The best years of your life (or something...) (part 2)

Long overdue, but here goes: what I'd tell myself back in 10th grade:

-- (redacted to protect yours truly, for whom 10th grade was a tremendously harrowing year.)

-- Fer the love o’ Christ, simple speech wasn’t stressful enough? You have to go for DEBATE? I can’t stress this enough: get out while you can. It’s gonna flatten you this year, and you’re gonna deal with repercussions that’ll last for years.

-- Look, I’m with you on growing your bangs out. It’s a good look. But maybe just try the layered look in back just once in the meantime. Just once. No, it won’t make you look gay. And if you don't believe me once you see it, well go ahead and grow your hair back out.

-- Ah. Welcome to the joys of bronchitis. Enjoy hacking up a lung for the next three months.

-- (two months later): See? What'd I tell ya? Listen to that young doc fresh out of residency tell you to "get some sleep." Apparently, listening to your body wasn't cutting it. Feeling your shoulders actually boil with anger and stress while agonizing over American literature wasn't enough to tell you to STOP already. Nor was listening to this while hacking and coughing yourself to sleep at night. So SLEEP already. Doctor's orders.

-- Be careful with the Silver Skating Dame, there. Yes, she’s totally cool, and she’s rockin’ your world, but you know what? You’re rockin’ her world about a hundred times as much. You have no idea. And when she finally says, “Well, because I love you,” please try to think up something classy to say, unexpected though this revelation may be to you. Thoughtful silence for a bit is even acceptable. DON’T drop the phone and say, “Oh shit.” That’s the last thing anyone wants to hear when they open up their heart to you. And someone as awesome as SSD deserves much, much better.

-- Welcome to choir. I know you did it just to get a credit out of the way. And those shoulder rubs before singing are pretty nice, ain't? Well, trust me when I say that your life is going to shift dramatically for the better now. And yes, leaving journalism was the right move. Holy CRAP was it the right move.

-- Oh, and on top of all this, swim team!? Holy Mary, you really are turning masochism into an art form. Can't you just go easy on yourself and instead...I dunno...lift some light weights here and there, eat better, and...oh, God, I'm sounding like a broken record...SLEEP.

-- Congratulations on making it into the honors choir. And get ready to really enjoy life and school next year. You deserve it after somehow surviving hell this year.

Inspiration from Henry Rollins.

I'ma sit back and let my man Hank tell his story. Take it away, Hank.

Why not go to Europe and sing?

Just got back from a whirlwind tour of central Europe, as part of one awesome choir. Salzburg, Vienna, Budapest, and Prague. All amazing cities. How did this happen? Well, as it turns out, I was courted by a local guy on Growlr (look it up, kids) with whom I shared a big love of choral music. He happened to sing in this group that was going to Europe in June. Trouble was, not everyone could go, so they were recruiting from the outside. Thus concluded, for all intents and purposes, the extent of my arm-twisting.

Random thoughts...

