Some albums you just don't need to own, because...well, everyone out there seems to own it, and you can just listen to their copy. At least, that was how the logic went circa 1990, when CDs and tapes were all the rage. In this case, my sister, who left a fair bit of her music collection behind when she went to college, was my unknowing benefactor whenever I snuck to her room and borrowed her copy of Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits.
My music collection back in 1990 left a fair bit of testosterone to be desired, and this album certainly didn't contribute to the cause. What it did do, though, was to allow me to work on my voice on some of the most poignant and beautiful songs from the 1960s. Anoretic ol' me couldn't rumble down low quite yet, and for some reason, I idealized a high tenor, so I did what I could to nurture said tenor. (It certainly came in handy a year later when I began my choral career.) And I tried to ape Simon and Garfunkel's straight, unobtrusive, simply declarative singing. Any high notes sounded effortless, and that was my goal...regardless of how much my neck muscles and jugular veins would pop out, I would make those high Fs perfect, and not in falsetto, either!
I still point to Art Garfunkel's "For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her" as a crystalline example of how tender and touching singing can be. (I don't care that Paul Simon wrote the song...Art owns that damned thing.) The imagery is beautiful, and virtually every phrase is an impressionistic reverie ("I heard cathedral bells/Tripping down the alleyways"; "What a dream I had, dressed in organdy, clothed in crinoline of smoky burgundy"; "We walked on frosted fields of juniper and lamplight"). Say what you will about Simon's precious poesy elsewhere...here, he gets it perfect. The delicate and pointillistic accompaniment is gorgeous and perfectly suits the mood.
I also jibed with "I Am A Rock," Simon's declaration of emotional independence from all around him. Friends and lovers be damned, he was going it alone...and as an alienated teenager who found little of emotional sustenance to be had around me, so would I. Again, his fascination with poetry came to the forefront, where he intentionally contradicted John Donne's famous poem "No Man Is An Island."
Such was my resonance with this album and its melancholy that by mid-high school, I could sing anything on it, with memorized lyrics and the correct key, at a moment's notice. But as I grew older, so did this album, and we began to part ways during the latter years of high school. By mid-college, I had little use of it. The only reason I returned to it now was based on the 50th anniversary of JFK's death. I had mistakenly thought that "Mrs. Robinson" was the #1 song at the time of his death (actually, it was some song about a flying nun or something), when actually it was around RFK's death. Either way, I had remembered reading about how the lyrics seemed to echo America's sentiment at the time. ("Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.") So I decided to revisit the album...and on the recommendation of many others, ended up getting its more expansive and sonically-updated relative, The Best of Simon and Garfunkel. It's nice to have more songs here, particularly from Bookends, an album I never had. But much like people sometimes complained about the sterility of CD sound vs. the warmth of vinyl, I feel like something has been lost in the upgrade somehow, and I miss the familiarity of the original audio. Oh well. It still is good to have these guys back again.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
"What's that I smell?" "Burning nun, darling. Cheers."
Random comments about last night:
- When a new gayby (young, either newly-out or new to the scene gay man) says he has not seen The Sound of Music after 21 years on this plane, what do you do? Of course. You devirginize him. With said movie. And lots of friends. And lots of drinks and nibbly things.
- Don't be too bummed if he decides he really won't go out of his way to see the movie again, despite allowing as how he liked it.
- The St. Germain gin and tonic is utterly delightful. I wish I had begun drinking it about six months ago. It makes the perfect summer drink. (Don't belabor it. One gin and tonic, a half shot of St. Germain.)
- Forgive me, for I have sinned. Of all the gawdawful, socially, politically, environmentally, and hygienically repugnant things I could have done last night, this takes the cake: ordering Papa John's.
- Superman: Man of Steel - (Spoilers, natch.) Not a bad movie. I appreciated the story behind why General Zod was so hell-bent on taking over Earth. Not that it particularly made me like him, but it certainly made me understand his impulses better; I could almost sympathize with him. (Compare it with Superman II, where Zod just plain wanted to rule the planet and subject its peons to cruel dictatorship because...well, you know...just because.) But GOD...how many buildings did those two lovers need to throw each other into? And in the end, all it took was a good old-fashioned neck-wrench to send Zod hurtling into the void? What a disappointment.
- Combine the gin and tonics, the pizza, and the hyperkinesis of MOS, and you have yourself one soon-to-be-sick puppy on your hands. Cold sweat, that sudden sense of impending doom if you don't do something NOW...you know the feeling. And so:
- Enter my favorite herb of all time: gentian. Insanely bitter - and insanely awesome. I keep a tincture of it on hand at all times. It has often made the difference between puking my guts out and feeling miserable for hours afterward and feeling clean, cool, and calm. Three squirts of this in a cup of water, sipped over a few minutes, and here was the progression. Five minutes after starting: something is happening. Ten minutes after that: I'm definitely on the mend. Not sweating, stomach is moving, and this noxious brick in my stomach feels like it's dissolving. Within a half hour: completely out of the woods. Not just that, but I feel like I could SOAR, I'm feeling so great. I normally don't have quite that dramatic a response to gentian, but I was in a world of hurt last night.
- Want an aural approximation of this progression? Listen. Start at about 7:30 (just before feeling sick), and go until the vocals kick in at about 13:40. Thank God for prime Floyd.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Alice Hanson
I went to a Lutheran college in small town Minnesota renowned, quite honestly, the world over for its music department. The choirs, orchestra, and band all were miles beyond the typical college ensembles, and were compared favorably with the likes of other world-famous ensembles. But behind the groups was the faculty. While being peerless in excellence, the demeanor of the instructors ranged from friendly to aloof, modest to egotistical. But the most notorious instructor was the one whose name was spoken with not a little fear: Dr. Alice Hanson.
