Culled from Popbitch:
You'd better play that keyboard!
Friday, July 29, 2005
L.A. Race Story? (Part 2)
(Apologies for the delay.)
From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:
From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:
If you're white and have rock-hard abs, a tribal band tattoo around your sculpted biceps and have endured the latest implantant, skin dermabrasion or fat removal technique, you can rest assured that you can have your pick of other white boys or any other ethnicity you want for the night, if you choose. This is for no other reason than the fact that you're white and seen as desirable and normal and a potential partner for life. You don't have to think about your place, because you and most other people see you as normal, the standard. On a slow day, you can simply rest assured that your existence in the world is not questioned or ignored.
If you're Asian or Asian American, you can count on being a fetish, objectified or a fantasy even without trying. You're exotic, much like Chinese takeout in Montana, and most of the time you don't even question being called Oriental or being placed in the same category as a rug or a vase. And don't even think about pursuing or being pursued by anything other than a white boy, because you have that "model minority" theory to fulfill. You have to prove yourself to be as good as white boys, and are nothing like your men-of-color peers, who are in the same boat as you in the grand scheme of the gay world.
If you're Latino, you supposedly have the best of all worlds--light skin (let's not start with the African and indigenous roots that are often hidden, ignored, or denied), people-of-color vibe (unless you call yourself "Hispanic" and are part of that compassionate conservative clique from Texas or Florida), and acceptable to most white folks' families if they have to accept interracial dating. Besides, being Latino is the hot trendy thing for the new millennium according to most pop culture and literary sources, so ride the ride while it's moving. And you can revel in the names associated with being a sex object--hot Latin lover, papi chulo, chulo with the nice culo, tamale, chorizo. If you're culturally empowered and know your history and culture, you might object. But if you're not, well you're just plain old hot, hot, hot and probably think it's all in fun. You can date black, you can do white, on a slow night maybe even go for an Asian boy, but most likely you'll go Latino unless the aforementioned guys speak a little Spanish and can do a few merengue or salsa moves on the dance floor. Besides, going Latino or white fits best with the overall historical trend of deliberately lightening up the community. Can't have those indigenous roots and looks popping up, after all.
And if you're African-American or black--well, let's just summarize it with my experience in L.A.: too dark to be the tragic, yet beautiful mulatto boy, and not dark (or "homeboy") enough to be the black mandingo fantasy. Face it, I'm in the minority in this town. Except for the pockets of talented tenth in Baldwin Hills, Leimert Park, Ladera Heights, or even Altadena, there are not many black men to be found in L.A. I mean when has anyone seen more than five black men together in one setting in L.A.? Especially black guys who actually like other black guys, whether it's in the friendship or more-than-friendship context. This makes for a lonely and sad dating life for me.
Let's break it down here: For starters, I always feel a little strange commenting on other ethnicities than myself. Every culture has its own rules and history, and indeed, we can never walk in someone else's shoes. So my opinions on other ethncities are culled from what I've read and heard from friends and associates. End of disclaimer.
I'll be honest with you, I am no fan of Los Angeles. I just think it's spread out in a way that you really don't have to see people unless you want to, which disturbs me because part of what eases tensions and prejudice is frequent, daily exposure to lives other than your own. (I'm not saying that New York is a font of racial harmony, mind you.) The four months in Los Angeles that I spent in 2000, were probably the loneliest period of my life. I felt truly invisible as a black man and as a person. The former because it's such a media town, where visibility is everything. You aren't just yourself, but you're an icon ("the first black this, the first Latino that..." and don't get me started on Garth Ancier, because he can go to hell for all that I care) first and foremost. I can honestly say that I was the only person of colour at the companies that I interned at.
I felt invisible as a person, because I did not have to see anyone unless I made a concerted effort, which really was a shock to me after years spent in Boston and Luton. In Los Angeles, at all the gatherings and meetings I went to, everyone seemed to be strutting around like a peacock. My theory was that it had to do with the fact that so much time was spent in one's own head, that when you met others you didn't want to show your weaknesses.
Steering this back to race, in respect to the Asian section, I remember an online friend who was Chinese-American and would frequently state that he felt really trapped by the "ethnic hierarchy that put Asians last." I think it does come partly down to media, as I've mentioned before. It's only in really recent years that we've seen Asian men portrayed as attractive. Margaret Cho (love her!) once said in her act "I grew thinking that one day, I could play a prostitute on M*A*S*H." In respect to Asian men, I'd say it was Bruce Lee and virtually nobody else. I know that when I was growing up, there were no Asian men in the teen idol magazines. Come to think of it, there were practically no men of colour period. That really does a number on self-esteem, but I digress, since I've been down this path before.