• Jet lag. Not so bad going over there. Particularly considering I got maybe 20 minutes full sleep on the way over...and that was with the benefit of 3 mg melatonin. It's this coming back thing that has me off. It's not quite 7, the sun is still brilliant, and I'm SOOO logy.
• FRA. Ugly-ass airport. Industrial (not in a good way), and too much of it under construction to even come close to being attractive. Germany, you're too good for this. You got some shit to do. This is your #1 hub airport. Make it look and act like one. Some streamlining would be good, too. No need to walk a mile from a gate to customs along darkened corridors...only to do the same to reach your next gate. I will give props for the cots seen (and being used) in one area, though. Other airports would be wise to consider the same.
• Fish pedicures. Seriously. Our last day in Prague, during our last hours of free time, some fellow choir girls decided to do this. I have no idea what they were thinking, yet at the same time, it sounds rather compelling. It sounded especially so at the end of the trip. I mean, soaking your poor, aching, blistery feet in cool water while fish lightly nibble at the dead skin on your...oh...sorry. Too gross? Yeah, I kinda thought so too. And I still have the blistery, overgrown-callused feet to prove it.
• "Hey gurl haaay!" This was Mr. Man's influence. This is what the cool gay boys are saying nowadays. And by boys, I mean I think it originated with bears, of all groups. But now it's being spread. By the end of our tour, we had everyone greeting each other this way. It replaced "cheese!" in pictures. Even the tour director was saying this on the bus. And its shelf life expires in 3..2..1...
• Churches. Oh, God, a shit-load of 'em. Each of them more astounding than the rest. I mean, there's only so many times you can walk into a huge ass cathedral and gape up at the stunning stained glass, painting, sculpture, and iconography before it becomes a blur. So what do you do? You sing in them to commemorate them, right? So...
• St. Vitus Cathedral. Yeah. That huge one in Prague Castle, overlooking the city. I can now say that I've sung in St. Vitus. Not like it was something I even considered before, but we had a quick impromptu performance there. Our tour guide took aside a docent, got her to pull some strings and tell the organ player to knock it off for like five minutes (he didn't), and we jumped right in. (About halfway through, the organ player realized that some choir was singing, so he stopped, just in time for the most dramatic part.)
• Other choral music. Yeah, I'm into the really serious shit, if you followed that last link through and listened all the way to the end. (If not, do it. No, really.) For me, music like that is just sublime, heavenly. Aside from Gustav Holst's Nunc dimittis, the pieces that just killed me were the seminal Ave verum corpus by William Byrd and Our Father by Alexander Gretchaninoff. (That last link is the group I sang with...on their last European tour 5 years ago!)

More later...this poor boy's gotta unpack and get to bed. The sun's setting, it's 4 in the morning in Prague, and I'm fading fast.

And bad mistakes...I've made a few...

At 25, I was watching the Grammys, and saw Lauryn Hill, who is as old as me, win five Grammy awards. And at 25, I was in the middle of naturopathic school. But for the first time, I felt like I was squandering my life. I literally sat up and asked out loud, much to the befuddlement of my friends, "God...what have I done with my life?"

Boy, I'm glad that my 25 year-old self can't see me now, let alone my 16 year-old self. I mean, here is a list of that young man's ambitions back in February of 1992:

1. Keep up a high morality code with integrity.
2. Ignore what the TV says.
3. Single-handedly redefine the genre and ideals of American literature by the use of short essays. In short, start a new era.
4. Make a couple of classic albums.
5. Be a teacher.
6. Be a researcher or doctor.
7. Become a new Socrates - as great a thinker as he was.
8. Live life deeply and lovingly.
9. Love.
10. Be religious.
11. Be me!

Yeah, I was one ambitious motherfucker, wasn't I? Needless to say, I've not made a single album, let alone a single song. I get drawn into TV far more than I would like. And bringing American literature (VERY loosely defined) into a new era was apparently not up to me, but the tech-savvy inventors of blogs. And Socrates? In college, I derided one of my friends for being down on herself because she wasn't as great a thinker as Dostoevsky was. Um...oops. So much for that. (At least I won't die from hemlock poisoning.)

But life happens. Laundry needs to be done. Someone needs to bring home the bacon. Mundaneness settles in. And also, goals change. But having said that, a strong, stoic core part of me maintains that there's still a LOT of living to do, and a LOT of ambitions yet to realize. Gotta keep moving.

Dinner at Eight - Rufus Wainwright

Rufus Wainwright is an acquired taste. His voice is nasal and anoretic (especially on his debut, where I don't recommend starting), and his musical tastes run pretty skew to popular music. Classical, opera, folk, and Tin Pan Alley are the founts from which his inspiration springs, and he has a slightly aloof, wry, and condescending way about him. His compositions (funny how that word came to mind before "songs") can be dry and subtle, often bereft of hooks, and only reward you after multiple listenings or upon being placed in an appropriate context. Or they can be sweepingly melodramatic, full of romantic and impressionistic flourishes that go down as easy as a bowl of the richest chocolate mousse - and leaving you feeling about as queasy afterward. Oh, and add in the fact that he is a gay man; this colors his writing considerably. (Can you imagine a straight songwriter name-dropping Bea Arthur? Or writing a song from the point of view of a young woman reminiscing about her first high school crush on a man?) Needless to say, he hasn't been gracing the top of the pop charts.

