselves in.

What makes this evening, November 18th:

Juno. Or at least the last 30 minutes of it. I have a bad habit of watching movies in fits and spurts. I started Juno about a month ago, and have been, give or take, watching it 30 minutes at a time. And the good news about this is that you can successfully watch it this way - in fact, I almost recommend it over seeing this in one sitting. Two things make it this way. First, anything Minnesota-related moves at a slower and more comfortable pace than in many other states. Even Minneapolis. So you can get into it easily. And although I'm a huge fan of snark, Juno herself is eons beyond. Small doses go a looooong way.
Purple potatoes. Cookin' 'em as I type. Should be ready in about 20 minutes. That's my dinner. Why? Well...
Some weird virus. I've been fighting something or other for a while. HATE sore throats. It reared its ugly head last night. Won't bore you with the details (and they really are boring, not gruesome...do I really need to describe what a fever feels like?), but they were debilitating enough to necessitate me calling off work this morning. And a workout. And a meeting with four people about my business. (One that was already rescheduled.) The day was just filled with exciting naps and naps. And when I get sick, I generally don't eat much. But for some reason, these purple potatoes on the counter were calling me. I'll tell you how they are in a bit.
Kathy Griffin: Whores on Crutches. I'm not one of "Kathy's gays." But I do enjoy her comedy.
Rebel Without a Cause. Will go on shortly after KG. One of the most influential movies in my life. Srsly. Through most of high school, I wore button-down shirts and Dockers almost exclusively. A friend of mine once asked me to sing "Runaround Sue" with him in our high school talent show. In 1950s drag: t-shirts and jeans. Except I didn't have any jeans. Fact! But after watching James Dean in action, all that Alexander Julian and Polo became obsolete overnight. T-shirts and jeans were ALL I wore the following year. And that movie, for some reason, just liberated me.
Kiss. The Prince song. One of my friends who lives in Longmont raved about a new karaoke venue up there, in a nice, spacious auditorium. So a bunch of us boys from the local gay choir drove up 40 miles late last night to warble. Won't exaggerate: I sang "Kiss," and brought the muthafuckin' house DOOOWN. And this was amongst the likes of Luther Vandross, Phantom, Josh Groban, and Patsy Cline. A few guys didn't think I could pull off the high notes at the end. Pfft. Whatever. (Other songs I sang that were hits: Rufus Wainwright's version of "Halleujah" and Michael Buble's "Sway.")

Oh, and the purple potatoes? Not bad.

He kissed me...it felt like a hit.

2010-11-12T11:50:00.008-07:00

Okay, all you Gleeks. This last episode SUUUCKED. Or rather, it would have, if it weren't for the stellar plotline following Kurt and his tribulations with being bullied. Or even more so, his suddenly finding his version of Hogwarts for gay boys and an absolute dreamboat named Blaine.

I go back and forth on this one. See, I understand the import of the "Teenage Dream" sequence, wherein Blaine and his fellow (all-male) glee clubbers serenade directly to Kurt, complete with knowing smiles, winks, and all other manner of good-natured flirting. God, this was adorable. Gay boys around the country now have, for posterity, a concrete vision of possible romance going right. (Read more from my compatriots Tom & Lorenzo, who really brought down how revolutionary this episode was.)

But at the same time, the guy in me who understands that Glee is nothing if not unrealistic still felt his guts go gooey in the most amazing way during another scene.

Yeah. That locker room scene. HOT HOT HOT.

That kiss. So violent and passionate. THAT'S the kind of kiss that would have sent me WAAAY over the moon back in the day. Not to mention the exact surroundings, and the exact type of guy. A slightly dopey, overgrown linebacker...who turned out to be gay, and quite possibly totally into me? Swoon. Seriously. That was my high school fantasy.

Kurt and I are most decidedly not cut from the same cloth. He shoved that galoot away when he tried to go in for a second kiss, and totally should have. Me, I would have thrown all caution to the wind, gone in for seconds, and within 2 minutes, we would have been caught up in some wild-ass monkey sex.

Randomless meanblings ram. Seattle version.

2010-10-31T18:37:00.013-06:00

Ah, Seattle. So stately, calming, grounding, pretty. And potentially so depressing. Kindasorta remember why I hightailed it outta the Pacific Northwest after school 7 years ago, but for a weekend visit, it's hard to beat. Rained yesterday, but today, the sky actually had pretty layers of all shades of periwinkle, steel gray, deep blue, and white. And the simple, minimalist architecture just accentuated its beauty. Not your typical fall/winter day up here. I'm so used to the monochromatic, monolithic pea soup fog that permeates the sky, the soul, and the brain - and utterly etherizes you. But today was just gorge.

I was grateful to see that the typical naturopathic chic fashion was not in display at this conference - not like February. Green and purple Columbia sportswear fleece and scarves (at 50 degrees!?) ruled the place last time, and the place was filled with the stench of entitlement...the kind that gives liberalism and environmentalism a bad name. I could, if I put my mind to it and had nothing but time, write a satire about naturopathic culture...but the appeal would be WAAAY too narrow.

But I do feel more ready to attack autoimmune disease of all sorts and heal/cure it more effectively than my medical compadres. For my sake and for the sake of future patients, this is an unequivocally good thing. Do MDs really want to squash us out of existence? Fine. Let's see how well they handle autoimmune disease with their arsenal of steroids and...uh...yeah, that's about all they have, isn't it?

Now, how to get word out...

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Don't bug me. Like the rest of America (or the part that actually cared), I was LIVID on Thursday night. But life goes on. As one charitable woman put it to Sir Tim of Gunn, Mondo's got his career. Gretchen needed the money to get out of debt. In a way, it worked out. Somewhat.

But Meana Garzilla and Duchess L'Orange got a LOT of 'splainin' to do otherwise. It's not just the title they're bestowing. They're fucking fashion experts. They're naming The Next Best Thing, and their peers are gonna hold 'em to it. (Or, to really vulgarize it, they've named America's Next Top Fashion Designer.) Heidi, you're acquitted. (Tangentially, Jessica Simpson has officially joined the ranks of those who look gorgeous with voluptuous curves. I say: Let her quaff milkshakes! See also: Carey, Mariah; Hendricks, Christina.)

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Confidential to CDOT: It's nice that you've been cleaning up the I-70 Viaduct for these past few years. At a pace slightly faster than a snail on bennies would be nice, though. And does completed construction mean that there shouldn't be ANY sudden gravity-defying foot-deep dips in the asphalt, or am I wrong? Can I get a confirmation on this?

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Sometimes shyness sucks. See a guy on the dance floor, mentally grope him for a half hour (combined time...I dance, wander and get drinks, see...), and finally see him in the men's room as we're washing hands. We stand next to each other...the sinks are a comfortable elbow-rubbing distance apart. He says hi, I say hi, we smile at each other, and...that's it. He soon leaves with his friends, none of whom are particularly hard on the eyes, by the way. But this one...rowr. (And yes, I do have free license to, *ahem*, window shop. And a bit more. We have our version of "the rules" written down. But as aforementioned, my shyness keeps me from moving any further, not "the rules.")*

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*This last message brought to you by the Cuff Complex in Seattle, about 5 Cape Cods, Kylie's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," "Blue Monday," (as if I need to say who's responsible for this slice of heaven), Daft Punk's "One More Time," and because it's 2010 and it's unavoidable, goddammit, "Bad Romance." (Again...do I need to state the source?) Oh, and about half a pint (so far) of Ben & Jerry's Magic Brownies. Which, actually, aren't as magic as they purport to be. Just raspberry and chocolate. Tasty, but not so "magic."

Long live 2003. The longer, the better...so 2004 can be squished out as much as possible.

Bloodletting (20th Anniversary Edition) - Concrete Blonde

2010-10-27T23:27:00.002-06:00

I've already referred to Concrete Blonde twice here, so it only makes sense that I should pay homage in full to their kick-ass 1990 album, Bloodletting. This has to be one of the best albums for this chilly, sinister, skittish time of year. Though only two songs show direct inspiration from Anne Rice's vampire books, Bloodletting is dark throughout. Still, as an invitation to don your broomstick dresses and black eyeliner and lipstick, it's the most accessible goth album ever made. (That honor might otherwise go to the Cure's dolorous Disintegration, but sometimes those 9-minute dirges are a bit tough to plow through.)

Lead singer Johnette Napolitano is one of the coolest women in all of post-punk rock. Her blood-stained voice cracks and trembles throughout; indeed, she seems incapable of not expressing emotion. Even on the Dead Can Dance-worthy "I Don't Need A Hero," she nearly whispers naked vulnerability, then shows occasional flashes of rebellion on the chorus.

Aside from the wild, punky "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" and "The Beast," it's evident that Concrete Blonde's strengths lie in midtempo rockers. The title song sashays through New Orleans with a singalong chorus that's as fun as it is sinister. And the two singles ("Joey," "Caroline") take their time, with guitars fading and notes being held out for effect and increased tension. Despite their obvious status as singles, neither is light and fun. "Caroline" mourns the broken dreams of a vagabond who has suddenly skipped town. "Joey" chronicles the pain of a woman in love with a self-destructive alcoholic (with the memorable line, "I know you've heard it all before, so I don't say it anymore/I just stand by and let you fight your secret war").

Bloodletting's emotional nadir is its last song, "Tomorrow, Wendy." An autobiographical account of a friend who was dying from AIDS, this one bleeds anguish, bitterness, and irreverent rage against the powers that be. ("I told the priest, 'Don't count on any second coming. God got His ass kicked the first time he came 'round here slumming.'") But the most devastating words cut any hope for a happy ending off at the knees with the force of a blunt axe. ("Underneath the chilly gray November sky/We can make believe that Kennedy is still alive and/We're shooting for the moon and smiling Jackie's driving by and/They say, "Good try. Tomorrow, Wendy, you're going to die.") Ouch.

So why the need for a remastered 20th anniversary edition? Well, this is Concrete Blonde's best album, and some cobwebs really needed to be swept away. The sound is noticeably crisper and louder. And more songs were added, mostly to the album's benefit. A few worthy B-sides appear at the end, including a gorgeous rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Little Wing" that would have fit perfectly in the Singles soundtrack. From a live show, "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" blasts past even the original's meteoric tempo, while Napolitano does a nifty call-and-response rap in "Roses Grow." The only unlistenable bummer is an unfortunate bilingual version of "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)," wherein Napolitano sings the last chorus over and over in French while her bandmates sing it in English, producing incomprehensible cacophony. But really, in an album that now stretches over 16 songs, having only one clunker is pretty damned good. If you liked the original Bloodletting and are looking for a reason to pull it out, or if you just want to feel some sinister glee you haven't felt before, treat yourself for Halloween and get the new version. Very worthy.

Yes, it truly does get better.

2010-10-20T21:43:00.003-06:00

Nowadays, it's the best of times and the worst of times for gay men in America. DADT was just deemed unconstitutional, and a federal judge barred the Pentagon from pursuing any action under the policy. Of course, with such a volatile issue, we can expect a lot of wrangling before the dust settles. (UPDATE: Yep, the "stay" was just stayed itself. No surprise, but still a major bummer.) In the meantime: the result? Utter pandemonium and dissent in the ranks? Decreased morale and resignations by those disgusted by their fellow gay and lesbian soldiers? It's still early, but you can be the judge.

In addition, although the run seems to have slowed down, 5 states and Washington D.C. now allow gay marriage, and 3 more legally recognize it. And on a lighter note, Denver reprazents on Project Runway...at Fashion Week, and my money's on Mondo to take it all.

But on the other side of the coin, Logo is shilling the worst gay minstrel show on TV that should be avoided at all costs ("The A-List: New York"). Seriously, I never felt so good about being a suburban quasi-guppie in middle America after seeing this show. If that's the A-List, I want nothing to do with it. And if straight America wants to get their worst suspicions confirmed about gay men, then that's their show. Me, I cringe, and thank God that it's not being shown on a (slightly) more mainstream network like Bravo or Lifetime. Those guys certainly don't represent how I live on a daily basis...or how the vast majority of gay men in America live.

And most seriously, the biggest news item lately: the teen suicides that are occurring as a result of homophobic bullying. Five of them within the past month, right? Although I don't want to minimize the suffering of these five teenagers and their devastated families and friends, it has to be said: Those are only five that have been publicized. There's plenty more casualties. I won't go deeply into statistics, but thousands of teenagers yearly take their lives, and queer youth are nearly 4 times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. You can do the math.

These suicides have spurred a lot of overdue action and publicity. First bit I saw was the Give a Damn organization, showing videos by all sorts of celebrities discussing the fears and agonies so commonplace to queer kids of all sorts. Pretty poignant, these. And they're a wonderful contribution.

Dan Savage - the outspoken sex advice columnist of Savage Love fame - started the It Gets Better channel on YouTube. Being a teenager really sucks, and it really, really fucking sucks if you're a gay teenager. And if you're gay, you can't easily look up to teachers who are out and proud and happy to be mentors and role models...because they're pretty few and far between. And schools won't bring in gay men and lesbians from the outside, lest parents accuse us of something absurd like recruiting or trying to inculcate moral depravity. So Dan did what he felt was the next best thing: He opened up a place for any LGBTers and straight allies who survived their adolescence and subsequently saw their lives get exponentially better to post videos about their experience, so gay teens could see gobs of living proof that people lived through that hell, and are now living wonderful lives. What an amazing idea. Hundreds and hundreds of videos have appeared, filled with fascinating and often heartbreaking stories.

God, have I been there. It started when I was 13. I woke up from a rather vivid dream and suddenly put two and two together...did this mean I was gay? Scared me to death, as you might imagine. And indeed, within the year, after moving schools, becoming a complete outcast and nerd, and being accused of being gay numerous times, I nearly took my life. I had my head in a noose a classmate had jokingly made and hung from a rafter. I had one foot off the chair, and felt the other one begin to lift off, but then decided not to follow through, for whatever reason.