Dr. Hanson taught what was universally known - not just in the music department, but schoolwide - as the toughest two courses at college: the two classes in music history required for music majors. Organic chemistry? Pshaw! Advanced statistics? A cake walk. Her classes all started at 8:00 am. Her door shut at 8:01. And students who showed up late were locked out and received an absence. Her lectures were legendary. She would be discussing Schubert lieder, then in a split second, point at you or one of your unwitting classmates and ask you a question about them. Woe unto you if you didn't know the answer or weren't paying attention, since participation every class by every student was mandatory and a significant part of the grade. She'd go down the line, knocking down student by student until someone gave her an acceptable answer. If corporal punishment were legal in college, I'm sure there would have been more than a few knuckle-rappings for not knowing the answer. I never heard about the rigors of writing papers for Dr. Hanson, but I think this post by a respectful former student rings true. No one who crossed her forgot her, and everyone who took her classes emerged a better person for it.
As you've guessed, I wasn't a music major, although I took as many classes as I could without declaring an official major, so I never met Dr. Hanson. I'm certain that I walked by her more than once in the halls of the music department, small as it was, but I never really recognized her, which added to her mystique. And once I left college, any mention of her disappeared...until this past week. She left behind the kind of legacy that I aspire to: that of a hard-ass who was frequently harsh and unyielding but always in the service of improving those around her. People may not have liked her, but they unanimously held the highest of respect for her. To be blunt, perhaps as she would have liked it, bitch got shit done. And she taught others how to get shit done in her own way, too.
I'm imagining one of two scenarios right now. Either St. Peter is wondering if Dr. Hanson really belongs up there, or Satan is afraid of being upstaged. I'm thinking more the former, but wherever she ends up, there's gonna be a lot of chain-rattling going on.
And again...damn. I never met the woman. I never took a class of hers. But I heard stories upon stories about her the entire time I was in college. And years later, upon hearing about her death, I'm spending part of my afternoon writing a whole post about her. That, my friends, is one awesome legacy.
Dr. Hanson taught what was universally known - not just in the music department, but schoolwide - as the toughest two courses at college: the two classes in music history required for music majors. Organic chemistry? Pshaw! Advanced statistics? A cake walk. Her classes all started at 8:00 am. Her door shut at 8:01. And students who showed up late were locked out and received an absence. Her lectures were legendary. She would be discussing Schubert lieder, then in a split second, point at you or one of your unwitting classmates and ask you a question about them. Woe unto you if you didn't know the answer or weren't paying attention, since participation every class by every student was mandatory and a significant part of the grade. She'd go down the line, knocking down student by student until someone gave her an acceptable answer. If corporal punishment were legal in college, I'm sure there would have been more than a few knuckle-rappings for not knowing the answer. I never heard about the rigors of writing papers for Dr. Hanson, but I think this post by a respectful former student rings true. No one who crossed her forgot her, and everyone who took her classes emerged a better person for it.
As you've guessed, I wasn't a music major, although I took as many classes as I could without declaring an official major, so I never met Dr. Hanson. I'm certain that I walked by her more than once in the halls of the music department, small as it was, but I never really recognized her, which added to her mystique. And once I left college, any mention of her disappeared...until this past week. She left behind the kind of legacy that I aspire to: that of a hard-ass who was frequently harsh and unyielding but always in the service of improving those around her. People may not have liked her, but they unanimously held the highest of respect for her. To be blunt, perhaps as she would have liked it, bitch got shit done. And she taught others how to get shit done in her own way, too.
I'm imagining one of two scenarios right now. Either St. Peter is wondering if Dr. Hanson really belongs up there, or Satan is afraid of being upstaged. I'm thinking more the former, but wherever she ends up, there's gonna be a lot of chain-rattling going on.
And again...damn. I never met the woman. I never took a class of hers. But I heard stories upon stories about her the entire time I was in college. And years later, upon hearing about her death, I'm spending part of my afternoon writing a whole post about her. That, my friends, is one awesome legacy.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Get shit done.
I woke up this morning to a FB post wherein someone referred to an article and erroneously concluded that because he didn't contribute to society, that was the reason he was single. (By the by, he's a government employee, providing an extremely valuable service.) The article's title piqued my interest (Six Harsh Truths That Will Make You A Better Person), but I was ready to discount it as just another random, unnecessary posting by Cracked, and a waste of my time. Still, I read on.
And damn...for a website that puts out some occasionally snarky and annoying and sometimes funny shit, this was one whopper of an article. I mean, wasn't this once a magazine that sold itself as a second-rate Mad Magazine? From such lowly dregs apparently come gems like this years later.
Here's the gist of this article: You know who gets shit done? People who get shit done. It's all nice and good if you're nice, or if you're talented, or if you're one of the beautiful people, or if you're charismatic, or if you have money, but at the end of the day, that's not what people are interested in. They want to know if you can get shit done. And if you can, awesome.
This was pretty much written from a business perspective, as far as I can tell. You could extrapolate it to many other areas in life, too. But I've learned this a number of times, the hard way, and it has stuck with me ever since.
Years ago, while working as a server at Good Earth in upper-crust Edina, MN, I occasionally interacted with another, more experienced server, who was basically a bitch. Could not stand her. Condescending, mean, brusque, and just not someone I cared to associate with. Also: a stickler for rules. She came in one morning for her shift, and she was scheduled to take over part of my section for lunch. A couple sat down in said part of my section not 45 seconds before her shift started, and despite my being slammed, she refused to help me out and take this couple. So I gritted my teeth and proceeded to do the best I could, all while beginning to nurse one poisonous grudge.
But I soon realized that despite her attitude, she always worked the busiest sections toward the front of the restaurant, never broke a sweat, and regularly pulled in two to three times the tips I did. My take-home: Diners didn't care that she was snippy. They cared that she was efficient and got shit done...and tipped her accordingly. I was much nicer, but somewhat bumbling - and never left the back of the restaurant. Nice is nice, but it won't pay the rent.
Fast forward to chiropractic school. In the mock patient visits, I was always told I had great patient rapport. But I sometimes forgot things here and there: not completing a full neurological exam, forgetting key or confirmatory orthopedic tests, not ordering the correct lab tests...the things that students often miss as they're learning and drinking out of a fire hydrant. But while I was working on those things, it was the students who had lesser bedside manner and didn't care much for niceties who did the right things and got the higher scores.