What he has done is make some of the most gorgeous, intelligent, moving music of the new century; even an authority as high as Elton John has branded him "the greatest songwriter on the planet. " Choosing my favorite Rufus song is no easy task. There's an awful lot of gold, particularly from Poses and the two Want albums. But "Dinner at Eight" (from Want One) stands above the rest. This love song to his father ironically resonates with anger and bitterness throughout, and exemplifies the brutally personal turned universal.

Rufus's family (father Loudon III, sister Martha, deceased mother Kate McGarrigle, aunt Anna McGarrigle) is an immensely talented group of folk musicians. In fact, when Loudon first happened on the scene in the early 1970s, he was branded with that dreaded "new Bob Dylan" title that no one could live up to. Despite that, Loudon - and the rest of the family, really - is no stranger to critical acclaim, even if they haven't achieved widespread popularity.

They are also just as flawed as humans can be and they air out their familial trials, tribulations, and secrets in their music with a willingness that makes the listener sometimes feel exploitative. (See Loudon's tribute to his then breast-feeding son, "Rufus is a Tit Man." See also Martha's paean to her dad, "B.M.F.A." It stands for "bloody mother fu..." uh, yeah, you got it.) "Dinner at Eight" fits right in here...and although I don't know the Wainwright/McGarrigle canon like I suspect I should, I bet this song sits near the top of the heap of these expositions.

From a musical standpoint, "Dinner at Eight" does away with the typical opulence, and begins with a quiet, stately piano arpeggio that belies the drama directly ahead. "No matter how strong," Rufus warns his dad, "I'm gonna take you down with one little stone. I'm gonna break you down and see what you're worth...what you're really worth to me." As an orchestra quietly builds behind him, he recalls an argument between he and his dad one night; it's easy to imagine it might have been a battle of egos between the well-established father and the rising star son.

But just as soon as it seems Rufus turns away from the argument, dismissing his part in it, he suddenly stops and stands his ground. "Why is it so...that I've always been the one who must go? That I've always been the one told to flee? When in fact you were the one...in the drifting white snow who left me?" Bitter accusations were seldom so poetically put. Cue a weeping harp mimicking the snow falling, and you now have Rufus's mom, Kate, weeping herself, out of the anguish of knowing such a strained relationship existed between two men she loved so much.

Suddenly, the music swells, and with it, Rufus's righteous anger. "So put up your fists, and I'll put up mine. No running away from the scene of the crime." It's the moment of reckoning for his father. Reconciliation and peace, or a lifetime filled with resentment and anger. Either way, it's his dad's choice. "God's chosen a place somewhere near the end of the world, somewhere near the end of our lives. But till then, Daddy, don't be surprised if I want to see the tears in your eyes." Rufus is asking for an apology, an admission of guilt, for the hard facade to break down just once. "Then I'll know...you loved me." Just that much. But you get the sense that Rufus doubts it, as he repeats the beginning of the song, re-establishing his defiant stance against his father.

"Dinner at Eight," for all its beauty, is achingly uncomfortable, and Rufus does his best to heighten the tension. The music ebbs and flows with emotion, with little regard to a regular beat, and creeps to a near-standstill, tellingly, as he sings "in the drifting white snow, you left me." A slow, painful death trumps a quick one any day, and Rufus is going to make damned well and sure his dad knows how much it hurt feeling abandoned.

So, yeah. Wrenches your heart out, this song does. But in the most beautiful manner. Well worth a listen.

Good God, North Carolina...

Really? What the everloving fuck?

The language of Amendment One in North Carolina, passed today: "Marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this State.” Hmm...think about that. A "domestic legal union." This basically means that not only would same-sex gay & lesbian unions would not be legal, but any sort of common law living arrangements (and the benefits appertaining thereto) would also not be legal. Never mind that there is already a law banning same-sex marriages. The fucktards in NC decided that wasn't enough. Now, this law pretty much undermines some domestic violence protection, screws with child custody issues, and - yes, that most visible of rights - curtails hospital visitation privileges. Way to preserve the sanctity of good old-fashioned one man-one woman Christian marriage (because of course, there's only one kind, right?) and ensure the stability of society.

Of course, the fact that many people didn't understand what they were voting for didn't help matters, either. Gotta love those informed voters.