Then came high school. While many of the popular kids were totally getting it on and following their instincts, I was struggling to simply plant a first kiss on my girlfriend - just one, after she had asked me, after months of being together! - and feeling deep down in my core that this was wrong, so wrong, no matter how cool and sweet and pretty and intelligent and understanding and just plain fucking awesome she was. While some friends were going to parties and making out (I'd imagine), I was staying home and taking a knife to my arms and legs because I felt so different and wrong and misunderstood and because...well, if there's something wrong with me, there's only one person to blame and punish, right? And while lots of classmates were excited about their futures and wondering what they would bring, I was morbidly predicting that I would not live past the age of 17...that in fact, it would be wrong for me to live longer than that.

That was over half a lifetime ago. Now, every day that I live is in large part in gratitude to my 13 and 16 year-old selves for not taking my life. Every day, I also try to prove to that boy and that young man how amazing my life has now become, and how much better it keeps getting every day. I keep coming closer to becoming who I was fully meant to be every day. I'm in a wonderful, tremendously loving relationship with a really amazing guy; we just celebrated our 9-year anniversary a few months ago. I have a multitude of friends who love, accept, and celebrate me just as I am...and the sentiment is definitely returned. My work is very fulfilling...I see people grapple with health issues every day, and I do my best to help them overcome these issues and become as healthy as they want to be. At the end of the day, I'm thrilled to just plain be alive.

Normally, I don't go in for being so forward...particularly when there's a lot in just this blog post that could defame my character, let alone the rest of my blog. (I long ago wrote off running for public office.) But maybe I could reach a kid who has lost all hope and is about to take a horribly drastic action, and prevent him or her from taking that action. Or even just help someone who needs some reassurance after a tough day. For that, I will step out from behind this blog.

And if you're that kid reading this, I'm glad you're here. Stop. Take a deep breath. You're not alone. And trust me, and the thousands of people beside me who have already posted videos: Yes, it truly does get better. Hang in there.

"I am bored, so I figured I'd write you a letter."

2010-10-12T22:48:00.003-06:00

Random sentences (or two) from letters from friends, acquaintances, and loved ones, circa 1988-1993. (Man, in this day of quick, disposable e-mails, actual handwritten letters are like gold leaf to me. SO glad I saved so many of 'em.)

"It's such a pleasure to ask myself in the summer: What should I do now?"

"I love you."

"Well, chemistry (aka the deepest, darkest, foulest-smelling pit in hell) beckons, and as always, I heed its call." (Written on the back of recycled old chemistry papers, no less.)

"Have fun writing advice letters, luv. (I can just hear you laughing at those letters!)"

"I feel the need for speed - rollerblade style, that is."

"I think I'll go to Spain. Beautiful country, they speak Spanish, FABULOUS food, and a beautiful way of life - no hurry, no worry, no timekeeping, no problems."

"The kids are a blast to be with. Want to hear about them? You don't have much of a choice, do you?"

"I love the Scorpions (did you know they sold out 10 shows in Leningrad, Russia??!!)."

"I don't care though, because I like it, and it's my ear!"

"So after being significantly incoherent this evening, we are leaving at 12:00 noon tomorrow to go to a keg party with the social group that I want to pledge - the Sponges."

"AEROBICS FROM HELL calls me - my muscles already hurt, but Holy Moses, I'm gonna be able to wear a size seven COMFORTABLY."

"What I'd really like to know is how you're going to kill me when I live 2000 miles away!"

"My birthday is Wednesday - the big one-nine. God, I'm old."

"Sorry I can't share this one with you. But what will be will be. Smile."

"The reason I go along with the great Santa Claus 'lie' to my kids is because I truly believe and it is because of this article and what it says. Sometimes we all need to believe in 'lies.'"

"I'm sorry you hate your YTC school." (YTC = "yuppie training camp")

"To make a long story short, the fuckers arrested all twelve of us."

"Mom just came in and handed me a feeler from Northwestern! Awesome! Let's see what it says...college here is hell, write if you're interested. Am I ever!"

"Hey, right back soon. (Boy, it's nice to not have to worry about spelling things correctly anymore!)"

Fat Boys w/ Beach Boys - Wipeout

2010-10-05T23:11:00.007-06:00

Ah, memories of the summer of 1987...the best of times, the worst of times. The worst being the 5 weeks I spent at a military summer camp just outside Phila...Look. You can stop laughing. It really did happen. I think. Yep, it happened. You can't manufacture memories that for kids could be so traumatic.

Tragically, the same thing happened precisely four years prior. I remember that first night at camp in 1983 so well: my brother and I getting our stuff packed in the barracks, other kids much rowdier and wilder than us going apeshit all over the place, and the two of us kinda cowering in our bunks, immediately regretting signing on to this military camp thing because...why? Because our grandfather was the head honcho of the entire place, and he could get us in for free (and my brother in despite the fact that he was two years younger than the minimum accepted age). Not a good reason, folks, if you're looking to make friends. The morning after, we both wandered around the front of the barracks, all bleary-eyed, like it was some really fucked-up dream, all washed out like The Day After.

And military camp ain't a whole buncha fun. Counselors are hired for their sadistic tendencies. They love to make miscreants chew and swallow cigarettes while putting them through lots of physical training. And they're really pissed - probably because they didn't make the cut to become drill sergeants, so they have to deal with kids instead. The cool kids are the really gung-ho militaristic kids...the ones who can't wait to get into the army or whatnot. Then you have the kids who are so fucked in the head, the parents don't know what else to do with them, so they send them to military camp, hoping that'll teach them some discipline. (Note: This runs the gamut from spineless bedwetters to deranged psychotics whose parents dropped them on their head as a kid. And believe me...these two together do not make good bunkmates, as I witnessed across the hall from me: Faust and Nemkov.) Anyhoo, my brother and I survived those five looong weeks, swearing never to return. Oops.

Anyhoo, 1987 was a bit more tolerable. You get older, you get more laid back, things are cooler. The counselors seem to tolerate a lot more attitude. And the tunes get more fun and wacky. They didn't get any more stoopid than this, though. Enjoy.

TEAM MONDO!

2010-09-30T22:55:00.009-06:00

Good Lord, have you ever cried so much at a ProjRun episode?

So tonight, some of my friends and I traipsed down to Beauty Bar, a hipster dive where the schtick is a manicure and martini happy hour most evenings. Pretty enticing, this; I may have to take them up on it some evening. Anyhoo, they show Project Runway every week on a few projector screens, and during the commercials, they have raffle drawings and DJ Craig C spins until the show comes back on. Sweet and frilly cupcakes and cosmos are the order of the hour, and everyone just has a great time.

The reason for this scene is Denver's own Mondo Guerra. As I've said before, that boy is bound for Fashion Week. Ain't no stopping him now. Three wins in a row. He's got pretty much everything you'd want in a designer: strong point of view, he's not afraid of color, and has damn-near impeccable tailoring. Oh, and Nina j'adores him. If you can clinch that, you're golden.

Mondo rules the roost at Beauty Bar during PR showings. Tonight, he also brought along the much-maligned but still adorable and talented Michael Costello and his boyfriend. (One of my friends claims to have, uh, participated in a threesome with them last night, but that's a story for later.) As we found out later, it was because Michael wanted to provide support for Mondo tonight.

Once again, Mondo blew everyone away; no one was even close to him. And, of course, the room went berserk once he was declared the winner. But here's the big deal, in case you don't watch PR. The designers got to reunite with either their mothers, or in one case, the guy's hot-as-fuck boyfriend. Tears flowed like boas in a drag queen's dressing room - myself included. But then it came out that Mondo was HIV-positive, and had been for 10 years. He wisely decided not to tell his mom as they were enjoying an afternoon together in the big city. But it rode on him. And his poz status inspired the gorgeous black, yellow, and purple print he made of repeated plus signs. After hesitating on the runway to reveal his inspiration to Nina, he decided to divulge his status, much to everyone's deep respect. Tears, cheers, and hugs everywhere again, both on the show and at Beauty Bar.

Now, for the killer: Did I mention that his parents were at Beauty Bar, too, watching the whole thing? (Uh, Mom? Dad? I have something deeply personal I need to tell you, and nationally syndicated TV seemed the most appropriate way to do it.) I'm sure they were frightened and probably more than a bit upset, being (most likely) conservative Catholic Hispanic parents. But seriously, I'd like to think that was buffered by the obvious Mondo love flowing through the place...as well as the obvious Mom love that surfaced when the moms reunited with their kids. At least, that's the hope.

I'm firmly on Team Mondo. At the beginning, Gretchen was the one to beat, and she's still pretty solid, but her latest designs haven't been all that. Still, her spot in Fashion Week is hers to lose. I know I've called out Andy to complete the Fashion Week trifecta, but after the past two weeks of random designs, he's lost focus, and I don't know if he can get it back again. He does have that strong POV, though. April is also a big contender, and I see her possibly beating Andy out. Everyone else can pack it up and go home. (With apologies to Michael C.)

Why it's not easy being green

2010-09-30T12:36:00.009-06:00

Once upon elysian days in halcyon fields, I loved the color green. It vied with blue for my favorite color, until I came out and fell in love with orange as well. (Blame Very.) But for the past year or two, my love for green has steadily dwindled, and uggh...if I open up the pages of the local alterna-screed and see one more shade of green, I'm gonna puke. Green puke, of course, just to purge it from my system once and for all.

Why is this? Well, as a leftie health care professional who does not prescribe drugs (can't even do it legally if I wanted to, which I don't), I can say the color green has been linked with our profession, at least to some extent. You know...it's the color of that beaten-to-death sacred cow, The Environment. And my colleagues and I are nothing if not tied with the environment. Pretty much all our healing techniques are dependent on the health of our planet: herbs, homeopathy, clean water, fresh air, high-quality food, and other such stuff. If it goes down, we start to struggle. Digression over.

So I can sum up my aggravation in two words: Medical marijuana.

The only real objection I have against marijuana in general is that I really don't care for the smell. (That, and the "we fear what we don't know" argument...I've never ingested marijuana in any form other than second-hand smoke.) I'm not against medical marijuana...I've heard numerous stories about how it has dramatically helped people seemingly after all other (allopathic, traditional) methods have failed. And medical marijuana has been available in Colorado for a few years legally...as long as you have a, uh, doctor's "prescription." It's been about as easy to procure said ganja as limping (truthfully or not) into a dispensary, claiming joint or low back pain or some other such thing, and getting someone to write a prescription for it. Again, there's a legitimate use for it, but when 18-25 year old males are the demographic that uses medical marijuana most, it kinda makes you wonder about that legitimacy.

I suspect there's been a lot of abuse of the legal right to use medical marijuana here in the (ahem) highest state in the nation (average elevation just shy of 7,000 feet). And it gives medical marijuana a bad name. There was a law passed this past year making it significantly more difficult to run a medical dope shop (read: you gotta have all your licensing creds together), which, knock wood, will raise this profession's standards. But until that law gets enforced, there's plenty of evidence of an economic marijuana bubble about to burst all over the place. And the most readily visible evidence of that is in the back pages of the local rag, where every ad for a place that dispenses marijuana is, of course, green.

For that matter, I seethe when I see the word "wellness" or "holistic" used in such context. Marijuana, on its own, does not constitute "wellness." It is not a "holistic" treatment. And for health care professionals such as me, using these words in the wrong context a) gets at my craw, b) usurps a word that really, should be about the medicine that my colleagues and I practice, and c) could potentially damage what little reputation our profession has.

Overthinking things, mayhaps? Guilty. But fergawdsakes, I can't WAIT to see the green ads for medical marijuana be reduced from 6+ obnoxious pages of poorly-regulated, low-quality shoppes down to maybe a page of ads for a handful of reputable companies.

And while I'm at it, I'd like to have a pony and peace in the Middle East.

"Your fucking stupidity has killed me. Now my goddamn cat is homeless."

2010-09-19T10:54:00.000-06:00

By now you undoubtedly have seen this hilarious beauty. The debate between the old warhorse iPhone and the new upstart Evo/Android rages nowadays, and many people think the iPhone is going down.

I'm no tech expert, but as someone who has had both an iPhone and an Evo (my current phone), I have to say that the iPhone wins out in my book. I may change my tune soon, but I've got some reasons why (much to my better half's chagrin) I still prefer the iPhone.

Music. First and foremost in my list, of course. iPhone backs up seamlessly with (duh!) iTunes. Plug it in, and iTunes opens automatically and does its job. The Evo has a crappy music platform that's hard to back up. Worse, it doesn't link easily with any music software like Media Player. Big fail in my book.
Sound: Voices sound awfully tinny on the Evo. And for that matter, the little music it makes when it starts up is pretty craptacular. Sounds like some tone-deaf audio intern came up with this half-assed music that was thrown on at the last minute because...well, you do have to have something on there, right? Paging Thomas Dolby, please.
Backing up in general. Effortless with the iPhone. Plug it in. Done. But the Evo? Wake up your phone. Plug it in. Open the top menu. Select the item that says "Select to change USB connection type." Then select "Sync contacts and calendar." Then "Done." It finds HTC Sync on the PC. Hang out for a bit...it takes some time. Then on the phone, select "Sync now." If you're lucky, it syncs up immediately...but that's not a guarantee. Then you get to close the window with a report of what just synced (which actually is a pretty good feature.)
Battery life. Far and away, the #1 complaint of everyone with an Evo. I agree...the battery life SUCKS. But you have so much going on in the background that of course the battery life is gonna suck. And suck and suck. How do I adapt? A charger at home, at work, and in the car. Pretty high-maintenance for me.
Too many options. This, in my mind, is one of the big differences between Apple and Microsoft...at least from a user point of view. Apple is streamlined, with very few ways to do things...but they are effective. Microsoft is more varied, with many ways to do things. This accommodates more, uh, interaction and learning styles, I guess. (Oh...it's called "customization," apparently.) But for me, it's a bit too chaotic. I appreciate the relative simplicity of the iPhone and its easy learning curve.
Size. I just plain think the Evo is too big. Many will disagree with me, especially those with thicker fingers that need a bigger touch screen, and they have a legitimate argument. For me, though, the iPhone was just about the perfect size.
Predictive text. It's great if you accidentally type "reapect" and your phone automatically shows "respect." But do you really need predictive text if you're typing "dog"? Especially if there's five different words it offers as possibilities? (Or you could hit the arrow that offers up even more...20 words in all, including "significant" and "division." Please.)