Years later, I'm still learning this lesson. People always compliment me on how nice I am, or how modest or unassuming I am, whether I'm in a professional setting or simply among friends. But again, that doesn't pay the rent. Being efficient and effective at your job does. And sometimes I fantasize about how great it would be to be an utter bitch who could really give a shit about anything other than getting shit done...and damn people's feelings in the process.
So I responded to this guy. Told him how much I thought the article was dead on. And he countered with a "woe is me...so according to this article, I should kill myself?" I slammed my head against the wall so hard I about gave the wall an aneurysm. And perhaps this isn't a perspective that will work for him. (Apparently, self-destructive hyperbole does work for him, though.) Nor did it for a friend of his, who maintained that love and caring and friendship was enough to make this world go round. Oh well. You can't reach everyone.
I guess I've become immune to the idea that love and flowers and rainbows and glitter is all you need. I mean, I've promised Mr. Man a very belated birthday cake. It was two days ago, and he began last night to gripe about how it hadn't materialized. The fact that I love him doesn't change anything for his expectations. I gotta get this damned cake made. And I'm not gonna enjoy making it...and I may even bitch about it. But he'll have his cake, as promised, and that will mean more to him than a platitude of "I love yous." At the very least, it'll be physical evidence to support my sentiments.
And damn...for a website that puts out some occasionally snarky and annoying and sometimes funny shit, this was one whopper of an article. I mean, wasn't this once a magazine that sold itself as a second-rate Mad Magazine? From such lowly dregs apparently come gems like this years later.
Here's the gist of this article: You know who gets shit done? People who get shit done. It's all nice and good if you're nice, or if you're talented, or if you're one of the beautiful people, or if you're charismatic, or if you have money, but at the end of the day, that's not what people are interested in. They want to know if you can get shit done. And if you can, awesome.
This was pretty much written from a business perspective, as far as I can tell. You could extrapolate it to many other areas in life, too. But I've learned this a number of times, the hard way, and it has stuck with me ever since.
Years ago, while working as a server at Good Earth in upper-crust Edina, MN, I occasionally interacted with another, more experienced server, who was basically a bitch. Could not stand her. Condescending, mean, brusque, and just not someone I cared to associate with. Also: a stickler for rules. She came in one morning for her shift, and she was scheduled to take over part of my section for lunch. A couple sat down in said part of my section not 45 seconds before her shift started, and despite my being slammed, she refused to help me out and take this couple. So I gritted my teeth and proceeded to do the best I could, all while beginning to nurse one poisonous grudge.
But I soon realized that despite her attitude, she always worked the busiest sections toward the front of the restaurant, never broke a sweat, and regularly pulled in two to three times the tips I did. My take-home: Diners didn't care that she was snippy. They cared that she was efficient and got shit done...and tipped her accordingly. I was much nicer, but somewhat bumbling - and never left the back of the restaurant. Nice is nice, but it won't pay the rent.
Fast forward to chiropractic school. In the mock patient visits, I was always told I had great patient rapport. But I sometimes forgot things here and there: not completing a full neurological exam, forgetting key or confirmatory orthopedic tests, not ordering the correct lab tests...the things that students often miss as they're learning and drinking out of a fire hydrant. But while I was working on those things, it was the students who had lesser bedside manner and didn't care much for niceties who did the right things and got the higher scores.
Years later, I'm still learning this lesson. People always compliment me on how nice I am, or how modest or unassuming I am, whether I'm in a professional setting or simply among friends. But again, that doesn't pay the rent. Being efficient and effective at your job does. And sometimes I fantasize about how great it would be to be an utter bitch who could really give a shit about anything other than getting shit done...and damn people's feelings in the process.
So I responded to this guy. Told him how much I thought the article was dead on. And he countered with a "woe is me...so according to this article, I should kill myself?" I slammed my head against the wall so hard I about gave the wall an aneurysm. And perhaps this isn't a perspective that will work for him. (Apparently, self-destructive hyperbole does work for him, though.) Nor did it for a friend of his, who maintained that love and caring and friendship was enough to make this world go round. Oh well. You can't reach everyone.
I guess I've become immune to the idea that love and flowers and rainbows and glitter is all you need. I mean, I've promised Mr. Man a very belated birthday cake. It was two days ago, and he began last night to gripe about how it hadn't materialized. The fact that I love him doesn't change anything for his expectations. I gotta get this damned cake made. And I'm not gonna enjoy making it...and I may even bitch about it. But he'll have his cake, as promised, and that will mean more to him than a platitude of "I love yous." At the very least, it'll be physical evidence to support my sentiments.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley
Leonard Cohen penned this old chestnut back in the '80s, and indulged his nascent love for synthesizers while recording it. The results were moving but still jarring, particularly for people who had always known Cohen as a folkie, and this rendition sounds hopelessly dated now. But, y'know...if Dylan can go electric successfully, why can't Cohen? (Listen to I'm Your Man for what can happen when he gets synthesizers fully right.)
Since that time, gobs of singers have recognized what a stunning piece of work "Hallelujah" is, and have tried their hand at it. Rufus Wainwright and k.d. lang are among the fellow Canadians who have successfully turned it out. I actually heard a country singer attempt it yesterday on our office Muzak, with abysmal results. But honestly, no one - NO ONE - has even come close to Jeff Buckley's crystalline, heartbreaking rendition.
Buckley's voice is a nearly otherworldly instrument...some have even said that his voice sometimes does what no human voice should be able to do. He can sound angelic, soaring above the world like the most pristine of boy's choir voices, then scream like a banshee hellbent on destruction for what feels like minutes on end. Buckley is also not afraid to sound like an possessed fool in the service of a wild old blues song.
But he understands the quiet, serious reverence "Hallelujah" can take, and with spare spidery guitar behind him, he begins nearly in a whisper, commanding attention and wringing out every last bit of emotion from the song as beautifully as possible. The way he adds the slightest of melismas to the chorus is chill-inducing, and damns the likes of Christina Aguilera to musical hell. On the entrance to the bridge, he sings the last "hallelujah" as if he's pushing a paper boat with the slightest of nudges out onto a vast lake, with nothing but that solitary guitar and its sad but sure direction between vast spaces of silence.