Now onto the Latino section. Sometimes, I feel like a wannabe Latino, because many people see me as Dominican or Puerto Rican. I do know that many times I have wished that I could be Latino, because it does seem like the best of both worlds as the passage suggests ("light skin," "people of color vibe," and "acceptability"). Yet at the same time, I often wonder what Latinos think of being fetishised after many years of seeming to be off the map. Many people are often shocked when it's pointed out that Martin Sheen (real name: Ramon Estevez), Raquel Welch, and yes, even Cameron Diaz are Latino. You can even see it in Jennifer Lopez's movie choices where she's been gradually changed from Latina to "mysteriously ethnic." To me it seems like there's a chameleon-like aspect to being Latino that I do envy, and I wonder if other gay black men feel the same way. At the same time, I wonder if Latino men do get tired of being seen as the stereotype.
What my ultimate take on all of this, is that, again, we spend all this time generalising and never wanting to see the real person underneath. If that's the overwhelming modus operandi in Los Angeles's gay world, then I'm glad I'm not there.
Capitalism Goes Crazy At the Theatre
The chaos that was my mother's birthday weekend ended yesterday, and I can finally breathe.
The last night [Tuesday] nearly did me in. We went to see The Lion King (my mother's decision, one that she made with no consultation from me, because she knew my answer would be "when hell freezes over"). It was dire.
Oh, I'm not referring to the show here, which despite an asinine book, was indeed visually stunning. I'm talking about the huckstering--if indeed that is a word. From the second you enter the theatre, you are greeted with a man yelling out "PROGRAMS! PROGRAMS! Git yer programs!" Then on the Mezzanine--and I'm assuming Balcony as well--you have to walk past a huge concession stand with beverages, snacks, stuffed animals, CDs, and yes, programs. Somebody ahead of us asked if they could bring the beverages inside of the theatre. The answer was yes. Now, prior to this, everyone was told to dispose of any beverages during the bag check. So indeed you could bring beverages and snacks inside the theatre, if you bought them from Disney.
Having been to Disney World countless times when I was younger, I could look past all the pre-show marketing and shopping opportunities. What I couldn't get past was what happened during intermission. After the run for the bathrooms during intermission, they had vendors come through the aisles selling CDs, stuffed animals, and yes, programs! Now, I know that we are in an age where nobody dresses to go to theatre, but I truly thought that was beyond the pale. This is still a different occasion than going to The Lion King on Ice, nor is it a night game at Yankee Stadium. My mother (who used to go to Broadway quite often when she lived in New York) was just as disgusted. Come curtain call, both of us, refused to stand up, albeit for probably different reasons (protest on my part, and poor blood circulation on my mother's part).
If anyone in the cast or creative team happens to stumble across this post, I just want to say that you did an excellent job (except for book writers Roger Allers & Irene Mecchi who could've done a lot better than a cut-and-paste job from the script), and were it not for the aggressive marketing, I would've stood up and given you your due.
A sidenote: Never in my life have I seen so many people clap so often after every little thing. If the curtain went up, the audience applauded. If someone entered, they applauded. If they exited, they applauded. It was like the State of the Union address.
Another sidenote: Sally was in most of yesterday's The Bold & The Beautiful. That went a long way towards salvaging the rest of this week. Now give Darlene Conley more airtime!
The last night [Tuesday] nearly did me in. We went to see The Lion King (my mother's decision, one that she made with no consultation from me, because she knew my answer would be "when hell freezes over"). It was dire.
Oh, I'm not referring to the show here, which despite an asinine book, was indeed visually stunning. I'm talking about the huckstering--if indeed that is a word. From the second you enter the theatre, you are greeted with a man yelling out "PROGRAMS! PROGRAMS! Git yer programs!" Then on the Mezzanine--and I'm assuming Balcony as well--you have to walk past a huge concession stand with beverages, snacks, stuffed animals, CDs, and yes, programs. Somebody ahead of us asked if they could bring the beverages inside of the theatre. The answer was yes. Now, prior to this, everyone was told to dispose of any beverages during the bag check. So indeed you could bring beverages and snacks inside the theatre, if you bought them from Disney.