"...a cross between MC Hammer and The Beverly Hillbillies Grandma..."

2010-09-16T21:22:00.010-06:00

Michael Kors is a treasure. Even when you take away his contributions to fashion. His witticisms are simply brilliant. This blog title just happened to be his best one yet this season of Project Runway. I also have a soft spot for "barefoot Appalachian Li'l Abner Barbie."

There's being catty for the sake of fun, you guys. But yeesh! Who pissed in the judges' bowls of Bitchy Bits this time? Duchess L'Orange (aka Kors) looked like he'd just had his teeth scraped with a rusty metal hasp, and Nina Garcia (aka Meana Garzilla) looked next in line for the torture. And it didn't help that this TV season's ice queen extraordinaire, January Jones (aka Mrs. Betty Francis) was on line to help with the executions. Nope...no wacky Milla Jovovich here. Not even Frau Seal was friendly. Interrrupting a designer trying to discuss his dress just to say you're about to lose it laughing because he was so way off the mark (even though he was so way off the mark) is just plain rude. (Thus saith the king of run-on sentences.) There must have been some gawdawful disaster backstage before taping began, and I cannot wait to hear what it was all about during the reunion show.

And on the flip side: let's hear it for the hometown boy! Team Mondo! He's bound for Fashion Week, kids. Mark my words. He and Gretchen and...well, I would have said Valerie before tonight, and I do adore her, but she's slipped a few too many times now for me to be so confident in her. That third spot's up for grabs by this point.

=====

And now for some completely depressing things: this was the front page of MSN.com tonight. This stupid-ass self-pity party. And directly underneath it, this latest attack on the sacred institution that is marriage. Seriously, you guys, if gay men were to try and bring marriage down, I don't think they could come close to what this monstrosity is proposing. We just want some simple legal rights and some tax benefits awarded to our straight brothers and sisters that we don't have. Meanwhile, brides-to-be are using this show not for finding the man of their dreams and pledging eternal love, but as a means for getting the lipo they've always wanted. Seriously. Another nail in the coffin of meaningful marriage, y'all.

And the worst of it all: total, endemic lack of confidence. Well, at least small business is doing among the, uh, least bad of them all. Huzzah for the small business owner. (Yes, that's me patting myself on the back.)

Hairstyles I Have Known...

2010-09-05T10:39:00.003-06:00

The good, the bad, the ridonculous, and the downright tragic.

The straight comb (through age 12): Pretty much the most boring of 'em all. Not so good for a fine-haired towhead like I was. Showed off every little mistake a stylist made. But I didn't really care too much about hair...for a while.

The spike (one-time shot at age 10): So I wanted to try something new and edgy. My stylist offered up this beauty, which made me look like I had a blond koosh ball sitting on my forehead. Never again.

The part (through age 15): Pretty innocuous, except for when my mom first bought me Dep to help with the part when I started 6th grade. I didn't know how to use it. Combed my hair to the side, then applied the Dep only to the bangs so they would stay. End result: a lock of hair across my forehead as stiff and attractive as a plank of wood.

The flattop (again, one-time shot at age 13): This was too good. Asked my mom if I could get a flattop. She assented, but I totally didn't hear her say "wait until after your sister's debutante ball tonight." I came home with this beauty, suntan lines and all, and you shoulda seen her jaw drop and her eyes bug out as she turned the corner from the garage hall. Comical now, but she shot flames of fury my way that afternoon. (Sister's ball went off without a hitch, natch.) But as a hairdo, it was way too long. Picture Bart Simpson.

The skater bangs (through age 18): Partially inspired by my skater betty girlfriend, I decided to grow my bangs long. They eventually reached down past my chin, and provided a great quasi-refuge when I was feeling antisocial (which, every damned day, people).

The #3 buzz (summer of '94): Look. When you're working at a Boy Scout camp, and no one really cares how you look, and the last thing you need to do is pay attention to your hair on your way to the morning's flag ceremony, why bother? Make it easy on yourself and hack it all off. That was my philosophy. Worked fine by me, and again, none of my fellow counselors paid any attention, but at least one of my high school friends threatened to disown me if I ever did that again.

The green stripe (fall of '94): And when you hate the college you go to and read the Anarchist Cookbook and listen to the Dead Kennedys and the Descendents for inspiration, your hair has to change accordingly, right? So once my hair grew out from the #3 phase, I took Manic Panic Alpine Green to my hair in much the same way my unfortunate experiments with Dep went. It actually looked quite cool, but washed out way too quickly. Two applications over two months, at which point I decided it was too much trouble to be worth it. (One picture taken of it, btw...by an ex who probably shredded the picture when we broke up. Squish squish.)

The long hair (summer of '95 through summer of '96): Almost the most unfortunate of 'em all, especially once it got long enough for me to tie back in a ponytail. Yes, you heard right. In its shaggy, Eddie Vedder era, when it was just getting started, it was actually quite cool. But I had to go further, and one year in? Dear Lord. Yes, there are pictures out there, about which the less seen, the better. Worst of all, I decided to keep the hair - tied back, of course - when I sang for my sister's wedding. And, oh, God, I hate to admit it, but Ma, you were right...it was a phase, and a bad one. Mea culpa. But not the worst. That honor goes to...

The Dutch Boy (fall of '96): Take your long hair. Tie it back. Chop it off. And when it gets longer and annoys the hell out of you, push it behind your ears. And pray to God there's no one with a camera within miles.

The butt cut (winter of '96): Now, go to a Russian hairstylist, tell her you have no idea what to do with this craptacular style, and ask her to just make it go away. Terrible name for it, but a part down the center made for one of the more successful styles I've ever rocked. Extra, extra points to her for using only scissors.

The spiked part (various and sundry times throughout): A little less conservative than a regular part, and way easier to maintain. My old standby.

The bedhead (current): Who knew I could wear this to work and get away with it? Maybe not terribly doctorly or professional, but it's fun and looks pretty good.

The death row inmate (fall of '05): I had just finished chiro school - the worst two years of my life. I needed some form of catharsis and release. So once graduation was done, I went to a friend who had clippers, and asked him to take 'em to my head. No guard. Just straight-on clippers. I saved the hair, and burnt it along with written memories of the worst times, people, places, and experiences I'd been through. Threw the remains into the lake in the center of the campus, and yelled a few defiant "FUCK YOU!"s at the place that had damned near flattened me. And I looked every bit the angry asshole for a few weeks afterward. Upside: I did get quite a few approving looks from guys in gay bars who went for the uber-masculine. But since I've grown my hair back out, I've fallen out of favor with them. Oh well. When you really don't have all that much of a receding hairline, and you're not going bald, why cut off what you have?

"Based on a Cro-magnon skinning chant..."

2010-08-27T15:56:00.005-06:00

This brands me a music nerd now and forevermore. If you couldn't guess before.

These pieces are mostly for those of you who can read music. But really, even if you can't, these are still pretty amusing. I mean, a piece that instructs the player to pick up small pepperoni? Insert peanuts? Add a bicycle? Release the penguins?

I would LOVE to hear some really, really brave and accomplished pianist crack their knuckles and give any of these a try. Or actually...a full-fledged band or orchestra. Someone's gotta cool the tympani with a fan, and it sure ain't gonna be the pianist, who will suffer certain carpal tunnel syndrome, ulnar tunnel syndrome, and spontaneous psoriatic arthritis upon attempting these pieces.

All compositions by John Stump, who gives P.D.Q. Bach a real run in the masters of absurd music dept.

Prelude and the Last Hope in C and C# Minor from the opera Marche de L'oie (March of the Ducks)

Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz (from "A Tribute to Zdenko G. Fibich")

String Quartet No. 556(b) for Strings in A Minor ("Motoring Accident")

Atushi Ojisama and Ijigen Waltz (from "A Tribute to Yamasaki Atushi")

Lament of the Introspective Turnbuckle (actually by Andrew Fielding, aka Bicuspo N. Behemouth.)

Glee songs, for your consideration...

2010-08-16T22:09:00.015-06:00

I know there's people out there who hate on Glee. And I can kinda understand it. I started off feeling kinda weird about the whole Glee thing, myself. It was just too geeky to succeed. But thanks to the mystical powers of the World Wide Webiverse, my friends ended up piquing my curiosity. And damn it all, if by the fifth episode I warn't hooked.

But why in the world ever? I mean, aside from the utter BRILLIANCE spewing forth from one Emmy-bound Ms. Jane Lynch, who makes Sue Sylvester one of the most hilarious curmudgeons ever seen on TV. Oh, and then there's Brittany, who somehow brings new vistas to the overplayed dumb-blonde stereotype. From a comedic standpoint, the show could rest on the shoulders of these two. But that's not Glee's big raison d'etre, nor is it how it established a name for itself. It's the music.

And so, at the risk of boring my readers with yet another list o' songs that simply must be heard (hey, at least I don't do the "Top 10 Songs To Bludgeon Your Hamster By" stereotypical titles, right? Oh, yeah...guess I do), here we go again. Why's Glee worthy? Here ya go.

To Sir With Love - Originally done by Britpop starlet Lulu, she of the doey eyes and the vibrato that sits just short of Judy Garland's earthquake-rendering tremolo. Lulu did make a charming run of it, and consequently the song hit #1 way back in the early 1970s. Glee does Lulu two better. First, it's great to hear the song sung with very little vibrato, but full of emotion. But second (and this is why you really need to watch the show), the glee club basically sings its gratitude to Mr. Schuester, the director, through this song. It's poignant in the most amazing way...just ask Sue Sylvester, who was actually brought to tears when she accidentally stepped in the auditorium during the glee club's tribute. Sue Sylvester. Tears. No, I'm not kidding. (And if my description falls kinda flat, that's because I'm sidestepping a spoiler. In other words, you really, REALLY need to watch the show. Last episode of the first season, specifically.)

Don't Stop Believin' - Who'da thunk that Journey, of all groups, would have lent one of their songs to a show with as daring a conceit as Glee? Let alone make it the linchpin for the pilot episode? But there it is, a song about lost souls in the guise of barflies and prostitutes, being sung by a high school glee club. Over the course of three minutes, this song made believers of anyone who watched that pilot. Then it formed the basis for New Directions' entry in regionals. (For fun, stand up and say "New Directions" as loudly and as quickly as you can when you find yourself in your next cubicle jungle.)

Don't Rain On My Parade - Look here. I am NOT a fan of Barbra's. I just don't get her. And I saw the original version of this song on Funny Girl. (Would it have killed her to break a smile while she was singing?) But OH MY GOD. Strap me in a chair and force me to listen to Rachel's version during their sectional performance, and man, I'll be a happy kid. Hell, I'll be busting out of the straps so I can vamp and lip sync along with her. Another one where you really need to watch Rachel's performance.

Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It) - Well, this one could cut either way. You may love it, you may hate it, but you won't forget it - at least in this context. I'd never heard the song before Glee, and my first exposure to it was Kurt Hummel, in a unitard, performing Beyonce's breathless tartlet on video before his dad unexpectedly showed up and caught him. (A very straight-acting, blue collar, seemingly homophobic dad, too.) Somehow, Kurt managed to, uh...let's let Kurt explain it. "My name is Kurt Hummel, and I'm auditioning for the role of kicker." On the football team. And with his Beyonce routine, he not only landed the "role," but managed to get the whole football team to dance to this song during the last play of The Big Game. Cheesy beyond belief. (Oh, and about that homophobic dad? Not so. Kurt comes out to his dad during this episode, and he is waaaay beyond cool about it.)

Alone - Raise your hand if you actually loved Heart back in the mid '80s. That's it. Don't be shy. You're not alone. I was there too. Now give this one a listen. Will Schuester, the director, joins forces with April Rhodes (the astounding Kristin Chenoweth) in an impromptu karaoke performance at the local bowling alley. Actually sent chills up my spine the first time I heard it.

Proud Mary - Now, I can't go through this list without paying my props to Mercedes, the requisite black diva with all the high notes and all the sass. She does a respectful slow duet with Artie on the first part, a la CCR. Then she blasts away everyone around her with a blistering version that would do Ike and Tina proud. Mercedes is given WAY too little screen and stage time, suffering the role of bridesmaid to Rachel. So moments like these are particularly welcome.

And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going - Yeah. What I said just now. Only ten times more. More Mercedes, please.

My Life Would Suck Without You - Me, actually liking a Kelly Clarkson song? Good God, the end is truly nigh! But New Directions sold it to me and I swallowed it whole and asked for more. I can't resist a song that goes "I know that I've got issues/But you're pretty messed up too." Hurray for dysfunctional people in warped relationships that stick together just because of love!

Vogue - The video. But only if you're a Madonna fan. A fine homage to one of the most iconic music videos of all time, with some amusing, subtle twists.

Sure, there are plenty of songs that are merely okay, and if I were to blog about the worst songs on Glee, that post might be three times as long. And ten times as boring. So there ya go. Enjoy. (And I swear my next post will not be a bunch of bullet points about music.)

Because being positive takes just too much energy.

2010-08-12T00:43:00.012-06:00

People, events and facts of 2010 (thus far) about which I could really give a shit. And then some, for good measure.