And then that ending...oh, my God, that ending. Buckley intones the chorus over and over again, growing ever quieter all the time, drawing you in once again. Then suddenly HALLELUJAH...his voice unexpectedly pierces the cathedralesque quietude like a jagged dagger, and hearts are shattered, tears erupt by the riverful, and worlds fall into despair. But as if to heal the pain, he gently sings hallelujah two last times...once that seems to flow for eternity, offering ethereal balm for all the world's suffering, then again to affirm that perfect healing. And although tears may not dry up, and sadness may continue, the last hallelujah closes the song as completely and gracefully as a pastor closing a Bible.
As far as moving, heartwrenching music goes, Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is right up there with Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings and Henryk Gorecki's Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. It's a perfect confluence of one of the century's most brilliant lyricists and songwriters, and a young man with a staggeringly talented voice. Take ten uninterrupted minutes out of your life and listen to it.
Since that time, gobs of singers have recognized what a stunning piece of work "Hallelujah" is, and have tried their hand at it. Rufus Wainwright and k.d. lang are among the fellow Canadians who have successfully turned it out. I actually heard a country singer attempt it yesterday on our office Muzak, with abysmal results. But honestly, no one - NO ONE - has even come close to Jeff Buckley's crystalline, heartbreaking rendition.
Buckley's voice is a nearly otherworldly instrument...some have even said that his voice sometimes does what no human voice should be able to do. He can sound angelic, soaring above the world like the most pristine of boy's choir voices, then scream like a banshee hellbent on destruction for what feels like minutes on end. Buckley is also not afraid to sound like an possessed fool in the service of a wild old blues song.
But he understands the quiet, serious reverence "Hallelujah" can take, and with spare spidery guitar behind him, he begins nearly in a whisper, commanding attention and wringing out every last bit of emotion from the song as beautifully as possible. The way he adds the slightest of melismas to the chorus is chill-inducing, and damns the likes of Christina Aguilera to musical hell. On the entrance to the bridge, he sings the last "hallelujah" as if he's pushing a paper boat with the slightest of nudges out onto a vast lake, with nothing but that solitary guitar and its sad but sure direction between vast spaces of silence.
And then that ending...oh, my God, that ending. Buckley intones the chorus over and over again, growing ever quieter all the time, drawing you in once again. Then suddenly HALLELUJAH...his voice unexpectedly pierces the cathedralesque quietude like a jagged dagger, and hearts are shattered, tears erupt by the riverful, and worlds fall into despair. But as if to heal the pain, he gently sings hallelujah two last times...once that seems to flow for eternity, offering ethereal balm for all the world's suffering, then again to affirm that perfect healing. And although tears may not dry up, and sadness may continue, the last hallelujah closes the song as completely and gracefully as a pastor closing a Bible.
As far as moving, heartwrenching music goes, Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is right up there with Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings and Henryk Gorecki's Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. It's a perfect confluence of one of the century's most brilliant lyricists and songwriters, and a young man with a staggeringly talented voice. Take ten uninterrupted minutes out of your life and listen to it.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
"There are three things I have learned never to discuss with other people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin."
The newest religion has nothing to do with some supernatural, omnipotent and omniscient being. No God, no Tao, no Jesus, no Buddha, no Allah, no Mohammed, no Krishna, nothing. The newest religion is based on the worship of technology. To be more specific, it's the worship of computers and cell phones. And I find it utterly repugnant.
I'm SO lucky that I get to witness, firsthand, the evangelical furor with which guys* support their favorite company/platform/what-have-you. With equal passion, they decry the other side. We can bring it down to the polarity of Apple vs. Windows/Android. This largely occurs because I get to live with a guy who is a self-avowed tech geek, and who is firmly on the Windows/Android side of the divide. He says he can understand (begrudgingly) the appeal of Apple, but let's not fool anyone...he looks at those who love Apple products with utter disdain. And he has ample opportunity to express said disdain and get into conversations and arguments with believers on the other (read: evil) side of the schism.
When talking to people about this schism, I hear things like "Oh, he's drunk the Kool-Aid," "iPhone = Apple = the devil," "People who follow Apple...it's like they're in a cult," and the like. And I'm seriouslythisclose to expunge these people from my FB feed. True believers of all stripes, get thee behind me and begone!
*For whatever reason, I have yet to hear a single woman engage in this annoying conversation. Very wise.
I'm SO lucky that I get to witness, firsthand, the evangelical furor with which guys* support their favorite company/platform/what-have-you. With equal passion, they decry the other side. We can bring it down to the polarity of Apple vs. Windows/Android. This largely occurs because I get to live with a guy who is a self-avowed tech geek, and who is firmly on the Windows/Android side of the divide. He says he can understand (begrudgingly) the appeal of Apple, but let's not fool anyone...he looks at those who love Apple products with utter disdain. And he has ample opportunity to express said disdain and get into conversations and arguments with believers on the other (read: evil) side of the schism.
When talking to people about this schism, I hear things like "Oh, he's drunk the Kool-Aid," "iPhone = Apple = the devil," "People who follow Apple...it's like they're in a cult," and the like. And I'm seriouslythisclose to expunge these people from my FB feed. True believers of all stripes, get thee behind me and begone!
*For whatever reason, I have yet to hear a single woman engage in this annoying conversation. Very wise.
Monday, July 29, 2013
I would cuddle you so hard.
So says a shirt frequenting the local gay watering holes nowadays. So much for the hankies in the back pocket advertising what wild (or not-so-wild but still sexual) things you were into. Of course, those largely died out as guys became more open and willing to say what they wanted. Props to the interwebs and such for that.
But really? CUDDLE? That's all you would do? I'd hope for something more. Something more animal, something more feral, something more bestial than just a warm fuzzy cuddle.
Unfortunately, it seems like that's what guys are resorting to more and more. Or at least advertising. Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe guys are using that as a ruse to actually bed other guys. I hope I'm wrong. But it's almost like we men are becoming emasculated. (BTW...there is a significant and really depressing amount of scientific evidence to support this hypothesis, too...just search around.)
One of my good friends wrote last night about this very topic. He started out as a kid much like me (and much like millions of other gay men out there), having that dream, then waking in fright and dread about what it meant, and how it went against everything that he heard and was taught. For him, it was even worse, growing up a devout member of the Catholic church, right alongside the rest of his Italian family.