Having been to Disney World countless times when I was younger, I could look past all the pre-show marketing and shopping opportunities. What I couldn't get past was what happened during intermission. After the run for the bathrooms during intermission, they had vendors come through the aisles selling CDs, stuffed animals, and yes, programs! Now, I know that we are in an age where nobody dresses to go to theatre, but I truly thought that was beyond the pale. This is still a different occasion than going to The Lion King on Ice, nor is it a night game at Yankee Stadium. My mother (who used to go to Broadway quite often when she lived in New York) was just as disgusted. Come curtain call, both of us, refused to stand up, albeit for probably different reasons (protest on my part, and poor blood circulation on my mother's part).
If anyone in the cast or creative team happens to stumble across this post, I just want to say that you did an excellent job (except for book writers Roger Allers & Irene Mecchi who could've done a lot better than a cut-and-paste job from the script), and were it not for the aggressive marketing, I would've stood up and given you your due.
A sidenote: Never in my life have I seen so many people clap so often after every little thing. If the curtain went up, the audience applauded. If someone entered, they applauded. If they exited, they applauded. It was like the State of the Union address.
Another sidenote: Sally was in most of yesterday's The Bold & The Beautiful. That went a long way towards salvaging the rest of this week. Now give Darlene Conley more airtime!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The Pressure
Last night was my mother's actual birthday, celebrated in a small Italian restaurant in Yorkville.
This time I wasn't the only man at the table, as my mother's old business partner (aged 73, but looked 60 if he was a day) and his wife joined the festivities.
Well, he was a character and a half, lemme tell you. The second he laid eyes on me it was "why don't you get your mother to retire. Why? Why? Why?" As if I have any control over her! She has often hidden behind the excuse that she's waiting for me to establish my career (or at least have a nice nest egg saved up), but honestly, it has little to do with me and more just with her desire to keep herself occupied. Maybe it's genetic, as evidenced by the craziness that took me over this past June when I had to be sedentary.
When dinner wrapped up, and the rest of the group (and believe it or not, my mother and her college friends did actually call themselves "The Group," predating the film by 2 years) was piled into the limousine, he pulled me over and held my hand in what I would describe as a gentle vice grip.
"You'd better get her to retire. She works too hard. You'd better get her to quit rushing around. You know her health isn't good."
Seriously, Mister, what can I do? If there is one thing that my mother has taught me, it is that the quickest way to make someone hate you for a long time is to force them into a way of life when they aren't ready to give it up. I wanted to tell him, that if I forced my mother out of retirement (or even to Part-Time work), then I'm putting his number on speed dial, so he can hear the veiled resentment that is bound to creep up. The only thing that will cause my mother to retire would be a doctor's order. Even then, I bet she'll be cursing that doctor for decades to come.
Fortunately, on the ride back to the hotel, everybody trashed him. (Note: with the exception of myself and my great aunts, everybody else had known and met this man since the 1960's) Amongst the comments:
This time I wasn't the only man at the table, as my mother's old business partner (aged 73, but looked 60 if he was a day) and his wife joined the festivities.
Well, he was a character and a half, lemme tell you. The second he laid eyes on me it was "why don't you get your mother to retire. Why? Why? Why?" As if I have any control over her! She has often hidden behind the excuse that she's waiting for me to establish my career (or at least have a nice nest egg saved up), but honestly, it has little to do with me and more just with her desire to keep herself occupied. Maybe it's genetic, as evidenced by the craziness that took me over this past June when I had to be sedentary.
When dinner wrapped up, and the rest of the group (and believe it or not, my mother and her college friends did actually call themselves "The Group," predating the film by 2 years) was piled into the limousine, he pulled me over and held my hand in what I would describe as a gentle vice grip.
"You'd better get her to retire. She works too hard. You'd better get her to quit rushing around. You know her health isn't good."
Seriously, Mister, what can I do? If there is one thing that my mother has taught me, it is that the quickest way to make someone hate you for a long time is to force them into a way of life when they aren't ready to give it up. I wanted to tell him, that if I forced my mother out of retirement (or even to Part-Time work), then I'm putting his number on speed dial, so he can hear the veiled resentment that is bound to creep up. The only thing that will cause my mother to retire would be a doctor's order. Even then, I bet she'll be cursing that doctor for decades to come.
Fortunately, on the ride back to the hotel, everybody trashed him. (Note: with the exception of myself and my great aunts, everybody else had known and met this man since the 1960's) Amongst the comments:
- "Until tonight, I didn't really care for him."
- "I always thought he was such a hog for the spotlight."
- "The man is out for himself."
- "He refers to himself in the third person."
- "And he name drops like there's no tomorrow."
- "He just knows everybody and wants you to know that too."