Tim Tebow - So the Donkeys...er, I mean, the Broncos...recruited this poster child for Good Moral Christian Fambly Values. And he writes Bible verses under his eyes when he throws the pigskin, y'all. Because he's so hard-core. People, I cannot ABIDE. Is it bad enough that this state of ours is saddled with Focus on the Family and one of the most conservative Christian cities in the whole damned country? I am NOT joking. (Aside: I drove through Colorado Springs with the radio on scan about ten years ago. For a city that at the time was about 360,000, there were four - FOUR - Christian radio stations. Again, I cannot abide.) Incidentally, a guy I know who is the most muscle-bound and chiseled man I have ever met is apeshit for Tebow, the quarterback. Not just Tebow the kinda-hot guy. I will admit that Tebow is a bit easy on the eyes (not in the pic here, though), but those muscle supplements must be working better than beer goggles on my friend here. (Who, incidentally, cannot write a correct English sentence to save his life...and he's a doctorate-level health care professional.)

Daniel Schorr - Who? Sorry, folks. I do have a literary streak in me, and I once contemplated a career in journalism, but, uh...the sorrow for this guy's passing just eluded me. Not the biggest fan of the etherized news broadcasting that is NPR, I. (Then again, take that with a grain of salt. Sometimes, even Dan Savage's podcasts bore me.)

Lady Gaga - Please. If you're going to push buttons, do it the old-fashioned way...with sex, not outrageous costumes. (With props to Madonna. But only through Erotica. She's been dead to me ever since, with a few spurts here and there.) Gay bois (and can I tell you how much I HATE that spelling?) LUURV her. And consequently, I have never been more thrilled about my advancing age. Oh, and I love this argument: "Oh, but she's really a good musician/songwriter." Someone...a barf bag? NOW.

Bears - Let's dive into this subbacultcha of gay life. I once loved me some bears. And to be honest, certain parts of my male anatomy still twitch if a particularly perfect specimen happens my way. (That's if, not when.) But damn my luck to be as hairy as a recently-shorn chihuahua. Hence, my utter invisibility in the eyes of bears. If ever there were a more perfect example of high-school cliquishness, you could hardly do better than the bear scene. I've lost friends to bears, seldom to be heard from again. And when they do acknowledge me, it's with a held nose. So...very little respect.

Tiger Wo... - Fuck it. Not even worth my time.

Arcade Fire - I tried to...um...tolerate these guys. I really did. Branding your first album Funeral is not a way to win over the populace, despite the frightening adulation of your adoring...uh...tens of critics. But hearing Funeral once - maybe twice - put me on permanent notice: these guys are not of use to me.

Anything vampire-related (almost) - Perhaps - perhaps - with the exception of the fount itself. And I admit I did wrong by it. I slogged through Bram Stoker's Dracula in high school over the course of one year. Shoulda taken me 1/12th the time. Oh, and there's Bloodletting, which cements Concrete Blonde into eternal greatness. But those are all pre-2010. So maybe I should really title this "anything Twilight-related."

Lindsay Loh... - What did I say above? Yeah. Goes double for this moron.

The 2010 World Cup - And thank you very much, South Africa, for 1) introducing the world to the fucktacular phenomenon that is the vuvuzela (despite being one of the coolest words ever), and 2) as a result, dampening my sincere desire to see the summer Olympics in Cape Town, whenever that may happen.

Rue McClanahan - I'm not a huge fan. She never did anything wrong in my eyes. But her death this year sent some of my friends into a tailspin the likes of which I couldn't grasp. Whatever.

More than anything...more than jewels...more than life...

2010-07-30T11:26:00.005-06:00

What I wish on this watershed of a day...

- that I could go to Hawaii
- that I could be bigger and stronger without health repercussions
- that I could have the libido I had half a lifetime ago
- that I could have the energy I've so often lacked
- that my office were fully packed up and I could leave for the day
- that I could be in a relationship where I don't feel like we both are keeping each other from being who we really could be
- that I had a big ol' soft-serve orange and vanilla twist ice cream cone
- that I didn't have to act as professionally as I do
- that I could just open my goddamned mouth and let fly whatever comes out and not care about the consequences
- that I could know who my birth parents are, and subsequently...
- that I could know what my health history is
- that I could paint my reality with broad strokes, instead of obsessing over the pointillistic details
- that alcohol and sex, sex, sex weren't so important to gay men (one sex is fine, thank you)
- that I lived closer to a beach with great boogie-boarding and body surfing waves all the time
- that I didn't have these damned voices in my head telling me what I can't do or can't have
- that I could be one kickass DJ and bring in at least some good coin from it.

Well...gotta keep packin'...

RRRGH...can't...write...can't...think...

2010-07-27T09:44:00.003-06:00

With apologies for the time being for you, my thousands of readers hanging on every word. Writer's block is a bitch. Well, that, and the fact that I'm preoccupied with leaving my place of work this Saturday and moving on to a better, more appropriate place for my skill set. (GAAH! Did I just say that? "Skill set"? Corporate-speak, get behind me!)

Just to let you know that, yes, there is someone still manning the controls up here. Coasting on autopilot for a bit, though. Life will calm down, inspiration will strike, and regular blogging will resume momentarily.

"There is no aspect, no facet, no moment of life that can't be improved with pizza."

2010-07-03T00:54:00.014-06:00

I have just finished watching the last two episodes of Daria: The Complete Animated Series. Oh, and the two hour-long movies, "Is It Fall Yet?" and "Is It College Yet?". And the Mystik Spiral video "Freakin' Friends." And the cast interviews. All in one night. Obsessive? Owned.

My ultimate judgment? Given that it's a cartoon about the trials and travails of high school, it's only appropriate to seal the whole thing with the most symbolic of high school judgments.

A+.

Seriously. This subject matter is timeless. High school angst? Sibling rivalry? Heartless lifemanship? Cliques at their worst? Teenage friendships at their best? First loves (and loves lost)? All handled with the skill of an expert swordsman.

Maybe I'm stuck in a permanently pre-adult, purely puerile (say that five times quickly) point in my life. Maybe I'm just clamoring for the teenage years I wish I could have back, just so I could do them right this time, dammit. But Daria is utter brilliance. I never thought I could be so riveted to a teenage girl's monotonous angst. And I really feel that although it encapsulates the angst of the 1990s high school scene, its theme is truly for the ages.

But then again, I have to think: in high school, I really was Daria...only on the male side of things. My voice was as monotonous as you could get. I was dripping with angst and self-doubt with every hallway corner I turned. I tried to sabotage my first real relationship (first unsuccessfully, then...well, is there a successful way to end a relationship, really?). I never had a faithful sidekick as devoted and cynical and witty as Jane Lane (damn, Daria was lucky), but the friends I did have definitely all fit the bill in one way or another. So I'm really, really biased. (Check that: my first real relationship? She was my sidekick. And I kicked her to the curb. Damn you, sexual incompatibility!)

Looking at the whole series in chronological order, I can definitely see things I never recognized in the past. To wit:

You NEVER would have seen Daria run up to hug Jane at the beginning of the series, when their standoffishness was central to their characters...yet there you see it, at the end of the series, after Daria nearly gets into a car accident. Daria is human!
Bribing. Fucking UBIQUITOUS at the beginning of the series. But for some reason, the Morgendorffers grew up, and at some point, money was no longer considered a means to achieve selfish ends.
Quinn. My God, but Quinn evolved. The snobbiest, most selfish, most superficial kid who always fit in perfectly in the Fashion Club grew up. She found out that learning and being smart is cool. She learned respect and - dare I say it? - sisterly love for Daria. (This, after years of disowning her as some distant relative or other.) She even stood up to one of her peers, calling her on having a drinking problem, even when it meant the end of their friendship.
Daria herself. I mean, she was so uniformly cynical, antisocial, sarcastic, a loner...you know the type. She totally encapsulated it. At first. But as the series went on, cracks showed up in the wall of cynicism she built around her. She began to acknowledge the love that her parents had for her. She began to show - in more overt ways - her devotion to her friends. She even (begrudgingly at first) reciprocated her sisterly love toward Quinn. And my GOD...she even maintained a relationship with a BOY for awhile!
Ms. Barch's utter HATRED for the male species - because of a heartless, cruel divorce she endured before the series started. No blaming her here. But it was totally cool to see how the endlessly hypersensitive Mr. O'Neill unwittingly and effortlessly melted this crone's heart...to the point where she was making out with him at any opportunity. By the last episode she was wholeheartedly accepting what she misconstrued as a marriage proposal. Take home: if the man-hating Ms. Barch can fall in love again, ANYTHING is possible. ANYTHING.

But some things that were established firmly at the beginning also remained stalwart to the end.

Jane. In all respects: her cynicism, her slicing wit, her (nearly) undying dedication to her friendship with Daria. (Aside from that whole boyfriend quasi-stealing mess. Justifiable and forgiven.) LOVE me some Jane Lane.
Kevin's utter stupidity. Duh! He was the QB, right? And of course, he flunked his senior year. (Yes, this attitude contributed to an anti-homecoming/football screed I published in the school paper my freshman year that all but guaranteed me a pummeling by our linebackers.) (If only...)
Brittany. Kind of. She did actually grow some semblance of a brain. Somewhat.
Jodie. God bless her. I really felt for her. So pressured to be the best of the best. Oh, and let's add the pressure of being one of only two minorities at Lawndale High. And she graduated valedictorian, natch.
Sandi. President of the Fashion Club. Always and forevermore a bitch of the highest order. And no, that is not meant as a compliment. But I will grant her this: she can manipulate better than anyone I've ever known.

Seeing Daria (both the character and the series) just affirms my position in life. I'm intelligent, cynical, somewhat antisocial, somewhat reclusive, yet constantly evolving and learning stuff about human nature. And the fact that a network as influential as MTV found a character and series as non-mainstream and subversive as Daria (see also: My So-Called Life) and could support said series for five seasons gives me hope for persons such as myself. (Of course, MTV has since devolved into a state of putrid swampstank the likes of which Daria represents its absolute antithesis. I mean, MTV hardly shows music videos anymore, right? It's time to pull the plug. Like about a decade ago. We can all live without The Real World, which is, like, so real, btw.) But if Daria can thrive, I can too, right?

Then again, we may never know. The final movie, "Is It College Yet?", showed everyone going separate ways. Daria broke up with her beau, Tom. Brittany promised Kevin she'd wait for him...while crossing her fingers behind her back. All the main characters wound up going to completely different colleges. But a silver lining of sorts: Daria and Jane ended up going to different colleges, but in the same town: Boston. But there ended the season. Maybe continuing to pursue Daria: The College Years might have been pretty tough. Still, given the caliber of what the team behind Daria had turned out, it would have been possible, and possibly very compelling. But the world will never know...just like that damned Tootsie Roll commercial.

God bless Daria Morgendorffer. And God bless pizza.

Michael Jackson, one year later

2010-07-02T00:04:00.003-06:00

For any of you chipper whippersnappers stumbling across this here blog who don't remember Michael Jackson circa Thriller, don't understand his appeal, or perhaps weren't born yet, check this video out. It's made of unadulterated marvelous white-sequined AWESOME. Here's what an amazing, unifying force of nature he was, shot just a few days after his untimely death. I'm hard pressed to think of any other pop star who could cause this sort of spontaneous celebration amongst complete strangers. (Oh, and for the record...the geeky tall white guy in the center of most of the video? That'd be me, making a complete fool of myself and not caring one bit...if I were on that subway.)

The Disco Box

2010-06-17T21:42:00.024-06:00

2001 was a banner year for me. I had broken up with my ex that January, and moved out a month later into a studio off of NW 21st Street in Portland. The ensuing six months was the best time of my life up to that point. So that spring, as a present to myself, I strolled down to the local music store and picked up this hunk of fun.

I rediscovered it a few days ago, and have been listening to it nonstop since. Maybe it's that summer has FINALLY, irrevocably arrived. Maybe it's that Pride is this weekend. Whatever...something in me is celebrating and aching for sweet release of some sort.

And this four-disc box set delivers. Uneven in places, especially during the last disc. And as you'd imagine, 80 tunes spread out over only four CDs does not lend itself easily to extended mixes - the way you'd hear them in the clubs. But if you want to hear some of the most hedonistic music ever created, condensed down to radio-friendly bite-sized chews, you owe it to yourself to listen to a few of these gems. A few of my all-time faves:

Born to Be Alive - Patrick Hernandez: My absolute favorite of everything here, and that's major praise. The title says it all: kinda corny and self-evident (yeah, you're born, you're alive, duh-hickey), but damn, defiant ecstasy has seldom been so catchy and exciting.

Rock the Boat - The Hues Corporation: I hadn't heard this one ever before 2001. No real reason to like it other than it's catchy, it swings, it's got a good beat, you can dance to it...I'd give it a 88, Dick.

Young Hearts Run Free - Candi Staton: Man, something about the horns in this song just do me in. Horns in disco in general, yes, but here they're just perfect, toe-curling. And then Ms. Staton uses her beautiful but weary voice to tell the story of the man who left her and her young baby to fend for themselves. Irresistible but heartbreaking.

Turn the Beat Around - Vicki Sue Robinson: Crazy, sassy and classy. Sung with whiplash intensity.

Get Up And Boogie - Silver Connection: Stupid, stupid fun. Makes me want to lace up my roller skates.

Boogie Nights - Heatwave: Another song I just like, just 'cause. It's underplayed and deserves a new audience.

I Feel Love - Donna Summer: Bow down to the ultimate queen of disco, bitches. But even more so, pay respects to HRH Giorgio Moroder. His throbbing synthesizer here filled a million discotheques and inspired countless DJs. Techno and its myriad offshoots (for better or worse) wouldn't exist without this one.

The rest of Disc 2 - I can't list them all. This disc is golden.

