It gets better, according to Glee.

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

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.

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!

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."

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?

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."

...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."

(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."

(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, and I would argue it is one of the most important albums R.E.M. ever made; 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

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.