About five years ago, I attended a cousin's wedding in Fayetteville. The minister, douchenozzle that he was, saw fit to insert some political comment during the blessing about how a marriage should only be between a man and a woman. Were I not surrounded by loving and supportive family (and loving and supportive of my cousin's marriage myself), I would have stood up and stomped out of that church posthaste. As loudly and obtrusively as possible. Just infuriated me.

Now, because I can be a cruel-hearted and vindictive bitch, if I lived in North Carolina, and were a law enforcement official of some sort, I would gleefully enforce this law to its fullest extent, making damn well and sure that those who voted for it and failed to understand its ramifications would be punished to the fullest extent of the law for their ignorance. Of course, for those who voted against it, I'd feel pretty heavy-hearted and frustratingly duty-bound to follow through with state-mandated responsibility, dragging my feet the entire way.

The requisite disclaimer: I have plenty of family and a few friends who hail from North Carolina (see above). With a possible exception (and even then, I kinda doubt...), I know for a fact all of them would have voted against this hateful amendment. A few of them even went out of their way to campaign against it, which I'm grateful for. So I can't make a blanket statement on how all North Carolinians are ignent and hateful.

Still...way to go, North Carolina. Congratulations on becoming this nation's newest hate state. (Said with mockery from another erstwhile hate state...which incidentally, at this very hour, is coming awfully close to making civil unions legal.)

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UPDATE: Check that. Apparently, when you have a Republican-controlled House, they see fit to filibuster this bill until the midnight deadline, and you don't have room to gloat. Once again, on the wrong side of history.)

Lambada - Kaoma

Back in the summer of 1989, I spent three weeks on the hot southern coast of France with a bunch of German peers under the guise of learning French immersion-style. Thankfully, it wasn't terribly cerebral. Yeah, classes in the morning, but the afternoons were filled with juicy peaches and Orangina bought from roadside markets, trips to the beach, crepes from a beachside stand, and nights out on the town with friends. And sweet, sweet freedom, thousands of miles away from parental control! I also got exposed to this fun, cheesy song and video, which spearheaded a tiny, short-lived fad. The lambada was the international equivalent of dirty dancing, and that video was EVERYWHERE, mainly because Kaoma was a French band. Even so, "Lambada" would have forever disappeared from my tiny brain were it not for a certain recent single by JLo: "On The Floor." Glad those memories turned back up again.

Darling, being gay is the best excuse you'll ever have not to be boring!

So says Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous: one of my favorite shows of all time. BUT.

(whining alert)

Man, I'm so not into being gay lately. At least my recent experience of it. Where do I start?

Shows like the deceased and not-at-all-mourned The A-List (both New York and Dallas versions) and the still-afflicting-us 1 girl 5 gays just annoy the everloving crap outta me. The A-List had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The producers, I assume, thought it would be such a great idea to put the bitchiest, supposedly A-list gays in close proximity to each other, force them to flirt shamelessly and do all they could to wreck relationships, friendships, and reputations. Including their own. I've seldom felt so good about being a non A-lister. But I also felt sick to my stomach watching this...is this the image we're putting out to society? Help us all. At least 1 girl 5 gays has the excuse of catering to teens and the twentysomething crowd. And if I were that age, I would be really gaga over the show. Still, it's kinda creepy, looking in on 5 gaybies (recycled at random from probably around 40 or so) and their resident hag (far too pretty for such a derogatory-sounding term). These guys pass judgment on each other, laugh with each other, share some deep secrets (and many, many more not-so-deep secrets), and talk about their sex lives outside of the show. Said sex lives include fellow cast members, so it feels incestuous. To be sure, they all look and act friendly enough, but really, what I can't abide is yet ANOTHER discussion of how people don't care enough about Madonna or Gaga, what actor you would do, what you were thinking when you were finishing your last hookup, and (I wish I were making this up) drawing what your parents look like naked. I think I'm just getting too old for this.

Also? Alcohol. It has its place, and right now, with a few exceptions, that place is not near me. Not because of any run-ins with the law, mind you. I just don't like the way I feel when I imbibe, and do whatever I can to make sure that any after-effects are mitigated as much as possible. It's become especially noticeable since I've begun working out, seeing results, and doing what I can to make sure I see more results.