Y.M.C.A. - Village People: I know...this song's too obvious. Still, it cracks me up that this homage to clandestine M2M fun at the local gym is still a perennial favorite at weddings. Besides, I heard this one recently at a club here in town, and it worked the crowd into a froth even more than "I Gotta Feeling."

Knock on Wood - Amii Stewart: Tribal, before tribal was even considered a concept. (Trying not to use the word "fierce," it's so overused, but it really does apply here.) And the video is classic '70s kitsch.

Good Times - Chic: This one comes right after "Born to be Alive." It's a dangerous pairing...by the end of these two, you're bounding out of your skin with unspeakable joy. Need I bring up the immortal bass line?

Lost in Music - Sister Sledge: I love "We Are Family," which is also here. But man, talk about your statements of purpose. "Responsibility to me is a tragedy...I won't give up my music - not me, not now, no way, no how!" Cue me falling in love.

Funkytown - Lipps, Inc.: So fun. And I miss those Star Wars-like synthesized voices. SO 1980, but so timeless.

Cruisin' the Streets - The Boystown Gang: Not much as a piece of music. But I gotta give it up for a band that ain't the Village People that name-checks gay meccas and waxes rhapsodical about finding...not a love interest, but a hunky guy and your next conquest, boys. The shorter version is here; I desperately want to find the extended version, with its VERY explicit lyrics.

It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls: Of course. One of the greatest gay anthems of all time. But by this point, the term disco is being diluted quite a bit - this is more straightforward pop than disco.

And now, for the few clunkers that just don't work for me.

Honeybee - Gloria Gaynor: If you can make it past the first 3 seconds, you're stronger than me. How annoying can a honeybee's (imitated) buzz be on record? Check it out...but you probably won't be back.

In the Bush - Musique: A bevy of oversexed women panting "Push, push in the bush. Do you like it? Do you like it like this?" I generally have no problem with sex in songs, but this is just me: I don't care to think about vajayjay in any of my music, disco or otherwise.

Last Night A DJ Saved My Life - Indeep: What a brillant title. What a great premise. Such potential for a kick-ass song. And this dud falls SO flat. A plodding beat and a lame, lame rap by the DJ make me want to flush this down the drain. (Cue - I kid not - a toilet flushing. Because that's the sound sensation that's sweeping the nation, right?) Also: not disco.

Other quibbles: Far too little Donna Summer, no Bee Gees (!?), no Earth, Wind and Fire. They could have fleshed out the set with more of these artists and thrown some of the non-disco stuff out toward the end. And extended mixes would have been fun, perhaps even segued one into the next. And saddest of all...it's out of print. Still, you can buy it if you search around, and the prices are pretty comparable to what it was originally sold for.

This set makes me wonder if there's any demand out there for an old-time disco-era DJ, and also if there's still time for me to hone my craft. I loved doing the college radio DJ thing, but to be able to play songs end to end - with no breaks and no commercials - and to be in control of a party's mood just gives me the best kind of chills. And I ain't a fan of the soulless machinelike overwrought beat playing in the clubs nowadays.

Bacon, too...but that's too obvious.

2010-06-11T21:54:00.007-06:00

Or: Foods that make my life worth living.

Cinnamon. Like coffee for Seattleites. I'm pretty certain that without cinnamon, I might shrivel and become a shadow of myself. Cinnamon and chocolate. Cinnamon and honey wrapped in a tortilla. Cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon crumb donuts. Cinnamon and yogurt. Cinnamon and smoothies. Cinnamon and black beans. Cinnamon and peaches. Cinnamon and apples. My infatuation may very well protect me from ever getting diabetes.

Orange and vanilla. When you combine these two and consume, magical things begin to happen. I fondly remember a joyride in southern Minnesota as a college kid, wherein I purchased and ate a whole box of Creamsicles. Well, almost. I was kind enough to give a few bites to one friend, and let a second one eat a whole one. But the other 10 1/2 were all mine, and slid down my gullet like honey. That was my dinner, and I felt great afterward. It's all been downhill from there. (See also: Stewart's orange cream soda, orange/vanilla soft serve in ice cream cones, ice cream floats with vanilla ice cream and mandarin orange Slice..and yes, it HAS to be mandarin orange Slice. Accept no substitutes.)

Carbonara. Here's my theory. Some glutton with cast-iron arteries decided that alfredo sauce just wasn't decadent and unhealthy enough. A parmesan cream sauce only goes so far, amirite? So said glutton decided to add more butter, cream, fatty pork (pancetta, guanciale, bacon...take your pick), egg yolks (and yolks only, because the egg whites were just too...I dunno...South Beach omelet-esque?), and voila! But then the health food mavens screamed bloody murder. So M. Glutton threw in a few peas or caramelized onions to appease them. Good GOD-amighty, eat some of this, and you're as good as comatose for the night.

Borsch(t). I'm not kidding. But first: I grew up with You Can't Do That on Television on Nickelodeon. Remember that disgusting chef who always put boogers and loogies in the burgers? Apparently he also made borsch; the kids asked him why it was called that, and he joked that it was what everyone did when they ate it (cue kids charmingly puking at the table). But then I went to Russia and discovered that this much-maligned soup could be SO heavenly. The key? An ingredient that I've yet to find over here: smetana. Loosely translated, it's sour cream, but sour cream just falls apart and curdles in borsch. Smetana (accent on the second syll-AH-ble, please) is like thin yogurt in consistency, has a smoother taste, and mixes perfectly with borsch, turning it a delightful pink. Oh, and lots of dill, please. Lack of these two ingredients will render this soup inedible to me. By the by, spelled correctly with or without the "t." In Russian, it's spelled without the "t," while Yiddish adds it.

Coconut. And you probably don't like it. That's fine. More for me. I'll happily get sick on macaroons, add coconut milk to smoothies and cereal (with rice milk), frappefy it with ice, orange juice, and vanilla (see above) for a heavenly mock-orange julius, slurp hot Thai coconut milk soup, follow it with coconut curry chicken, and snarf down gargantuan slices of coconut cream pie (that are over 1/2 whipped cream).

Pho. The Vietnamese have given us this humble beef-and-rice noodle soup to nurture us through frigid, snow-bound days. You get a huge bowl of the stuff, bring your nose down to the bowl and inhale the lime, beef broth, and basil combination as your glasses steam up. Smile with the deepest of gratitude for something so pleasing. Add some Sriracha, and slurp away. Comfort food that blows chicken soup out of the water.(Although it kinda makes you wonder: why such a hot soup from such a hot country? Wouldn't it seem more appropriate for, say, Norwegians to come up with something like this to warm you up in the winter?)

Khachapuri, khinkali, and Khvanchkara. Don't sweat the pronunciation. Three Georgian (as in Caucasian) foods that are just heaven on earth, and that's meant more literally than you'd think. Georgians like to say that God traveled around the world, distributing food to each region. God decided to keep the best for him/herself, but underestimated how high the Caucasus mountains were. God tripped and fell, and the best food fell upon Georgia. After enjoying a few Georgian feasts while in Russia, I totally get it. Georgians know how to party and EAT like there's no tomorrow, and Georgian food as a whole is the best I have ever had.
Khachapuri is a simple light baked bread with melted cheese as an appetizer, served hot. Khinkali are luscious, juicy, almost buttery meat dumplings. And Khvanchkara is some of the sweetest and fruitiest red wine you've ever had, just this side of wine coolers. (Also recommended: Kindzmarauli, if you can't tolerate the really sweet stuff.)

Random thoughts...

2010-06-07T13:54:00.005-06:00

Meanderings through the synaptic clefts of yours truly on this fine late spring day...

- "I'm Not In Love" (I just have the song in my head, not the sentiment.)

- This bee kinda sucked, no? Major props to Anamika...she done well...but as a whole, the scene this year reeked of unfairness. For once, I'm glad I wasn't a part of it.

- So, really...what AM I gonna be when I grow up? 'Cause this stint here isn't the right fit, and at 35, I should really get to figuring it out already.

- Totally digging my new rebounder. Fun stuff, and I feel all sorts of body parts moving and flexing that I didn't know could before.

- When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? (Heh. Thanks, Allen.)

- This makes me happy. (Again, thanks, Allen.)

- This also makes me happy.

Cool things about the 1989 National Spelling Bee

2010-06-01T01:08:00.003-06:00

Here's Kavya Shivashankar, last year's very deserving winner, modestly rejoicing after clinching "Laodicean." But don't let her composure fool you. That's almost certainly the best moment of her life...up to that point, at least. Most other people's reactions in the auditorium were more like her parents in the background.

Anyhow, this year's bee is coming up. Finals on Friday evening at 8:00; catch the details here.

I already wrote at length about the bee last year. (And aptly enough, I'm posting this 21 years to the day after I won Nationals. Not intentional, actually.) So indulge my solipsistic side. What made 1989 for me? (Aside from the obvious, of course.)

- The Capitol Hilton. No cooler hotel EVER. Well, at least until the bee moved in 1996 to the Grand Hyatt Washington. Wait...no. This one was still the coolest, if only for two things. The competition was held on the 2nd floor above ground, and not three claustrophobia-inducing floors below terra firm. Also...

- Trader Vic's, part 1. Probably where I nurtured my nascent tiki fetish, and definitely where I indulged my love of pina coladas. (Virgin at the time, folks, virgin! I was only 14! Geez...)

- Trader Vic's, part 2. Much to the consternation of my fellow spellers, I was not present at the post-banquet spellers-only party. The last thing I wanted to do was while away the evening doing nothing but sign autographs. I felt I'd earned the right to do whatever I pleased that night. So once the banquet was over, I turned to my pal and fellow speller Joel, and said, "Let's get outta here and go to Trader Vic's." Thus began one of the greatest evenings of my life, wherein Joel and I just talked about all things bee-related, and then some. Major bonding, the type that happens rarely in a lifetime, at best. And years later, we're still in touch. (The Trader Vic's didn't enjoy the same fate; when I returned in 1995, I was crushed to find it was gone.)

- Questionable songs, part 1. To be specific, Pink Floyd's "On The Turning Away." Meh, okay version from Momentary Lapse of Reason. But the version I had going through my head was from Delicate Sound of Thunder - exponentially better than the original. This one was with me ALL DAY - literally, from the second I woke up until I nailed that final "r." I even ran it through my head so that I spelled the last letter at the moment the final verse finished and the grand outro began. Video of me at that time shows me deep in thought. Well, kinda. I felt confident I had the bee in the bag, but I was just playing the song in my head, waiting for it to get where it needed to, and I knew the moment couldn't be rushed. Milking it, milking it...

- (Really) Questionable songs, part 2. I can't believe I actually had "Wind Beneath My Wings" running through my head nonstop from shortly after I won for a few days afterward. Actually brought tears to my eyes once or twice. TOTALLY ashamed to admit this.

- (Really, REALLY) Questionable songs, part 3. Of all the cracktastic CDs I could have gotten with my prize money, I chose those two toe-tapping classics: the Batman soundtrack by Prince and American Dream by CSNY. (Sold within a year after purchase, folks.) And for some reason, "Got It Made" ended up being my expression of elation in the weeks following June 1st. Kind of a light sound, but a bummer of a song. Only lyric that really applied: "Glad that you got it made...you are the only one I've ever seen do what you done."

- Superstitions. Like the idea that if I saw my reflection at any time while I was onstage, the next word would have been my last. And in such a mirrored, chandeliered place like the Presidential Ballroom, this could have been WAY easy. But I never saw my reflection anywhere on the second day.

- #218. Out of 222 spellers. MAJOR stroke of good luck. Why? Back then, there was no "tied for 15th place" with 33 other spellers who got out in the same round as you. If you were the first speller to go down, you got 48th place. If you were the last, you got 15th. (The powers that be have since corrected this policy.) Not to mention that if you were at the end, psychologically, you had a good feel for how the round was going. If you were the first speller in a round, getting that first word sometimes felt like being plunged into ice cold water.

- Getting lei'd. Huge banquet the night after the bee. The speller from Hawaii somehow found me a lei and presented it to me that night. Cooler than cool. It looked great, smelled wonderful...how could I put it aside? I happily wore it all night.

- River Phoenix. No less an authority than the Washington Post branded me a River Phoenix look-alike. And the Post is renowned for writing among the best bee articles anywhere. If the Post says it, it must be so.

- The Chattanooga Times. For writing a feature article about "darkly handsome Ojas Tejani," the Chattanooga rep and the 2nd place finisher, while totally branding me the bad guy. Seriously, it was cool. I knew the press rep for the Times at the time...she was sassy and fun, so it was a great inside joke. I'm sure Tennesseeans appreciated it, too.

- Spoliator. Duh.

"I feel like an Asian Branch Davidian."

2010-05-25T21:42:00.005-06:00

Lots of cringeworthy moments from tonight's Glee, people.

But first, a disclaimer: Ya see, I do love me some Glee. It's practically written into how gay men are programmed circa 2010. I've seen some of the butchest, most masculine men start gushing about Glee, and suddenly the yards of taffeta come spilling out of their mouths. Every episode has a wild, "cheer spontaneously" moment. But every episode, without fail, also has a moment where a part of me dies inside. But tonight's extravaganza was...uh...I think I spit up in my mouth more than a little. To wit:

- Finn. In a bright red shower curtain floor-length dress and red glitter cat eyes, looking for all the world like a reject from the Hall of Justice. Because that's the best way he can think of to express his ultimate theatricality and save poor Kurt from imminent brutality by a couple of chunky football thugs. GAWD. Even Zan and Jayna and their pet monkey were cringing. (Freaky coincidence: the pet monkey's name is Gleek. Fact!) Just so you know, my ideal of theatricality would be Hugh Jackman, in any role he's ever done. Shirtless, preferably.

- Finn, pt. 2. Every time he yelled out the word "faggy" at Kurt.