I don't even want to envision the Oedipal subtext of going out to lunch with my mother's business partner.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Of Delayed Trains, Family Dining in Chelsea, and Matthew Rush
Further proof of Mercury Retrograde:
Yesterday, my mother flew into New York to start her "Auntie Mame" weekend. She invited her two close friends from college, her cousins (1st, 2nd, and 3rd--all women), and her aunts. Indeed, I will basically be the only male present during this 3 day celebration.
My day started at 7 am, when I got a call from my great aunts stating that they still had yet to leave the train station in Lynchburg, Virginia. The train was running 4 hours late due to track problems in North Carolina. I check Amtrak's website and it said that the train was estimated to arrive at 4:10, instead of 2:33; optimistically, Amtrak thought it could make up that much of a delay.
When I go to the airport to meet my mother, I pass on this piece of news and her reaction is akin to "oh, what can you do." It would radically change as the day wore on.
First setback, her room at the hotel is not ready. So we drop off her bags and head off to lunch.
After lunch, we go back to the hotel and the room is ready. After unpacking, we call Amtrak. The train is now scheduled to arrive at 5:27. Mother gets a little peeved. She has the concierge check to make sure that is the case.
(A little sidenote here: Amtrak now has an automated "assistant" called "Julie" helping you over the phone. It's creepy, because "Julie" uses collaqialisms like: "and that's for today, right?" Freaked me out.)
Meanwhile, mother starts the first of several calling blitzes to reschedule the limo to pick up herself and her aunts from Penn Station to the hotel, as well as the limo taking her aunts, her cousins, and herself from the hotel to that night's restaurant and back.
Come 4:30, we get a taxi over to Penn Station, because by now, it's apparent that the train could come in at any time. We go over to the Customer Service office, and the train is now estimated to arrive at 5:40. Mother smiles widely at the agent. Oh boy, she's angry. You see, my mother is one of those people who when she receives bad news, she doesn't openly fly into a rage, but displays the exact opposite emotion. The wider she smiles, the more irked she is.
We sit down, and I have two beers. (Sunday is one of my drinking days.) After a leisurely jaunt across Penn Station to find an elusive seating area, we opt again to go back to the Customer Service office. A nice Irish lady informs us that the train's arrival is now 6:30! Mother smiles widely. The woman tells my mother "you keep smiling, dear." Oh, if she only knew.
Eventually finding a place to sit, Mother lets her hair down...figuratively, and says that she wished she hadn't planned this. I mention "Mercury Retrograde," and add that she didn't necessarily have to invite her aunts nor her cousins. (The original plan was basically for her old college friends and myself.) Alas, she admits that guilt got the better of her, so she invited her Regional Jet-phobic aunts.
Somehow, through some miracle, her aunts do appear via wheelchair. I have to say, the women in my family are hardcore. These two women have been through breast cancer, heart trouble, and all other sorts of maladies, and the travel chaos of the day strikes them as funny. (They had been up since 4 am.) Mother on the other hand is fit to be tied. Her irritation shows when she tries to tell the limo driver to "drive! You're going to get paid. Just drive!" I tell her to "breathe and relax.")
When they get to the hotel, I break to go back to my apartment, because frankly I'm stinky by this point. The group, however, is hellbent on going to dinner. This means that I have to dash down the apartment, change, and basically sprint down 10 blocks to get to the restaurant. I had probably smoked about 8 cigarettes during the sprint/walk down there to calm myself down. Hysteria is contagious.
The resturant is a Southern & Jamaican place in Chelsea. Go figure, it's busy with Chelsea boys and their Guyland* female friends. Into this mix comes our group, 4 full-figured black women, a 2 year old girl, and myself. The toddler is in her assert-my-independence stage and I am seated right next to her. So throughout the meal all the conversation is peppered with "YAAAAAH!" and "Noooo!" right in my ear. I asked my mother if she spiked my milk when I was that age. She smiled and said "no." Uh huh.
*"Guyland" = "Lawn Guyland" aka Long Island
I can honestly say that was one of the longest meals of my life. Made even longer by the fact that my appetite was already shot by lunch. Fortunately, the benefits of eating Chelsea, means that it's just a skip and a jump back home via Splash.
Oh yes, I needed Splash after that day. I do love my relatives, but that was just too much for me. It was now just about 10, and I find a nice seat downstairs, and order a beer. Around the time of the second beer, the PA starts barking "Mattttthew Ruuuush is in the house." Oh lord.