Along the lines of alcohol comes the social scene. Okay, alcohol's good for that. I tend to come out of my shell once I get a few drinks down. Only problem is, I'm sometimes likely to spiral into sadness, or more likely, anger and resentment. And let me tell you, I am one evil, evil bitch when that happens. Friends often are surprised to find out that I have this mean streak in me, but it is true: I can be more bitter, scathing, and cruel - without any irony or dark humor to leaven it - than just about anyone I know. I don't get fiery. I become icy and numb. Don't cross me.

Oh yeah...back to the social scene. I joke to people nowadays that Mr. Man goes out and kicks up his pink sequined platforms with the fabulous crowd, while I stay at home, sip my chamomile tea and knit. Of course, this is relative to Mr. Man, who is far and away one of the most social people I've ever known. I tell people that I can be a lightbulb and light up a dark room, but I'm often next to the sun. And I HAAATE playing second fiddle to a guy who makes you feel as socially awkward as an autistic kid (though it is never intentional). (By the way, I just took an autism spectrum quotient quiz. My score: 30 out of 50. Above 32 indicates a likelihood of something along the autism spectrum. Apparently, I read people too well and am too sensitive to their expressions to qualify.)

The worst part? Let's combine all of the above and intensify it ten times. Travelling for gay parties that are all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll - or in this case, sex, poppers, and techno - just drains me in all ways possible. If I need a week or two to recover from the lack of sleep and wild times, it just isn't worth it. Yes, you can make tons of friends at said parties, which is cool. But I've been to enough of 'em - Dallas, Chicago, and God help me, New Orleans - to last me for a few years. I have no desire to do a bear run or circuit party anytime in the near future. (Meanwhile, Mr. Man recently expressed a desire to go on a vacation somewhere. All he listed were said gatherings.)

Can we keep going? Please? TECHNO MUST DIE. I'm sick of it.

Incidentally, I realized today that on the occasion of Denver's Pridefest, I will find myself cruising at 35,000 feet, returning from a glorious vacation in Europe, and landing too late to participate. And I celebrated inside.

Ugh. Years ago, I came to the conclusion that the only requirement to declare myself gay was to admit that I was sexually attracted to men, and that was it. I didn't need to live any kind of lifestyle to prove how gay I was. It's good to be reminded of this. If this whole scene is what it means to be gay, then I resign. I have a different, better gay life to live.

Your nun foams with a freezing companion.

Glee, I'm done with you. Furreals now. Yeah, some of you who know my erstwhile fanaticism may question this, but the most recent episode (post-Karofsky coming out and Quinn's texting-while-driving accident) turned me off for all time. All the songs - and I do mean ALL of them - made me spit up in my mouth. Pure High School Musical. And the plots were all strict by-the-numbers after school special boilerplate. It actually made me feel sorry for all the actors...particularly Jane Lynch, whose talents are surely needed elsewhere by now. (Isn't there a Christopher Guest vehicle coming down the pike soon? Seems overdue by this point.) Also: Slash refuses to let any G&R songs on Glee. (Duh...like matter meeting antimatter.) Stick a fork in it, y'all...it's done.

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Pinterest. Yea, I have succumbed. As of a month ago, the interwebs reported that it was 90% driven by women. And ugh...the sheer number of feel-good quotes, comfort food recipes, and domestic designs substantiates this. Even the men's fashion on there is of the GQ ilk - assuming that all men are pretentious, quirky, urbane, somewhat muscly but wasp-waisted, and too hipsterish to care about reality. But I'm on there all the same...sensing that there's gotta be enough stuff on the world wide webiverse that isn't as touchy-feely as all this. Somewhere.

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Black Sabbath. I find it a travesty and a sin that none of their back catalog is available on mp3. Not even We Sold Our Soul For Rock 'n' Roll. Doesn't matter that Beavis & Butthead supplied my first exposure to them. Nor that Girl Talk gave me my second hit. I'm ready for them to hit me hard.