- Rachel. Singing "Poker Face" accompanied only by piano with her newfound mom. Because between the two of them and their kaleidoscopic knowledge of decades of worthy Broadway tunes, the one song that really sums up their feelings for each other is a fucking Lady Gaga song released just this past year. I wanted to crawl into a hole every time they both sang "puh-puh-puh-poker face."

- Puck. Singing "Beth" (which...wow...didn't realize it was such a pretty tune) to Quinn, then asking her afterward to name her/their baby Beth, and for him to be there for the baby's birth. Ennhh...squirm...

- Quinn. For agreeing to Puck's groveling. Also could NOT take her emotions seriously. I can't take anyone seriously who wears four-inch day-glo pink eyelash extensions and bats them with mock pathos.

- Kurt. For designing that hideous get-up that would have been his and Finn's new shared bedroom. Gay interior designers the nation over gasped and collapsed on their fainting couches in horror. And for actually having something he called a "privacy partition." Gag. And finally, for declaring said room a great mixture of masculine and feminine. There wasn't anything even remotely masculine in that place, except for Finn. Then Kurt's dad, who, I've just heard, has been nominated by God for the title of Best TV Dad Ever.

- Will Schuester. And for that matter, the writers. For making a Lady Gaga-inspired show. (No Gaga fan, I.) Redeeming quality? There were only two Gaga songs. Other redeeming quality? Balanced out by two Kiss songs.

Sorry, Glee. Normally you're great, but aside from some brilliant one-liners (like this post's title), tonight was just skwudge.

Guilty pleasures galore!

2010-05-18T21:33:00.004-06:00

MMMBop - Hanson: I flew into Minneapolis one early June afternoon in 1997, got picked up by a guy I had just started dating, and this hummer came on the radio. I called it: at once, it was going to be the most loved, most hated, and most overplayed song of the summer. But apparently I was really, really late on the draw. It was already #1 in the nation, and would be for nearly two months. Deservedly so. Unabashed, unadulterated bubblegum fun, fun, fun, and one great antidote for the angst and flannel of the early-mid 1990s. "MMMBop" singlehandedly paved the way for the resurgence of the post-Nirvana boy bands and a myriad of guilty pleasures, including...

I Want It That Way - Backstreet Boys: I wanted to hate this one. I could NEVER get behind New Kids on the Block (let alone that lamefuck NKOTB reunion), and I figgered this was just another incarnation thereof. But sitting in Portland traffic one late spring afternoon a few years later (and damn, PDX traffic SUCKS considering it ain't all that huge a city), this breezy tune hit my speakers, and I've seldom been hooked so hard. Honestly, everything that's right and good and perfect and dreamy about boy bands is right here, and if you don't like this song, you probably will never get the whole boy band thang. My infatuation hit epic levels one day in 2007 when I drove to and from work playing ONLY this song. Replay, replay, replay. It was the aural equivalent of a large orange/vanilla soft-serve ice cream cone (I have the immortal Pat's Twist-o-Cream from the late '70s to thank for that memory. RIP.) And I ain't the only one who loved this one. Rolling Stone apparently placed this beauty ahead of "Good Vibrations" in a list of the best summer songs of all time. Much consternation and wailing ensued from the boomers, but for sheer enjoyment, I agree - "I Want It That Way" blows even that classic out of the water.

When You Close Your Eyes - Night Ranger: I won't deny the NR lovers their "Sister Christian," which is epic. But this one is truly my favorite. The video did it for me. Learning about love in the back of a Chevrolet? Phallic guitar wank-o-ramas? Drowning your sorrows at the bar and imagining your lost love is standing right there? This one might have out-Desert Mooned "Desert Moon," even, for sheer cliches. As anyone who watched MTV back in 1983 will attest, these guys ROCKED. There was a lot of competition to be the biggest big hair band back then (Ratt, Def Leppard...hell, Ozzy himself), and maybe Night Ranger didn't quite make it to the top of the heap, but they put up a damned good fight. (If you like both those songs, you HAVE to get Night Ranger's Greatest Hits.)

Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-A-Lot: No real comment on this song. I just wanted a reason to type "callipygian" in a proper context. Callipygian, callipygian, callipygian.

Big Star - Third/Sister Lovers

2010-05-10T18:34:00.013-06:00

Pop quiz: You're the leader of a critically revered band, and fans drive for hours, sometimes days, to see your band perform. But the first two albums you release flop, and aside from these few trickling fans, NO ONE knows you. Your band is falling apart member by member due to internal strife, and you still have a contractual agreement with your record company. Whaddaya do?

If your name is Alex Chilton, apparently you indulge in self-destruction. You get drunk and wasted a lot, show up at the studio while still wasted, slur your singing, sometimes play like crap, and fuck with the producers who are trying to salvage what chaos you have wrought, so that your third album is all but unapproachable - and certainly unmarketable. But your efforts at self-sabotage are foiled by a few things. You write some really, really good music that withstands the barrage of shit you run it through. And on some songs, you actually care that what you create is worthwhile, even beautiful at times...and it shows.

Some of the best music ever created - especially great pop music - sounds effortless, perfect, totally meant to be. Third/Sister Lovers is practically the antithesis of that concept. This sounds like it took a Sisyphean effort to create, and you can hear all the evidence of heads banging against walls that won't budge, of unbelievable exhaustion, dejection and pain, and of lives (and a band) irretrievably falling apart. Somehow, the music survived, in some cases barely intact. Somehow, it made it past the producers. Somehow, a company convinced its shareholders or board members that the album was worth releasing to the public...four years after the fact. And somehow, this album found its way into some young musicians' hands - a few of whom ended up being very influential, popular, and willing to drop the album's name. (For example: Peter Buck of R.E.M. once compared it to well-known classics like Revolver, Highway 61 Revisited, and Exile on Main Street.)

Is Third/Sister Lovers really the classic that so many admirers make it out to be? I don't think so. It's much more inconsistent than its two predecessors. It's definitely easier to appreciate than like. Third/Sister Lovers is NOT where one ought to start with Big Star. It takes a long time to get into a lot of this stuff, and it's best to go at it on a song-by-song basis, rather than digesting the whole album at one sitting. Here's some of the best stuff:

1) "Kanga Roo" - One of the tougher songs on the album to get into, but man, what a mindblower. It sounds like it's a warped transmission radioed in from some underwater ice planet, with random misfiring cowbells, way-overdubbed drums, and space-age guitar feedback. Then suddenly, it all resolves in a gorgeous crystalline minor chord in the choruses, with Alex soaring vocally through the stratosphere. "Kanga Roo" may be the best song on here...and it's been covered gobs of times since.

2) "Jesus Christ" - Here's the closest you'll get to a straight-ahead pop song on here. Begins with a warped piano ditty that sounds like an overplayed cassette tape that's about to spit its contents out of the tape player. But the song is solid guitar pop, almost a relief to listen to amidst the wreckage of the rest of the album. And interestingly enough, it's a completely sincere paean to Jesus Christ.

3) "Holocaust" - My God...this is the sound of ultimate depression. Alex can barely slur "Your eyes are almost dead, can't get out of bed, and you can't sleep," as a funereal piano plods behind him and ghosts moan in the background. Otherworldly, it's so sad.

4) "For You" - The only original song that Alex didn't pen for this album, written and sung instead by Jody Stephens, the drummer. Romantic chamber pop heaven, utterly beautiful.

5-7) "Blue Moon", "Nightime", "Take Care" - And the chamber pop heaven continues, with "Nightime" taking the honors for being the most scintillatingly gorgeous and having the best lyrics. (Love at first sight was never expressed better than "Caught a glance in your eyes and fell through the skies." Meanwhile, Chilton's unburnished negativity rears its head later: "Get me out of here, get me out of here. I hate it here, get me out of here.") "Take Care" is an anguished farewell, ending the (original) album on the most uncertain of chords played by fragile gossamer strings, completely unresolved.

8) "Downs" - How deranged did Big Star get? How willing was the rest of the band to follow Alex down the rabbit hole? Witness this mess of piano, steel drums, out-of-tune...uh..."singing," and nearly indecipherable lyrics. No surprise, this one was not on the original album. Still, it's kinda fun.

Hmm. Maybe that was the big deal about this album. It was a crystal-clear vision of how fucked-up a band could get and still turn out great music. On that level, Third/Sister Lovers is an unqualified success. It's just hard to plod through, that's all.

And here ended (at least, for a few decades) one of the most frustrating and sad stories in pop history. As I said before, this band proved that life could be a shitstorm of unfair. But man, they turned out some great stuff in the meantime, and their influence on popular music lies up there with the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Velvet Underground, and Led Zeppelin. With just three brilliant, essential albums.

Big Star - Radio City

2010-04-24T09:40:00.009-06:00

The story so far: former Box Tops singer Alex Chilton travels back to his hometown of Memphis after unsuccessfully giving being a solo musician in New York a try. He gets together with a few bandmates, and they all end up releasing one of the great unsung pop masterpieces of all time: #1 Record. The creative tension between the mercurial genius Chilton and melodic perfectionist Chris Bell is largely to credit for the album's (critical) success. Unfortunately, unlike Lennon and McCartney, who were able to sustain this tension and feed off each other for years, it got to be too much. Bell left the band once #1 Record was released, leaving Chilton on his own to front Big Star.

Bell left his beautiful imprint on Big Star's sound, and it's sad to ponder for a bit what could have been. But as it turns out, Chilton and the rest of Big Star could do just fine without that fourth member, thank you. Unrestrained by Bell's meticulous attention to detail, Radio City makes for a harder, rawer, looser, and more exhilarating ride. Its sparse production (the virtual antithesis of Spector's "wall of sound") reveals frequent holes of sound that presage punk by a few years; it sounds like a live album in spots. And it's just as successful as its predecessor.

It's a bit easier to choose the highlights of Radio City; after all, with this wildness comes some inconsistency. So here we go:

1) "O My Soul" - The clarion call to get wild, get drunk, and kick up your heels, and the perfect way to start this album. Loose as loose can be, but funky...and that rhythm section is unstoppable.

2) "What's Going Ahn" - Chilton's penchant for weird song titles continues here in this achingly sad tune. "I like love, but I don't know/All these girls, they come and go," he moans, resigned to be unsuccessful at love. And the drums sound like they're ready to fall apart at any moment. The most despondent that Big Star ever got...well, until the next album, at least.

3) "Mod Lang" - Then they turn around and deliver this glamalicious number, with Chilton howling almost inaudibly in the background. Fun, fun stuff.

4) "She's A Mover" - Sounds like the best outtake from Revolver the Beatles never released. So Big Star picked it up, dusted it off, tambourine and all, and went to work. Not so much a song as a three minute-long relentless groove.

5) "September Gurls" - Yes, the one critics the world over adore. I first heard this one and couldn't get past the clanging guitars. But the song is still power-pop heaven, and the most straight-ahead song here.

6) "You Get What You Deserve" - Chilton's bitter side comes out hard here in a pretty little ditty that recalls CCR's "Have You Ever Seen The Rain." Ends on an ominous single piano note.

And actually, that's something that really separates Chilton from so many other pop stars. He isn't afraid to express the negativity that permeates his psyche, and just about every song on Radio City has a dark edge to it. "Life is White" begins with the kiss-off: "Don't like to see your face/Don't like to hear you talk at all." (Apparently, that song was all about Chris Bell - kinda makes sense why he left, don't it?) Even the lightness of "September Gurls" is brought down by the line, "I loved you...well, never mind. I've been crying all the time." Ouch! Self-pity was never disguised so well or expressed so succinctly.

So there you have it. Two of the greatest pop/rock albums ever released. And no one knew about it back in the early '70s. And now you can get them both on one CD. Do it. Now.

Big Star - #1 Record

2010-04-11T12:35:00.009-06:00

Holy shee-it. What a find I have made. And this is truly rare treasure that most people haven't even heard of. It's Big Star, people. The group that proves that life can be a shitstorm of unfair. These guys, were there any justice, should have been the ones who took the torch from the Beatles and run with it, enjoying wild success all through the '70s. Critically, no question. I mean, read some of these random review excerpts:

"It's safe to say there would have been no modern pop movement without Big Star."

"Anyone not in possession of Big Star's three landmark studio albums...should stop reading this now and go purchase them."

"Radio City and #1 Record brim over with punchy songs that served as the blueprint for almost every power pop band to follow, and the much darker Third/Sister Lovers is a depressive masterpiece."

I read the first excerpt in a review for Third/Sister Lovers back in the early 1990s, and was dumbfounded. I had never heard of any such group before. And these guys were a major fount from which the likes of R.E.M., the Replacements, Happy Mondays, the dBs, the Bangles, Teenage Fanclub, the Posies, the Soup Dragons, and Matthew Sweet all came? (For starters.) Wow. Gotta pick this one up. (At the time, Third/Sister Lovers was a major disappointment for me. To be continued later.)

One of the group's founders and the resident genius, Alex Chilton, died on St. Patrick's Day this year. His death prodded me to get their first two albums, both on one CD. And OH MY GOD what was I thinking not getting them sooner?

#1 Record is a brilliant, perfect power-pop masterpiece, brimming with optimism, excitement, wistfulness, puppy love, and just plain fun. Do you dig '70s Aerosmith? Alice Cooper? Badfinger? Todd Rundgren? Love? Moby Grape? The Byrds? The soundtrack to Dazed and Confused? Or even the other bands I've already mentioned? Go out and get this album NOW.

Just like with the Descendents' Somery, I can't narrow down which song is the ultimate pinnacle on #1 Record. But let me see if I can capture the high points.

1) "Feel" - Subtle strumming and an eerie, plangent twang suddenly explode into fireworks of scream-singing and wild drumming that don't let up for the entire song. These guys are going for broke. One hellaciously beautiful way to start off an album.