It becomes like a chant, "Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush." I think that I can withstand the curiosity factor. No, I'm not that strong. So I mosey on upstairs and indeed see Matthew Rush dancing his heart out for dollars.
I have to say, he has always struck me as being overly muscled onscreen, but in real life, he does look more proportionate. He certainly is quite the energetic dancer, and when he finishes his set he ends it with a kiss to the audience and a "I LOVE YOU GUYS!"
Things can only get more Lewis Carroll-esque for the next three weeks.
Yesterday, my mother flew into New York to start her "Auntie Mame" weekend. She invited her two close friends from college, her cousins (1st, 2nd, and 3rd--all women), and her aunts. Indeed, I will basically be the only male present during this 3 day celebration.
My day started at 7 am, when I got a call from my great aunts stating that they still had yet to leave the train station in Lynchburg, Virginia. The train was running 4 hours late due to track problems in North Carolina. I check Amtrak's website and it said that the train was estimated to arrive at 4:10, instead of 2:33; optimistically, Amtrak thought it could make up that much of a delay.
When I go to the airport to meet my mother, I pass on this piece of news and her reaction is akin to "oh, what can you do." It would radically change as the day wore on.
First setback, her room at the hotel is not ready. So we drop off her bags and head off to lunch.
After lunch, we go back to the hotel and the room is ready. After unpacking, we call Amtrak. The train is now scheduled to arrive at 5:27. Mother gets a little peeved. She has the concierge check to make sure that is the case.
(A little sidenote here: Amtrak now has an automated "assistant" called "Julie" helping you over the phone. It's creepy, because "Julie" uses collaqialisms like: "and that's for today, right?" Freaked me out.)
Meanwhile, mother starts the first of several calling blitzes to reschedule the limo to pick up herself and her aunts from Penn Station to the hotel, as well as the limo taking her aunts, her cousins, and herself from the hotel to that night's restaurant and back.
Come 4:30, we get a taxi over to Penn Station, because by now, it's apparent that the train could come in at any time. We go over to the Customer Service office, and the train is now estimated to arrive at 5:40. Mother smiles widely at the agent. Oh boy, she's angry. You see, my mother is one of those people who when she receives bad news, she doesn't openly fly into a rage, but displays the exact opposite emotion. The wider she smiles, the more irked she is.
We sit down, and I have two beers. (Sunday is one of my drinking days.) After a leisurely jaunt across Penn Station to find an elusive seating area, we opt again to go back to the Customer Service office. A nice Irish lady informs us that the train's arrival is now 6:30! Mother smiles widely. The woman tells my mother "you keep smiling, dear." Oh, if she only knew.
Eventually finding a place to sit, Mother lets her hair down...figuratively, and says that she wished she hadn't planned this. I mention "Mercury Retrograde," and add that she didn't necessarily have to invite her aunts nor her cousins. (The original plan was basically for her old college friends and myself.) Alas, she admits that guilt got the better of her, so she invited her Regional Jet-phobic aunts.
Somehow, through some miracle, her aunts do appear via wheelchair. I have to say, the women in my family are hardcore. These two women have been through breast cancer, heart trouble, and all other sorts of maladies, and the travel chaos of the day strikes them as funny. (They had been up since 4 am.) Mother on the other hand is fit to be tied. Her irritation shows when she tries to tell the limo driver to "drive! You're going to get paid. Just drive!" I tell her to "breathe and relax.")
When they get to the hotel, I break to go back to my apartment, because frankly I'm stinky by this point. The group, however, is hellbent on going to dinner. This means that I have to dash down the apartment, change, and basically sprint down 10 blocks to get to the restaurant. I had probably smoked about 8 cigarettes during the sprint/walk down there to calm myself down. Hysteria is contagious.
The resturant is a Southern & Jamaican place in Chelsea. Go figure, it's busy with Chelsea boys and their Guyland* female friends. Into this mix comes our group, 4 full-figured black women, a 2 year old girl, and myself. The toddler is in her assert-my-independence stage and I am seated right next to her. So throughout the meal all the conversation is peppered with "YAAAAAH!" and "Noooo!" right in my ear. I asked my mother if she spiked my milk when I was that age. She smiled and said "no." Uh huh.
*"Guyland" = "Lawn Guyland" aka Long Island
I can honestly say that was one of the longest meals of my life. Made even longer by the fact that my appetite was already shot by lunch. Fortunately, the benefits of eating Chelsea, means that it's just a skip and a jump back home via Splash.