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Gardening. As part of our landscaping last summer, we got three good-sized garden plots. Didn't plant anything - thought it was too late - but hoo boy! did we get a bumper crop of weeds! Even some aspen saplings poked through the dirt. But planting for this summer has already begun, despite predictions for snow tonight. And I'm thrilled. I don't think we'll have enough room for my ambitions (60 gladiolus bulbs? AND other flower seeds alongside?), but it'll be fun trying it out. In the ground so far: strawberries, broccoli, and chard. Soon: cabbage, corn, the aforementioned gladioli, radishes, raspberries, dill, basil, and garlic. I'm KICKING myself for not getting spaghetti squash in there. But maybe there's room yet. I may not be able to devote much time to the garden, but there's something so cool about putting something in the ground, caring for it a bit, and knowing that within a few months, it'll give back to you in some amazing ways.
(Oh, and no tomatoes or lettuce for us...we're not fans.)

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Lime jello marshmallow cottage cheese surprise. After hearing the song about it, joking about it for years, and unwittingly causing countless friends to reminisce about Minnesota/family reunions/Mormon church dinners/stuff their grandmothers made and forced them to eat/what have you, I finally decided to make it. Seriously. And I ate it. And I...uh...actually liked it. I may make it again. (Without the pimentos or mayonnaise.)

FINALLY.

After Mondo was inexplicably denied his win against the odious Gretchen a few seasons back, I began losing interest and love for Project Runway. I seriously cannot fathom what the judges were thinking. I even publicly wrote "CRACK-SMOKING PROJECT RUNWAY JUDGES MUST DIE!" on Facebook that night, after seeing Mondo go down undeservedly in flames. Michael Kors and Nina Garcia were actually actively defending Gretchen's work. Who knew that Heidi would be the voice of reason? Needless to say, I was aghast, as was the whole crowd around me at Beauty Bar that night.

Side note: the next morning, I flew to Seattle for a seminar. Going through security, I saw a...uh...big-boned gal (in k.d. lang's letter-perfect terms) working TSA. She looked utterly uninterested in being at the airport at 6:00 in the morning. Until she say my Team Mondo t-shirt. Then she went ballistic, and vented mightily about how much Mondo was robbed. It was kinda cool to bond with her about it. One of those wink-wink-nudge-nudge-oh-you're-family! kind of moments.

PR has been steadily going downhill since then - and even before. Anya's win last season just about killed my interest for all time. The judges - or rather, the producers - ensured that an exotic woman from Trinidad and Tobago, who once created an amateur sex tape (I don't even think we can call it porn) and only learned how to sew six months prior to enrolling in PR, won over much more talented and deserving designers. (Paging Viktor Luna, please.) It was a story of a girl who rose from obscurity and a bit of ignominy and conquered the fashion world - even if only for her 15 minutes. How very Lifetime.

So a night like tonight was SO welcome! I'm certainly not the most fashionable of guys, nor am I knowledgeable in the sartorial arts, but to this inexperienced guy's eyes, Mondo's collection did actually look the most cohesive, consistent, and well-designed. But it was by a very slim margin. Austin's collection wasn't so unified, but damn, that wedding dress...utterly gorgeous. As was the dramatic evening gown. But there were just a few too many ennh moments for me to fully embrace it. Michael's collection was certainly nothing if not cohesive. But I think he let the prints dictate the collection a bit too much, unfortunately. Mondo, on the other hand, is an absolute master at commanding prints, instead of letting them command him. If that makes sense. He gets the most disparate ideas - ones that in a more inexperienced designer would produce ugly chaos - and creates the most amazing art out of them.

Still, the cynic in me (or perhaps the realist) has to say that Mondo's win was not 100% earned. Did he deserve it? I really do think so. Austin put up an incredible fight, though, and despite my cheering for the Denver darling, I would not have protested an Austin win. But everyone loves...well, in this case, not an underdog per se, but someone who was unfairly denied the title the first time around. The producers certainly had their $0.02, and to give Mondo the title brought the Lifetime story full circle.

Incidentally, lesson learned tonight from my excitement: do NOT post said excitement on Facebook. The stragglers will be PISSED at your unannounced spoiler. If I continue watching Project Runway (which, at this point, is a very dubious proposition), I will not be, *ahem*, everyone's spoliator. (Pretty savvy how I worked that in, right?)

This post brought to you by the fabulous amethyst and at least 1/2 of a cherry coke (that's 2 shots cherry vodka, 1 shot plain vodka, and a full can of caffeine-free Coke. Because it's late, I have a full day tomorrow, and cannot afford caffeine after 4 pm, let alone 9:30.)