2) "The Ballad of El Goodo" - Crappy song title. Beautiful, defiant Statement Of Purpose. Required listening for really earnest and idealistic kids who are determined to live life on their own terms, goddamnit.

3) "In The Street" - Big Star's only claim to fame over the past decade. That '70s Show swiped the song for the opening credits. Extra points for the hilarious line "Wish we had a joint so bad."

4) "Watch The Sunrise" - Gorgeous, gorgeous meditative 12-string showcase by Chilton. And yes, you can just imagine the sun rise as the song is playing.

5) "When My Baby's Beside Me" - Kinda lame beginning, but man, I defy you not to clap along to the chorus. Addictive.

6) "ST 100/6" - Indecipherable song title. Not even a minute long. Slightly psychedelic harmonies over some simple guitar chords. Complete in its incompleteness, perfect in its imperfection.

So why didn't these guys get a break? Apparently, Ardent Records (or maybe it was Stax...the details are kinda sketchy), the company in charge of printing and distribution really, really fell down on the job. People heard them and wanted to get their hands on #1 Record...it just wasn't available anywhere. Another, much lesser reason was that people in the early '70s were just done with the Beatles and the Byrds and all those other poppy, fun bands that were so last decade. I don't buy that excuse. Music like this is just too awesome and timeless to pass up.

Random quickie song reviews

2010-04-02T18:02:00.020-06:00

Ready for the '80s - Village People: Aside from the fact that it's virtually indistinguishable from any other Village People song, it's perhaps one of the saddest songs ever performed - unintentionally so. Just read the lyrics. (And fergawdsakes forgive the atrocious punctuation.) Ain't it so happy, peppy, and bursting with love and optimism for the future? Well, check this out. I doubt any Village People fan was ready for what the '80s were about to bring.

Gentleman Who Fell - Milla: That's model Milla Jovovich, y'all, at the ripe age of 16. With a gloriously untrained voice that swoops and whispers with trepidation to a man she can't catch. And yes, she wrote this (at least, in part), part of her only album, The Divine Comedy. A gorgeous, almost baroque arrangement that is essential listening for Jane Siberry and Kate Bush aficionados. And speaking of Jane Siberry...

Calling All Angels - Jane Siberry and k.d. lang: The best song off the Until The End Of The World soundtrack, itself an early '90s pre-Nirvana, pre-emo depressive classic. A slow funereal drum, pedal steel, and spare guitar plucking back these two chanteuses aching for aid and relief from above, "cause we're not sure how this goes." Who can't relate?

God Bless America - Kate Smith: There's good reason Kate Smith will always be linked with this song. You can just hear her heart swell with pride and unbridled patriotism, and it's impossible not to get caught up in it. She recorded many worthy versions, but this particular beauty was captured at Carnegie Hall in 1963, back when our nation was still brimming with optimism for the future and reveling in its post-war glory, mere days before JFK's assassination. It's a snapshot of simpler times, when it was still cool to be patriotic and have unshakeable faith that our country was on the right track. It's almost heartwrenching now to consider how far we've strayed from that moment. There was once a movement to make this song the national anthem. If they ever bring it back up, I'm in.

Dive In The Pool - Barry Harris and Pepper Mashay: Originally came out on the first Queer as Folk soundtrack back in 2001, and was therefore deemed worthy to pollute gay danceclubs nationwide for years thereafter. It tries to sound tribal, but fails miserably; how pathetic is it that Baltimora and Gloria Estefan sound more authentic? Includes the requisite black diva (with one of the worst drag names ever), here lamely howling at all the boys to dive in the pool and get soaking wet. Hoarksome. I defy you to listen to more than 30 seconds of this shite without banging your head against the wall, or at least shutting it off.

Generic blog title about misspelling.

2010-03-24T21:22:00.007-06:00

Yeah, I'm a lazy, uncreative bum. And I let others do the work for me. Put a sock in it. I shoveled a foot of the wettest, gloppiest snow of the season off our driveway for over an hour today and had a craptacularly useless day otherwise.

So.

Now that we all are clear on my emotional state, let's move on to indulge more of my supposed moral superiority where language is concerned, shall we? Check out this beauty. Anything that references hemorrhoids in the battle against spelling "lose" wrong is golden. And here is the whipped cream on top: "If you put an "A" in "definitely," you're definitely an A-hole." Bonus points for offering up this advice as a poster you can purchase.

Ahh...sweet balm to the soul...

Ramblings on not having kids

2010-03-07T22:28:00.006-07:00

What is it about my parents that inspire such ugly, angry sentiments? Pull up a chair and set a spell. I'll tell ya.

Tonight was a classic example of a typical family dinner...except this time it was blown up much more than usual. Dinner pretty much comes down to this: the rest of the family, and then me. The rest of 'em talk about politics, rant about Obama as if he's the downfall of this country of ours, and otherwise engage in conversation the likes about which I could really give a shit. Even the subtle nonverbal behaviors often imply that I'm not really one of "them."

But tonight was really beyond. I really was pretty much ignored during the whole meal. There was company over, which may explain a bit, but really? Rude not to include everyone in conversation from time to time, right?

My big news: I tried out for four solos during a choir retreat this weekend, and landed one of 'em. Thrilled about it - it's a fun one, in a wacky Marx Brothers-inspired ditty called "Lydia the Tattooed Lady." So I told my parents about it. Mild congratulations, at best. Then when I mentioned the name of the song, not only did they immediately say the name of the song wrong (and one thing I've learned is that you don't correct your elders), but they went on to talking about "John the Tattooed Skier," who was spotted schussing down the slopes sans shirt, exposing his ink for all to see. And it went on from there, leaving my good news in the dust. (I somehow suspect that my stint in the local gay men's choir also contributed to my news' lukewarm reception.)

It's behavior like this from my parents that really reinforce the idea that having kids is really just not for me. My old college roommate mentioned a few years ago that he was gonna be a dad, and I was thrilled for him and his wife. Their daughter, of course, is adorable and perfect - and I say that with as little saccharine inflection as I can. They've really done right by her. But I admitted to him that the responsibility of being a parent would be overwhelming to me. I'd be obsessing over every little tiny minute detail, wanting to make sure everything was just so, and freaked out about how said details, if neglected or mishandled, could irreversibly send the kid on a path toward a terrible fate of some sort. He heard me, but he also said that, well, these little buggers are pretty damned resilient, and you just do the best you can. I've heard the former, and I do kinda believe it. But that second part? Not good enough for me.

My parents did the best they could. I have to assume that. On nights like this, it's awfully hard for me to believe that, though. After 35 years, I still feel like a pariah in my own family. What the fuck? If they did the best they could, and this is the result, I sure as hell don't want to do my best and still end up alienating any kids I might have.

I was never breastfed, and as such, lost out on an essential part of my growth. I deal with more colds and such than I should, I have had more illnesses than many - heck, my health just ain't where it should be in general. Also, if my mom actually stopped to consider the bond between her and her baby simply by breastfeeding, she might have done it. Especially knowing how things have been ever since then. (Why wasn't I breastfed? I was adopted, and, well, if a woman hasn't been producing milk, why bother, right? I can't tell you how much that statement is WRONG.)

I sometimes think I was awfully rebellious as a teenager. As a kid, apparently I was "the perfect child." Never cried, never wanted for anything, easy-going, relaxed. And then hormones kicked in, and I transformed into, well, into a regular teenager. Were I in another family (perhaps even one consisting of my actual birthparents, were they up to the task), I might have been handled better. My parents thought that my rebellious streak was me reacting to them. Well, perhaps some, but they give themselves too much credit. It was not about them necessarily. It was about me trying to carve out my identity. Unfortunately, my identity and their values were at odds. A lot. So it was a very unfortunate coincidence. (In contrast, my brother and sister, who were blood-related within the family, became typical "rebellious" teenagers, but because their values were so similar, it usually was a non-issue.)

So yeah, adopting ain't for me. I'd hate to adopt a kid and unwittingly screw that kid up for life.

I'm also fucked in the brain enough that I don't think I'd make a good, effective, and solid father. Loving? Yes. And God knows I'd tell that kid as often as I could that he or she could do anything - ANYTHING - they wanted to. (A message I never heard. Oh, wait, scratch that. I was told "If you're gonna be a ditch digger, be the best damned ditch digger you can be." Yeah. Thanks for the lesson in ambition and being a success.) But giving a kid what he or she would need to actually go out in the world and be functional, successful, and as completely evolved as possible? Not terribly likely.

Also...I would not want to raise a kid with my current (and possibly lifetime) partner. I tolerate many of his habits that I feel are self-destructive, because I know their influence extends only to me, and I've learned to mitigate his influence over the years. (Health is also a huge issue, in general, and Mr. Man is just not healthy at all. And OH MY GOD is that a subject for another post or seven.) But were we to welcome a new bundle of joy into our lives, thence would begin much fighting and anguish. Our sometimes-opposing values would be sorely tested. And it might mean the end of us. (See above about trying my best and still fucking up a kid's life.)

Incidentally, about the whole choir retreat this weekend: tons of fun. Our cabin was small, but the six of us had a blast talking about everything under the sun, from ghosts to Family Guy. LAUGHED our asses off. And became much more tight-knit friends. It was glorious. So to come from that to a dinner where I was a mere afterthought at the table, all but ignored, was a huge slap in the face.

Henry Rollins - Airport Hell

2010-03-01T08:09:00.013-07:00

Henry Rollins rules. Over everyone. At least when he's opening his mouth and spewing some of the most razor-sharp commentary on popular culture you'll ever hear. I ain't much a fan of his music; he's way too heavy-handed, and there isn't much fun to be had with his tunes. Even Weight, his band's most critically-lauded album from 1994, was a bit harsh. But put him in front of an audience without a band, and just tell him to GO!, and he will deliver. He'll make you think, but beyond that, damn, will he make you laugh.

I'm at the airport right now, and although I don't travel as much as the peripatetic Rollins, I totally get his skewering of the whole airport scene. When people go to the airport, their IQ does plummet 40 points. Any sane, rational human being gets this, and some prepare accordingly. But others are just too stupid to understand the simplest of concepts.

For example, the metal detector. "What does a metal detector detect? Me-tal," he imbecilically points out, along with the rest of his amused audience. But who doesn't get it? The old man with a janitor's keychain and a month's supply of laundry quarters in his pockets who has to run through the metal detector three times. Apparently, the rules don't apply to him. Or how about showing your ID and boarding pass? How simple is this? Have it in hand. Answer the security questions quickly. Drop off your bags. And move along to the gate. Total time elapsed should take no more than one minute. Two, tops. But some dig in their pockets, trying to find these most essential of objects. And of course, this happens after standing impatiently in line, doing nothing. But the worst part? "Where are these people standing?" Rollins seethes. "In front of ME!" Naturellement.

Rollins continues with the sarcasm, longing for the day when there is a "sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up" light in the plane, and fantasizing about slamming through people who sag on the side of the moving walkway, hurtling them into the air and sending carry-on bags flying, scattering papers and undergarments everywhere. But until then, he still has to deal with the idiots who fail to grasp the simplest of concepts.

Sure, there's simple yelling and spleen-venting that goes nowhere. But Hank has a very worthy point. These people who stand in front of him, acting stupid and wasting time, are slowly killing him. What little life we have on this planet, he reasons, is far too valuable to spend in line, an unwitting victim of the inanities of others. This from a guy who had to dodge bullets in gang shootings back in his heyday with Black Flag. But he also saw one of these shootings result in the death of one of his best friends, right in front of him. Rollins knows whereof he speaks.

Really, any of Hank's spoken-word stuff is brilliant. The older he gets, the more incisive he gets, the more expressive his dead-on impressions of old fragile women or teenage skater punks. One of his most daring of monologues, from the album Big Ugly Mouth, is a cryptically-titled "Touch and Go," wherein he extols the virtues of beating off. As a twenty-something dude. To fellow twenty-something dudes and their girlfriends. Yipes. It takes major balls to talk about that onstage for nearly ten minutes at a time in your life when merely admitting that you beat off is just asking to be ridiculed. The Boxed Life is even more brilliant; though I haven't heard it for years, it was a staple during my stint as a college radio DJ. But the most hilarious stuff I've yet heard accompanies "Airport Hell" on Think Tank. He debunks homophobia (while convincingly explaining why he's not gay despite continual rumors), relives the stupidest thing he ever did onstage ("I just kicked my own ass!"), explains how he'd persuade nations like Iraq not to fuck with us (starting with executions during televised sports events like the Super Bowl), wants to rename El Nino "the First Four Black Sabbath Albums," and wrings tears in a parable about a teenager with terminal cancer who, as his last wish, wanted to just spend some time with Rollins himself. Honestly, the whole double-album should be required listening for...well, at the very least, for anyone reading this blog. If nothing else, a few more people would pull their heads out of their asses and act a bit smarter at the airport.

"Where can I go to see a big good healthy dose of bad attitude?"

2010-02-15T21:44:00.008-07:00

Gloryhallastoopid, my prayers have been answered! Maybe six years late, but still...better than nothing, right?

Daria: The Complete Animated Series is being released in May. EVERYTHING. Eight discs worth. Soup to nuts. Pilot episode to two full-length season-ending films. A Mystik Spiral video. A top 10 MTV video countdown with Daria and Jane.

Of course, all clouds must have smoky gray linings, right? The music that made Daria such a perfect time capsule of the 1990s is not intact. It'll be replaced by covers and (as they put it rather euphemistically) "appropriate" generic music. Boo-hiss. But a rather weak boo-hiss. I mean, this has been WAY long in coming, and for Daria to finally be released is major cause for celebration. I may have to have a weekend long Dariathon in a few months. Can't wait.

The final word in apostrophes. Or at least the fiercest.