Oh yes, I needed Splash after that day. I do love my relatives, but that was just too much for me. It was now just about 10, and I find a nice seat downstairs, and order a beer. Around the time of the second beer, the PA starts barking "Mattttthew Ruuuush is in the house." Oh lord.
It becomes like a chant, "Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush." I think that I can withstand the curiosity factor. No, I'm not that strong. So I mosey on upstairs and indeed see Matthew Rush dancing his heart out for dollars.
I have to say, he has always struck me as being overly muscled onscreen, but in real life, he does look more proportionate. He certainly is quite the energetic dancer, and when he finishes his set he ends it with a kiss to the audience and a "I LOVE YOU GUYS!"
Things can only get more Lewis Carroll-esque for the next three weeks.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Jiminy Cricket, it's Mercury Retrograde!
I have no shame in admitting this: I believe in astrology. Not as a religion, but just a gut feeling of mine that there's definitely a connection between the stars and how we behave here down on Earth.
Of course, I'm an Aquarian, a sign once described as "the second most prevalent sign in mental hospitals." (Scorpios are #1 according to that book. All the Scorpios I have met, have been charming friendly people. Although it's possible that the insane see each other as sane.)
For those who follow astrology, there are three times a year where we get the fun period known as "Mercury Retrograde," when the planet Mercury appears to be moving backwards, before appearing to resume its path. Mercury Retrograde is an absolute party! You see, Mercury rules communication, travel, and details. When it goes retrograde, all those best laid plans go haywire, even with the most obsessive preplanning.
Got a contract to sign? You'd better think twice.
Got a new project you want to start? Keep brainstorming.
Want to move on with your new play which you've been writing for nearly three weeks now and find yourself permanently stuck with writer's block? Them's the breaks.
Lest you think that this is time to grab your stuffed animal and stay hidden for three weeks, there is a silver lining. People and/or objects from your past have a tendency to come back into your life: the good and the bad.
Yesterday, I got one of those mass emails with questions from a guy who I used to have a crush on and had a very dysfunctional quasi-relationship with. I have not heard nor seen him in years, mostly out of choice. (That's the Aquarian sprit, always move forward!) Now, I've been hemming and hawing on whether to respond back.
What would Harvey Fierstein do?
Saturday, July 23, 2005
So what does this mean?
After the post yesterday about the triumphant flickering light marching on despite adversity--the maintenance men went and replaced it.
Well, there's my little metaphorical pick-me-up scuppered.
Well, there's my little metaphorical pick-me-up scuppered.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Normal Business
There's a flickering light in the hallway next to my apartment. It just refuses to die out. So whenever I enter or exit it's like being next to a disco strobe light.
The reason I bring up the light that refuses to die, is because I'm truly puzzled by the media. During the bombing "incident" today in London, we were presented with nonstop coverage all over the major networks. I muted most of it, but I read the captions. It seemed to me that we were getting 50% speculation, 40% repetition, and 10% information.
The repetition is necessary, because you never know when people are turning in. Likewise, the information is critical; however the speculation is unnecessary in my view. What purpose does it serve to say that this might happen? Sometimes, it seems like the goal of network news is not so much to inform, but rather to render paranoid.
The irony in all of this, is that after every major disaster involving terrorism, the authorities hold a press conference in which they exhort the people to "go about their normal business." I'm beginning to think that is easier said than done. We are expected to live our lives (while also maintaining vilgilence) while surrounded by news reports that scream "Could it happen here?" Now, while on one hand, it's good to know that there are attempts to assure our security as we "go about our normal business," the tone of these reports seem more to make us worried rather than relieved.
I don't want to come across as extremely jaded or cynical, but my suspicion is that the paranoid tone is mostly due to ratings. Ratings = money. Perhaps we'll all get so scared that we will have no choice but to stay at home and watch television all day.
Personally, I'd like to think that a lot of the news directors are just getting caught up in the story and are desperately afraid of turning away from it lest a major development occurs. Yet, I believe that the zeal with which they follow a story is partly ego-driven. Indeed, the public has a right to know, but doesn't the public have a right to sit back and process what did occur without being bombarded by "what if" scenarios?
I'm far from neurologically savvy, but I think the human brain can only take so much information in before overload, and I wonder if we're reaching that point.
The reason I bring up the light that refuses to die, is because I'm truly puzzled by the media. During the bombing "incident" today in London, we were presented with nonstop coverage all over the major networks. I muted most of it, but I read the captions. It seemed to me that we were getting 50% speculation, 40% repetition, and 10% information.