So he learned to hide it, to be one of the guys, to be a hard-partying womanizing frat boy by college. Only in his last year of college (again, much like me), did he finally come out, much to his family's consternation and his friends' confusion. Stereotypes die hard, and a brutally masculine, non-swishy man just cannot be gay, right?
As the years passed and he became more comfortable with himself, he realized at some point that he was not just this butch gay guy, but a full-out leatherman, with all the serious role-playing and heavy sex that culture entails. And it hit him hard, in the best way possible. So not only was there a place for the non-swishy gay men, but the hypermasculine ones who were as far from that stereotype as possible.
Now, years later, he's seeing evidence of...well, at least for himself, some dying down of the testosterone-laden past he's had. It happens as you grow older. But he's beginning to rage against that dying of the light. Getting a full-sleeve tattoo, hitting the gym again in earnest, and doing what he can to ensure that he remains as queer and true to himself as possible. He exults in living the life that few dare to, in being that wild man. He laughs a bit too loud. He rides his motorcycle a bit too fast. He wears his pants a size too small to show off his impressive package (accentuated with a PA). He occasionally wears his full Tom of Finland leather gear to choir rehearsals, and even to church, where he works as the music director and organist. And he loves every last bit of it.
And I love him for it. Guys like him, with so much passion, pushing at the bounds of propriety and acceptability, are too few and far between in this world of beige and cubicles and suburbs and long commutes.
My life has taken me in a decidedly less wild trajectory than his. No leather in my past, I was nowhere near as butch as this guy was. My personal revolution was largely internal; aside from temporarily dyeing part of my hair green, you wouldn't have guessed I was subversive in any way. I wasn't swishy, but you could have justifiably called me effete back in the day. You could have blown me over with a breeze. And I was terribly shy.
Some things don't change. I'm still pretty shy when it comes to meeting guys I'm attracted to. Not the butchest guy to come down the pike, either (though I'm also not FAAAAbulous). But at least I look and feel more substantial. Every day, I live a bit closer into what is truly who I feel I was meant to be.
And I think this may be why I have such admiration for my queer brothers and sisters. We were dealt a hand that forced us to suppress ourselves for a long time - especially during the time that would ordinarily be the most transformative. The act of being true to ourselves in the face of a society that disapproves of such a thing becomes exponentially more meaningful and urgent than it otherwise would.
In particular, I have tremendous admiration for those whose need to be completely true to themselves takes them on the most extreme journeys. Drag queens are among them. It takes some real courage to engage in the transformation into some of the most fabulously dressed and made-up creatures on the planet. This is not in small part because we live in a society in which women are, unfortunately, construed in many ways as inferior to men. But among me and my friends, drag queens are deserving of the highest adulation possible. In fact, for many of us, RuPaul's Drag Race is a ritual during the first third of each year. Many straight guys have their football or basketball or baseball. We have our Drag Race.
Recently, I've also begun to admire - much more than in the past - the trans folk of our culture. One of my best friends from college came out to me in a very low-key manner at a bar in Minneapolis, simply saying that she really was jealous of Chaz Bono. (I assume it was because Chaz was able to afford and undergo breast removal surgery.) The bit of exposure I had for the trans community suddenly was directly in front of me and a significant part of my life. Although she - to my knowledge - hasn't acted on anything since that time, she was the only trans man I'd known -- until about a month ago.
Just a few weeks ago, another college friend posted on FB that she was trans, and that from here on forward, she requested that we call him by his new chosen man's name, that he was taking testosterone, and that he was about to get his breasts removed. Wow. What balls. (Check out his blog "So that others may follow", which I have a link to on the right.) His partner, who is a lesbian, is staying with him and supporting him throughout his journey, too. (Update: Just found out right now that they just got engaged! Cue the tears of joy to my eyes.)
Then another college friend said that she was about ready to come out to her new workplace, and asked us all for support and prayers. This confused me, since she was a lesbian, and well, if you can't come out in Minneapolis, where can you come out? Then it hit me...this was why she had turned her FB name into two men's names. So he was trans, too! Pretty wild, this: three trans FTM guys within the span of two years of college. Whoda thunk? (Update: He was fully accepted, no issues whatsoever. What a huge blessing.)
These are the people who are true to themselves, who lend vivid, unignorable color to an increasingly beige world of people who would cuddle you so hard, who may seem weird and off-putting. But they're inevitably the most interesting, wild, and passionate people I know. They will be among the ones who help transform this world into a better, more tolerant, loving, and celebratory place. I'm glad to call them my sisters and brothers, and to count myself among them.
But really? CUDDLE? That's all you would do? I'd hope for something more. Something more animal, something more feral, something more bestial than just a warm fuzzy cuddle.
Unfortunately, it seems like that's what guys are resorting to more and more. Or at least advertising. Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe guys are using that as a ruse to actually bed other guys. I hope I'm wrong. But it's almost like we men are becoming emasculated. (BTW...there is a significant and really depressing amount of scientific evidence to support this hypothesis, too...just search around.)
One of my good friends wrote last night about this very topic. He started out as a kid much like me (and much like millions of other gay men out there), having that dream, then waking in fright and dread about what it meant, and how it went against everything that he heard and was taught. For him, it was even worse, growing up a devout member of the Catholic church, right alongside the rest of his Italian family.
So he learned to hide it, to be one of the guys, to be a hard-partying womanizing frat boy by college. Only in his last year of college (again, much like me), did he finally come out, much to his family's consternation and his friends' confusion. Stereotypes die hard, and a brutally masculine, non-swishy man just cannot be gay, right?
As the years passed and he became more comfortable with himself, he realized at some point that he was not just this butch gay guy, but a full-out leatherman, with all the serious role-playing and heavy sex that culture entails. And it hit him hard, in the best way possible. So not only was there a place for the non-swishy gay men, but the hypermasculine ones who were as far from that stereotype as possible.