2010-02-10T21:15:00.009-07:00

Subtlety was never my strong suit, but neither was in-your-face confrontation. Which makes this compendium of rules and examples of apostrophe usage like Turkish delight to my soul. Careful, kiddos...not for the faint of heart, nor for you old-fashioned 1800s schoolmarms, either. Just tells it like it t-i-is...with f-bombs galore!

(With props to the brilliant, twisted Shatner worshipper (no joke) over at Damn Kids, who found this originally.)

"I swear with God as my witness, I will never pick up another man!...in a library...on a Saturday...unless he's cute...and drives a nice car. Amen."

2010-01-24T19:19:00.006-07:00

Okay. So I was never one of these guys who got into the Golden Girls back in the day. Just didn't appeal to me. It was only years later, after coming out, that I realized second-hand just how big a touchstone GG was to so many gay men. And it kinda makes sense. The foursome exhibit, collectively and individually, traits that we boys enjoy. There's the self-confessed, uh, sexually generous one (Rue McClanahan/Blanche), the outspoken one who doesn't put up with bullshit of any sort (Bea Arthur/Maude...er, I mean Dorothy), the nice one who is just a bit ditzy for her own good (Betty White/Rose), and the ornery one who just lets her trap fly, and damn the consequences (Estelle Getty/Sophia). Still, it doesn't really appeal to me that much. Sit me down and force me to watch an episode? Sure. But I won't go out of my way to watch it.

Then again, I may have to reconsider. I may have missed something wonderful. Apparently, not only are Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sophia all lots of fun to watch, they are responsible for having recruited and seduced many young influenceable boys to the dark side back in the 1980s. At least, so sez Stephenson Billings, a right-wing Christian and probable closet case who writes for ChristWire.org.

Ho boy, do you have to read this article. Seriously, I'm amused and confused by it. I can't tell whether he's serious, or whether he's parodying the right wing Christian wackos who are suffering some sort of mental condition. If he's serious, then oblivious self-mockery was never so luscious to behold. Here's some fun tidbits from the article, for those of you who just don't have the time and/or attention span:

"The Golden Girls television program was never much to look at. A foursome of Florida geriatrics getting agitated about pharmacy bills and shoulder pads - who could ever find such a thing interesting?" How about the author? He wrote over 1500 words about this show and believe me...he has a pretty good grasp on some of its arcana.

"Our lonely boys...slender, unathletic children...were left out of the fun militarism of the Reagan years." I'm sorry, but I just don't reach this guy. How is militarism fun?

"The show lit a match which enflamed their intense physical urges. With the utmost cruelty and immorality, the Golden Girls seized upon this opportunity to cross the hormonal wires of America's lost generation." Um, I think this guy is confusing this show with porn. But let's follow his convoluted logic, shall we?

"When the rush of cheesecake and gabfests wore thin, these hairless boys needed a harder thrill...same-sex experimentation. What woman would have them now, anyway?" Um, maybe dumb women who don't know enough to avoid getting into self-defeating relationships with gay men? Or those who misguidedly think they can change them around. In the words of Henry Rollins, if you were gay and someone straight came up to you and said, "I can turn you around," don't you think you'd be REALLY certain of your sexual orientation at that point?

"This led to the worse [sic] excesses of early homosexual visibility - the most enormous of drag queens, the dirtiest of leather daddies, the most enticing of twinkie boys, androgyny, overeating, public sex, and the birth of "camp." Dear God, where to start? That's quite a compliment, honoring the Golden Girls with being the fount from which all these aspects of gay culture sprang. But let's step back, shall we? Let's touch on just a few of these. Drag queens? Been around forever and ever - both enormous and tiny. They kicked off Stonewall, and quite honestly, every queer individual of every stripe owes a debt of gratitude to them. Leather daddies? Oh yeah, I can see where homespun, wholesome Rose Nylund inspired guys to don biker's caps, tight, tight leather pants, and put on a hypermasculine persona. Nothing to do with Marlon Brando in The Wild One or Tom of Finland's illustrations. Nothing whatsoever. Overeating? Oh yeah, that cornerstone of gay culture. Must have been all that cheesecake. If it weren't for us gay boys, the Cheesecake Factory would be kaput. And the birth of camp? Seriously? Um, go back to (at LEAST) 1930s Berlin, where cabaret shows were all the rage. There is where camp enjoyed a rampant heyday, if not its actual birth.

See, I feel stupid having to explain these things. I feel like I'm teaching a fifth grader for the millionth time that 2+2=4.

One more thing: How about his accusations of leather daddies and flaming queens who "attack with the swiftness of a ninja," then head off "groping someone's son in a Sears lavatory"? Ya know, this equating homosexuality with pedophilia has to STOP. We gay men aren't interested in boys. We're interested in men.

I have to stop. I can't stoop to this guy's inanity anymore. It's kinda useless for me to mock him at this point...he does such a good job of it himself. Instinct should seriously consider hiring him on as a regular contributor.

"And now, the sports news. I'm your host, Chuck Sirloin."

2010-01-11T15:37:00.009-07:00

Stupid, stupid, stupid (and insanely obvious) sports news that gets people all riled up. Because, y'know, nothing - not even a war in Afghanistan, the muck and mire of health care reform, or the economy - can compare to the import of these luscious jewels. To wit:

- Tiger and his affair(s). OMG. Stop the presses. ANOTHER sports hero sticking his pee-pee in another warm, tight vagina that is not his by virtue of marriage. Can't imagine.

- Mark McGwire and his steroids. Heavens to Murgatroyd and pass me the smelling salts! A baseball player on steroids! People, it's not like those Popeye-sized forearms of his way back when didn't scream it out in the first place.

- Brent Favre (sic). Need I go into it? The sports poster child of growing old gracelessly. Either retire or don't. And the fact that he went to Minnesota after years with Green Bay, antagonizing one of the biggest rivalries in the country, made him even more of a twat.

- Overanalysis of anything football-related, for that matter. Seriously, people? The fact that we make a multi-billion dollar enterprise out of football is a joke to me. Yeah, I can get behind the whole "pride in your own city" thing. There's better ways to do it. The way that millions of people either a) spend hours examining and analyzing players and their abilities and their potential, or b) pretend that they do is hoarksome. Straight-guy dick-fencing of the worst kind. (As a gay man, I have to admit I don't mind examining and analyzing players and their, um, assets. Most specifically: linebackers in tight contour-accentuating uniforms that barely restrain their big guts and bubble butts. Yum. Oh, and Howie Long, too. At least looks-wise.)

The gayest video in the whole history of...the whole history!

2010-01-04T11:46:00.009-07:00

This video is so many iridescent shades of FABULOUS I don't know where to start. I'm now looking at the world through rainbow-colored, triangle-shaped glasses.

1980s in full force, bitches! An aerobics competition! Sponsored by Crystal Light! Bright! Colors! Everywhere! Geometric shapes! Big hair and bangs! Cardigans with shoulder pads! Alan Thicke!

I would stop with the exclamation points, but there's such high energy I can't stop! Someone help me!

And these preening gym bunnies from the San Francisco Bay Club! Hot! Working an aerobics routine choreographed to Devo on speed and performed within a millimeter of its airbrushed life! Ass slaps and high kicks all 'round!

Now. I defy you to be depressed for the rest of the day.

How to whup flu in the ass...

2009-12-19T22:46:00.004-07:00

So I try to keep any sort of health info away from this blog. I do work in the health field, so I write lots of stuff about health anyways. But y'all gotta listen.

Yesterday morning came WAY too early. Driving to work felt like the proverbial Mack truck had slammed me. Took some of the morning off to hit the gym's sauna and steam room. For nearly two hours, people! Came back to see a few patients and discover my temperature was a nice 102. Called the rest of the day off, natch. Drove home, and spent the rest of the day either melting in hot baths or buried beneath blankets.

Yep, probably is the flu. No, I did not get the flu shot. I'll let my body fight it off itself, thank you very much. Despite the fact that I don't have the strongest immune system in the world, I've got weapons in my arsenal to help stave illnesses off, and now I know I've got great weapons to powerfully mitigate them when they hit.

Last night, I was in AGONY, and was in no shape to drive. But I drove a good hour round-trip to a health food store to get an extract of the black elderberry called Sambucol. (Or at least, that's the most official version of it; I've also seen it simply called Sambucus; that's from the taxonomic name Sambucus nigra). People, this shit WORKS. I've never seen any medicine eliminate flu symptoms faster. And I'm thrilled that it happens to be basically natural. But here's the cherry on top of the natural/effective ice cream sundae: it actually tastes delicious! Seriously. I went to a convention years ago where I sampled Sambucol for the first time. They didn't serve it on spoons. They didn't serve it in little plastic measuring cups. They served it on pancakes. Tasted like some of the yummiest raspberry pancake syrup I'd ever had. Granted, it isn't the cheapest stuff on the market, but it's not exorbitant.

Now, here's something new I hadn't heard of until late last week. Joe Mercola, he of the ubiquitous and reliably annoying health website Mercola.com, wrote an interesting article about baking soda. It goes back to the 1920s, before health claims on anything were effectively muzzled unless you were a drug company in bed with the FDA and with billions in pocket change. Apparently, baking soda back then was being touted - not as a cure, but as a treatment for colds and flu. No claim to 100% eradicate it. Just a claim that it would decrease symptoms and duration. (The theory behind baking soda is that it tends to alkalize the body, and viral/bacterial infections have a hard time thriving in an alkaline environment.) Here's the simple protocol:

Day 1: 6 doses of 1/2 teaspoon baking soda in water, all 2 hours apart.
Day 2: 4 doses, all 2 hours apart.
Day 3: 2 doses, morning and night.
Day 4 until end of illness: 1 dose in the morning.

I'm a huge fan of the saying "it can't hurt, and it might help." Small doses of baking soda certainly qualify. I'm also a huge fan of giving legitimacy to effective natural remedies that will never have the so-called legitimacy of quack drugs like statins and acid blockers, thanks to the FDA. So I gave the baking soda a try.

It's been about 24 hours since I started the Sambucol, and I began the baking soda protocol this morning. I can say with no question that I still have the flu. I can also say with no question that I have never rebounded so quickly after getting the flu. Headache? Yes. Sore throat? Yes. Muscle aches? Yes. But I also have energy, am in great spirits, and was hungry enough this evening to make some soup for myself, after having no appetite and fasting rather effortlessly for about 30 hours. Even went to a party tonight and ate a fair bit there, too. I've heard horror stories of people who have been dealing with the flu this season for weeks, bedridden for most of the time. If last night's feverish tossing and turning ends up being the extent of my problems, then I'm a convert...and I'll let patients know too, from here on through.

"Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?"

2009-12-17T23:30:00.006-07:00

1) A Charlie Brown Christmas. As if I would EVER leave this one off. NO ONE should go through Christmas without seeing this. Every year, it seems the spirit of the season gets more and more lost in the shuffle, and this is always a wonderful reminder of why we celebrate Christmas in the first place. Linus's reading of the Nativity is simple, understated, poignant, and perfect. Originally, everyone working on this special back in 1965 was terribly pessimistic about it, thinking it was too depressing, poorly made, amateurish, and was doomed to failure. It gives me hope for the human race that this actually ended up succeeding far beyond anyone's expectations - and is still shown faithfully on prime time over 40 years later.

2) John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. Best. Christmas. Album. EVER. Equal parts wackiness and sappiness - and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. John Denver singing "A Baby Just Like You" will bring you to tears, and his duet with Rowlf on "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" is gorge. Meanwhile, the Muppets definitively skewer "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and rock out to the Beach Boys' "Little St. Nick"...well, as much as the Electric Mayhem can. Animal helps.

2.1) The Carpenters: Christmas Portrait. This one is just a hairsbreadth beneath A Christmas Together. Karen's silky, effortless contralto is one of pop music's greatest treasures, and it was practically made to grace Christmas carols. "Merry Christmas Darling" is, of course, the classic, but the guilty pleasures abide throughout. It also includes some light renditions of dances from The Nutcracker. Combine these two albums, and you're set.

3) Chocolate mousse pie. Hands down, the BEST dessert I have ever eaten. I was lucky enough to get the recipe from my mom a few years ago, and my partner now demands I make it every year. Decadent, rich slices of heaven, served on a cinnamon graham cracker crust and topped with heaps of whipped cream.

4) Creme brulee. Learned how to make this hummer about six years ago. Actually quite simple. Mix four ingredients (egg yolks, cream, sugar, vanilla). Put in ramekins. Put ramekins in a water bath. Bake for x amount of time. Pull out. Let cool, then refrigerate. Top with sugar and torch it. Eat slowly and savor something damn near a mouthgasm.

5) St. Olaf Christmas Festival. I have to see this every year on PBS, having sung in the Christmas festival a total of 12 times myself (4 times for 3 years running). Choral nirvana. Absolutely REQUIRED watching if you are a good Lu-the-ran.

6) Handel's Messiah, the singalong version. Because I lo-ove to sing, and really, the story of the Messiah is fascinating. Extra points for the one I go to in Boulder, since the conductor ends the whole shebang with the Hallelujah chorus sung a second time.

7) Egg nog. Duh.

8) The tree. Yes, the decorations are beautiful, but what really gets me is the smell of a (freshly-cut) pine tree. I dunno. Fresh, cool, natural, and masculine somehow...a killer combination.

9) Mandarin oranges. Nana and Papa from Bakersfield used to send us a whole crate of these every December, and their mandarin oranges were so tangy and juicy, and the peels practically fell off the fruit, they were so easy to peel. The cuties you see in the stores nowadays are a pale, sad imitation of what we used to enjoy years ago.

Yeah. About those apostrophes...

2009-12-11T14:47:00.006-07:00

If you have difficulty trying to figure out how not to use apostrophes, here's a crash course. Especially recommended for car salesmen or people in charge of marquees, or for douchenozzles who actually write like this:

Srsly people your terrible if you dont know how to use an apostrophe!!! you make me loose my mind!!! LOLZ

Gaaaahhh...