The repetition is necessary, because you never know when people are turning in. Likewise, the information is critical; however the speculation is unnecessary in my view. What purpose does it serve to say that this might happen? Sometimes, it seems like the goal of network news is not so much to inform, but rather to render paranoid.
The irony in all of this, is that after every major disaster involving terrorism, the authorities hold a press conference in which they exhort the people to "go about their normal business." I'm beginning to think that is easier said than done. We are expected to live our lives (while also maintaining vilgilence) while surrounded by news reports that scream "Could it happen here?" Now, while on one hand, it's good to know that there are attempts to assure our security as we "go about our normal business," the tone of these reports seem more to make us worried rather than relieved.
I don't want to come across as extremely jaded or cynical, but my suspicion is that the paranoid tone is mostly due to ratings. Ratings = money. Perhaps we'll all get so scared that we will have no choice but to stay at home and watch television all day.
Personally, I'd like to think that a lot of the news directors are just getting caught up in the story and are desperately afraid of turning away from it lest a major development occurs. Yet, I believe that the zeal with which they follow a story is partly ego-driven. Indeed, the public has a right to know, but doesn't the public have a right to sit back and process what did occur without being bombarded by "what if" scenarios?
I'm far from neurologically savvy, but I think the human brain can only take so much information in before overload, and I wonder if we're reaching that point.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
If Mom doesn't like him...
While I was out drinking, apparently Bush named his pick for the Supreme Court. My mother sent me this email with her thoughts:
"Mr. Roberts looks exactly as I imagine an alien representative would be constructed who is to be sent to the world to represent a human being. He is almost too perfect. He sounds as if he has been programmed as well. I know that I am starting to sound like George Orwell, but this is what comes to my mind."
The man is 50, married, with two adopted children aged 4 and 5. I don't know what his opinions are, but having children that late makes me wonder.
"Mr. Roberts looks exactly as I imagine an alien representative would be constructed who is to be sent to the world to represent a human being. He is almost too perfect. He sounds as if he has been programmed as well. I know that I am starting to sound like George Orwell, but this is what comes to my mind."
The man is 50, married, with two adopted children aged 4 and 5. I don't know what his opinions are, but having children that late makes me wonder.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Splash-Rawhide Post Mortem: Smack My Hikaru Up
I don't deal well with humidity, especially when combined with alcohol.
Alas, I didn't follow the warning signs and still went full throttle. (By the way, I am writing this with a hangover.)
It all really started when I was talking with Garrett and asked if he wanted to meet up for drink as he was in Chelsea at the time. Given the heat, I had to wear a tank top out of reasons for preserving my body temperature more than any "look-at-me" logic. Unfortunately, it made me look like a hustler. I have never felt so stared at in my life (and this is after acting completely nude in a short play). It would've been a good thing had I actually been in the mood for sex, but frankly, I was more in the mood for air conditioning.
After saying goodbye to Garrett at Barracuda (Kill Bill vol. 1 was playing, and we both are squeamish when it comes to gore), I made my way over to Splash. Again, nearly everybody there was wearing a shirt, and to be honest with you, I felt like I looked like a hooker. (Of note: Splash played "All Over The World" from Xanadu. Wow, I never realised how campy that film was.)
I subsequently went over to Rawhide, and I can only tell that due to the prominent "Rawhide" stamp on my wrist. What I cannot tell you is what happened while I was there, nor how long I stayed, nor how I wound up back at my apartment with a 3 uneaten slices of pizza.
I woke up this morning at 8:30 (relatively late for me) and dumped the pizza out. Unfortunately, I didn't bother to put any pants on while on my journey to the "refuse closet" in the hallway. Having successfully dumped the pizza down the chute, I thought I could easily dash back to my apartment. Alas, someone chooses that time to go out to the elevator, leaving me stuck in the trash room until they go. (I don't know my neighbours and I really don't want their first impression of me to be of a bleary-eyed man in his boxer shorts.)
At least if I was a whore, then I'd have some money to comfort me.
Alas, I didn't follow the warning signs and still went full throttle. (By the way, I am writing this with a hangover.)
It all really started when I was talking with Garrett and asked if he wanted to meet up for drink as he was in Chelsea at the time. Given the heat, I had to wear a tank top out of reasons for preserving my body temperature more than any "look-at-me" logic. Unfortunately, it made me look like a hustler. I have never felt so stared at in my life (and this is after acting completely nude in a short play). It would've been a good thing had I actually been in the mood for sex, but frankly, I was more in the mood for air conditioning.