Now, years later, he's seeing evidence of...well, at least for himself, some dying down of the testosterone-laden past he's had. It happens as you grow older. But he's beginning to rage against that dying of the light. Getting a full-sleeve tattoo, hitting the gym again in earnest, and doing what he can to ensure that he remains as queer and true to himself as possible. He exults in living the life that few dare to, in being that wild man. He laughs a bit too loud. He rides his motorcycle a bit too fast. He wears his pants a size too small to show off his impressive package (accentuated with a PA). He occasionally wears his full Tom of Finland leather gear to choir rehearsals, and even to church, where he works as the music director and organist. And he loves every last bit of it.
And I love him for it. Guys like him, with so much passion, pushing at the bounds of propriety and acceptability, are too few and far between in this world of beige and cubicles and suburbs and long commutes.
My life has taken me in a decidedly less wild trajectory than his. No leather in my past, I was nowhere near as butch as this guy was. My personal revolution was largely internal; aside from temporarily dyeing part of my hair green, you wouldn't have guessed I was subversive in any way. I wasn't swishy, but you could have justifiably called me effete back in the day. You could have blown me over with a breeze. And I was terribly shy.
Some things don't change. I'm still pretty shy when it comes to meeting guys I'm attracted to. Not the butchest guy to come down the pike, either (though I'm also not FAAAAbulous). But at least I look and feel more substantial. Every day, I live a bit closer into what is truly who I feel I was meant to be.
And I think this may be why I have such admiration for my queer brothers and sisters. We were dealt a hand that forced us to suppress ourselves for a long time - especially during the time that would ordinarily be the most transformative. The act of being true to ourselves in the face of a society that disapproves of such a thing becomes exponentially more meaningful and urgent than it otherwise would.
In particular, I have tremendous admiration for those whose need to be completely true to themselves takes them on the most extreme journeys. Drag queens are among them. It takes some real courage to engage in the transformation into some of the most fabulously dressed and made-up creatures on the planet. This is not in small part because we live in a society in which women are, unfortunately, construed in many ways as inferior to men. But among me and my friends, drag queens are deserving of the highest adulation possible. In fact, for many of us, RuPaul's Drag Race is a ritual during the first third of each year. Many straight guys have their football or basketball or baseball. We have our Drag Race.
Recently, I've also begun to admire - much more than in the past - the trans folk of our culture. One of my best friends from college came out to me in a very low-key manner at a bar in Minneapolis, simply saying that she really was jealous of Chaz Bono. (I assume it was because Chaz was able to afford and undergo breast removal surgery.) The bit of exposure I had for the trans community suddenly was directly in front of me and a significant part of my life. Although she - to my knowledge - hasn't acted on anything since that time, she was the only trans man I'd known -- until about a month ago.
Just a few weeks ago, another college friend posted on FB that she was trans, and that from here on forward, she requested that we call him by his new chosen man's name, that he was taking testosterone, and that he was about to get his breasts removed. Wow. What balls. (Check out his blog "So that others may follow", which I have a link to on the right.) His partner, who is a lesbian, is staying with him and supporting him throughout his journey, too. (Update: Just found out right now that they just got engaged! Cue the tears of joy to my eyes.)
Then another college friend said that she was about ready to come out to her new workplace, and asked us all for support and prayers. This confused me, since she was a lesbian, and well, if you can't come out in Minneapolis, where can you come out? Then it hit me...this was why she had turned her FB name into two men's names. So he was trans, too! Pretty wild, this: three trans FTM guys within the span of two years of college. Whoda thunk? (Update: He was fully accepted, no issues whatsoever. What a huge blessing.)
These are the people who are true to themselves, who lend vivid, unignorable color to an increasingly beige world of people who would cuddle you so hard, who may seem weird and off-putting. But they're inevitably the most interesting, wild, and passionate people I know. They will be among the ones who help transform this world into a better, more tolerant, loving, and celebratory place. I'm glad to call them my sisters and brothers, and to count myself among them.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Notes from light rail, pt. 1
Damn, wish I had headphones.
Stranger making funny faces on the bus at a baby while the mom looks on, amused, contented and happy. Takes a village?
Shit-ass luck. Takes just one errant bus to thrown my whole schedule off and make a 90-minute commute twice as long. RRRGH...
Burgeoning business... Will it take the place of my other one?
NDs are not my people. Don't feel part of the tribe. I'm bad. How bad? Not GMO-free, not gluten free, eat like crap (including fast food more often than I'm willing to admit), sleep with electric appliances near my head and with a bedroom so light you can see across the room easily, read a backlit tablet before bed ensuring my sleep will be awful...Just happens.
Having said that, I looked at the mirror this morning, and possibly for the first time ever, was fully content with what I saw. Finally saw myself as a grown man, full, filled out and...well, not muscle-bound. Not yet, at least. About damn time, though. You'd think this would happen before the age of 38. And this, after a night of packing for Bear Week, and yes, being vain and trying on all manner of shirts (still fit) and shorts (just barely). Liked the way I looked then, too.
FB messages bad when you're trying to eke out your identity in a positive manner. Many messages bring you down or distract you from carving out your identity.
Why am I carsick while reading on the light rail, but not while typing?
Stranger making funny faces on the bus at a baby while the mom looks on, amused, contented and happy. Takes a village?
Shit-ass luck. Takes just one errant bus to thrown my whole schedule off and make a 90-minute commute twice as long. RRRGH...
Burgeoning business... Will it take the place of my other one?
NDs are not my people. Don't feel part of the tribe. I'm bad. How bad? Not GMO-free, not gluten free, eat like crap (including fast food more often than I'm willing to admit), sleep with electric appliances near my head and with a bedroom so light you can see across the room easily, read a backlit tablet before bed ensuring my sleep will be awful...Just happens.
Having said that, I looked at the mirror this morning, and possibly for the first time ever, was fully content with what I saw. Finally saw myself as a grown man, full, filled out and...well, not muscle-bound. Not yet, at least. About damn time, though. You'd think this would happen before the age of 38. And this, after a night of packing for Bear Week, and yes, being vain and trying on all manner of shirts (still fit) and shorts (just barely). Liked the way I looked then, too.
FB messages bad when you're trying to eke out your identity in a positive manner. Many messages bring you down or distract you from carving out your identity.
Why am I carsick while reading on the light rail, but not while typing?
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Like A Prayer - Madonna
What Madonna does here, also more than with any other album, is bare her soul. Much has been made of her intense love and longing for her mother, who died when Madonna was five, and whom Madonna has emulated and idolized. You hear her feelings spilled out on the gorgeous and deathly serious "Promise to Try," full of swelling strings and deep piano. Her pain also bleeds through on "Oh Father," during which she invokes not just the pain her father inflicted on her, but the symbolic Father of her church as well. But arguably, her deepest pain comes during the frenetic "Till Death Do Us Part." Remove the lyrics, and you have what could almost pass for a happy pop song. But at the time, Madonna was going through tremendous relationship anguish with her then-husband Sean Penn, and the couple divorced shortly before Like A Prayer was released. If the rumors on the tabloids didn't spell out her troubles clearly enough, her lyrics sure did: After listening to "The bruises, they will fade away/You hit so hard with the words you say," it was hard not to feel guilty over reducing Sean and Madonna to a celebrity couple for our consumption and amusement.
On the lighter side, "Dear Jessie" is a sweet and whimsical pop confection sung to a little girl, all "pink elephants and lemonade...candy kisses and a sunny day." Who knew Madonna could be so endearing, guileless, and motherlike? There's no other song in Madonna's canon like it, and it's utterly delightful. And in the midst of so many relationships on the album gone wrong, "Cherish" celebrates a deep and fulfilling relationship gone right...beyond infatuation and even beyond romance into joyous hopes for a lifetime of solid love with her perfect man. (I must pause here: that video. WHEW...that video. Those perfectly muscled and gorgeous mermen. *sigh*) And if there is any song that still keeps one foot firmly planted in the '80s, it's "Keep It Together." With a funky bassline and awesome syncopation, the song could fit seamlessly in True Blue from three years before. But instead of yelling "where's the party?" or naively gushing that "love makes the world go round," she profoundly asserts: "Brothers and sisters...they hold the key to your heart and your soul...don't forget that your family is gold." So much for the lighthearted hedonism of her youth...she's beginning to grow up.
The best and most convincing message on Like a Prayer comes in the form of self-affirmation and women's empowerment with "Express Yourself." The version here is pretty lighthearted and celebratory, full of synthesized brass and hoots. You know Madonna has some hard-won wisdom when she sings "You deserve the best in life, so if the time isn't right, then move on! Second-best is never enough...you'll do much better, baby, on your own!" Pop seldom has such profound lyrics, so hearing this song on FM radio was a revelation. (The version on The Immaculate Collection is a good deal rawer and funkier, but both versions are equally effective and enjoyable.)
The two songs that bookend the album are also nearly mirror images of each other. I'd argue that the title song is actually one of the weaker songs here. Bouncing between hushed gospel choruses and the bold sounds Madonna is known for does not make for a convincing song. Having said that, check out that edgy video. And duh...we all know what she meant when she sang "I'm down on my knees/I wanna take you there." (Again, I have to point out the version on The Immaculate Collection, which is a vast improvement on the original; its insistent crescendo suits the mood perfectly.) But then you play the song backward, add in some wild guitar strangling and botched tongue-in-cheek Catholic prayers ("Who art all good/Like I knew you would/And deserving of all my love"), and you have the hilarious "Act of Contrition." It would be unfair to disclose how the song ends. Just listen to it.
Hell, just listen to the whole album. And buy it. Yes, it's kind of a relic from the '80s, but it's also damn near impeccable. I'm not the biggest Madonna fan - in fact, I find it hard to muster up much enthusiasm for the majority of her music - but this album really has to be heard.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Seizures SUCK.
Two days ago, I woke up, tired, after only six hours of sleep. Not awful, but I had been abnormally tired over the past week. The previous afternoon, I had a 3 hour long nap, and felt I could have slept another three hours.
I also had a muffin for breakfast, a few slices of pizza for lunch, plus a bit of water, then some gelato afterward. Probably what some people would consider not bad for meals, but it wasn't enough for me.
Finally, I went to a choral concert, invited by a friend of mine. It was fine, but I was just exhausted throughout the entire thing. I was invited for canapés and drinks with said friend's family, but politely demurred, partially because of my fatigue.
I came home, saw Mr. Man in the bedroom watching Mad Men, and joined him, just laying down on the bed.
...
Next I knew, I found myself in a wheelchair at the nearest hospital, utterly exhausted and unable to comprehend much of what was going on around me. Mr. Man finally told me (as he probably had numerous times over the previous half hour) that I had had a grand mal seizure. First one in eight years, almost to the day. I'd like to say that the news frustrated me at the time, but I was so wiped out, I could barely feel anything, and was only just capable of performing simple tasks like going to the bathroom. Mr. Man took excellent care of me, getting me situated, and making sure I was okay until the nurse or PA or whomever took me back to rest about 10 minutes later. I got an IV in the back of my hand and a bit of Ativan (my least favorite drug EVER), just to take the edge off, and tried my best to answer basic questions given to me by the nurse, missing only one ("What month is it? What's your name? Do you know what happened?"). My parents showed up a bit later, certainly concerned, but in my stupor, I couldn't really read their expressions. Still, at least I was secure and being watched over. And atypically, I didn't have a pounding headache, nor was I really all that tired after a bit. But my tongue was chewed up pretty badly (still is, in fact), and I was more or less a lump of clay, just sitting there, trying to engage everyone in conversation, and (I'm sure) failing badly. Finally, after a few hours, when it was evident that I had stabilized, I was released, and Mr. Man took me home for some dinner and some rest.
Only the next day did I realize how much I had scared him. He had asked me a question in the bedroom, and noticed that I wasn't answering him. Then he looked over and saw a weird grimace on my face and my arms starting to spasm, and he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but he thought I looked possessed. I can't imagine what it must feel like to see someone you love suddenly going through something so frightening, suddenly unconscious, yet jerking uncontrollably for minutes on end, then seeing them collapse and not breathe for up to a minute, sometimes more...then seeing them gasping for breath while barely coming to. You can't do anything to help them in the meantime, other than just keeping them safe from themselves and anything around them that might harm them. And you never, NEVER put anything in a seizing person's mouth! Want said thing to break off and puncture their palate? Want to lose a finger? Didn't think so. Tongues and sides of the mouth heal. Scary at the time, but really, they heal uneventfully.
Also on the next day, I felt fine. Perhaps a bit tired, and I had a hard time talking because my ragged tongue was swollen, but otherwise, no issues...almost as if nothing had happened the day before. Mr. Man and I went shopping around town, but nothing too taxing. And I slept well and ate well.
...
Two days ago marked the eighth seizure I've had in my lifetime. And let me tell you...they SUCK. So miserable. Only six of them have been actually witnessed and diagnosed; the first two were never discovered. Only years later, after putting symptoms together, did I realize that some unexplained symptoms I'd had (pounding headache, confusion, extreme exhaustion) made sense. I've been on medication for much of my life...coming on fully half, actually, to be accurate. The times I've had seizures since, I believe, could be chalked up to suboptimal levels of meds in my blood for one reason or another (not taking meds, taking supplements that speed up the metabolism of meds, being overweight), and it's frustrating and frightening.
For me, perhaps the worst part of having a seizure is the legal inability to drive for six months afterward. I love to drive. I love my car. And I will miss it sorely until December 24th. But also, poor Mr. Man is justifiably concerned also because the last time I had a seizure, I began to feel trapped and purely under his control. And it wasn't long after I got my freedom/car back, that I began to exult in my freedom and...uh...look around. I found myself in what then seemed an innocent affair, but it honestly came thisclose to breaking us apart over the next year and a half. I'm ashamed of it, and really, really don't want to open myself up to that again. I know what a great thing I have in Mr. Man, and I'm not willing to shatter it.
So there's what will probably amount to the excitement of 2013. I will do what I can to get by, but it's going to be tough for the next six months. Wish us luck. (I say us, because it will inevitably be a team effort.)
I also had a muffin for breakfast, a few slices of pizza for lunch, plus a bit of water, then some gelato afterward. Probably what some people would consider not bad for meals, but it wasn't enough for me.
Finally, I went to a choral concert, invited by a friend of mine. It was fine, but I was just exhausted throughout the entire thing. I was invited for canapés and drinks with said friend's family, but politely demurred, partially because of my fatigue.
I came home, saw Mr. Man in the bedroom watching Mad Men, and joined him, just laying down on the bed.
...
Next I knew, I found myself in a wheelchair at the nearest hospital, utterly exhausted and unable to comprehend much of what was going on around me. Mr. Man finally told me (as he probably had numerous times over the previous half hour) that I had had a grand mal seizure. First one in eight years, almost to the day. I'd like to say that the news frustrated me at the time, but I was so wiped out, I could barely feel anything, and was only just capable of performing simple tasks like going to the bathroom. Mr. Man took excellent care of me, getting me situated, and making sure I was okay until the nurse or PA or whomever took me back to rest about 10 minutes later. I got an IV in the back of my hand and a bit of Ativan (my least favorite drug EVER), just to take the edge off, and tried my best to answer basic questions given to me by the nurse, missing only one ("What month is it? What's your name? Do you know what happened?"). My parents showed up a bit later, certainly concerned, but in my stupor, I couldn't really read their expressions. Still, at least I was secure and being watched over. And atypically, I didn't have a pounding headache, nor was I really all that tired after a bit. But my tongue was chewed up pretty badly (still is, in fact), and I was more or less a lump of clay, just sitting there, trying to engage everyone in conversation, and (I'm sure) failing badly. Finally, after a few hours, when it was evident that I had stabilized, I was released, and Mr. Man took me home for some dinner and some rest.
Only the next day did I realize how much I had scared him. He had asked me a question in the bedroom, and noticed that I wasn't answering him. Then he looked over and saw a weird grimace on my face and my arms starting to spasm, and he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but he thought I looked possessed. I can't imagine what it must feel like to see someone you love suddenly going through something so frightening, suddenly unconscious, yet jerking uncontrollably for minutes on end, then seeing them collapse and not breathe for up to a minute, sometimes more...then seeing them gasping for breath while barely coming to. You can't do anything to help them in the meantime, other than just keeping them safe from themselves and anything around them that might harm them. And you never, NEVER put anything in a seizing person's mouth! Want said thing to break off and puncture their palate? Want to lose a finger? Didn't think so. Tongues and sides of the mouth heal. Scary at the time, but really, they heal uneventfully.
Also on the next day, I felt fine. Perhaps a bit tired, and I had a hard time talking because my ragged tongue was swollen, but otherwise, no issues...almost as if nothing had happened the day before. Mr. Man and I went shopping around town, but nothing too taxing. And I slept well and ate well.
...
Two days ago marked the eighth seizure I've had in my lifetime. And let me tell you...they SUCK. So miserable. Only six of them have been actually witnessed and diagnosed; the first two were never discovered. Only years later, after putting symptoms together, did I realize that some unexplained symptoms I'd had (pounding headache, confusion, extreme exhaustion) made sense. I've been on medication for much of my life...coming on fully half, actually, to be accurate. The times I've had seizures since, I believe, could be chalked up to suboptimal levels of meds in my blood for one reason or another (not taking meds, taking supplements that speed up the metabolism of meds, being overweight), and it's frustrating and frightening.
For me, perhaps the worst part of having a seizure is the legal inability to drive for six months afterward. I love to drive. I love my car. And I will miss it sorely until December 24th. But also, poor Mr. Man is justifiably concerned also because the last time I had a seizure, I began to feel trapped and purely under his control. And it wasn't long after I got my freedom/car back, that I began to exult in my freedom and...uh...look around. I found myself in what then seemed an innocent affair, but it honestly came thisclose to breaking us apart over the next year and a half. I'm ashamed of it, and really, really don't want to open myself up to that again. I know what a great thing I have in Mr. Man, and I'm not willing to shatter it.
So there's what will probably amount to the excitement of 2013. I will do what I can to get by, but it's going to be tough for the next six months. Wish us luck. (I say us, because it will inevitably be a team effort.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)