After saying goodbye to Garrett at Barracuda (Kill Bill vol. 1 was playing, and we both are squeamish when it comes to gore), I made my way over to Splash. Again, nearly everybody there was wearing a shirt, and to be honest with you, I felt like I looked like a hooker. (Of note: Splash played "All Over The World" from Xanadu. Wow, I never realised how campy that film was.)
I subsequently went over to Rawhide, and I can only tell that due to the prominent "Rawhide" stamp on my wrist. What I cannot tell you is what happened while I was there, nor how long I stayed, nor how I wound up back at my apartment with a 3 uneaten slices of pizza.
I woke up this morning at 8:30 (relatively late for me) and dumped the pizza out. Unfortunately, I didn't bother to put any pants on while on my journey to the "refuse closet" in the hallway. Having successfully dumped the pizza down the chute, I thought I could easily dash back to my apartment. Alas, someone chooses that time to go out to the elevator, leaving me stuck in the trash room until they go. (I don't know my neighbours and I really don't want their first impression of me to be of a bleary-eyed man in his boxer shorts.)
At least if I was a whore, then I'd have some money to comfort me.
Weathermen = Fame Whores
I get a text message last night and it says "Turn on Larry King Live!" I comply, and am presented with the image of Tim Vincent (who despite trying to morph himself into an entertainment reporter, will always be known to me as the cute man from Blue Peter and Emmerdale who also posed naked) discussing the British monarchy.
I'm thinking, "why on earth would someone think that I'd want to hear about the British monarchy?" Well, lo and behold, guess who is subbing for Larry King? Sam Champion. That's right, Sam Champion, the main weatherman for WABC, New York's ABC affiliate. Apparently, he has also subbed for Regis Philbin on Live with Regis and Kelly as well, and when that show went literally to sea, he tagged along. (I haven't watched Live in eons, but I do watch WABC News at 6, and saw him from a cruise ship giving the forecast with Regis Philbin mugging his way through the whole thing.)
Now, I'm all for having a diverse career, but I'm sorry, why is a weatherman hosting a national call-in show? It's just weird. Then again, look at Al Roker. He practically runs the latter half-hour of Today. He's got his fingers in a whole slew of media pies (no pun intended). Some time ago, I was witness to the bizarre creature that was Roker Reports on Court TV. That's right, Al Roker reporting on a murder investigation. I hate to say this, but seeing jolly Al Roker act all serious and reporter-like was too funny. I laughed my way through the show, as well-meaning as it was supposed to be.
This trend seems to be catching on. It seems like WNYW (the Fox affiliate in New York) is trying to
shape Good Day New York meterologist Mike Woods (think Al Roker with a body made for gay porn) into some sort of sexy version of Il Roker. One of their other meterologists, Tracy Humphries (a female Al Roker--what is it with the black meterologists?) does a weekly segment about expensive condos in Manhattan. It baffles the mind.
And then there's Dave Price, late of WNYW and currently on The Early Show and WCBS in the morning. If I ever come across him reporting on a multiple homicide, then I will truly see it as a sign of the Apolocalypse.
I'm thinking, "why on earth would someone think that I'd want to hear about the British monarchy?" Well, lo and behold, guess who is subbing for Larry King? Sam Champion. That's right, Sam Champion, the main weatherman for WABC, New York's ABC affiliate. Apparently, he has also subbed for Regis Philbin on Live with Regis and Kelly as well, and when that show went literally to sea, he tagged along. (I haven't watched Live in eons, but I do watch WABC News at 6, and saw him from a cruise ship giving the forecast with Regis Philbin mugging his way through the whole thing.)
Now, I'm all for having a diverse career, but I'm sorry, why is a weatherman hosting a national call-in show? It's just weird. Then again, look at Al Roker. He practically runs the latter half-hour of Today. He's got his fingers in a whole slew of media pies (no pun intended). Some time ago, I was witness to the bizarre creature that was Roker Reports on Court TV. That's right, Al Roker reporting on a murder investigation. I hate to say this, but seeing jolly Al Roker act all serious and reporter-like was too funny. I laughed my way through the show, as well-meaning as it was supposed to be.
This trend seems to be catching on. It seems like WNYW (the Fox affiliate in New York) is trying to
shape Good Day New York meterologist Mike Woods (think Al Roker with a body made for gay porn) into some sort of sexy version of Il Roker. One of their other meterologists, Tracy Humphries (a female Al Roker--what is it with the black meterologists?) does a weekly segment about expensive condos in Manhattan. It baffles the mind.And then there's Dave Price, late of WNYW and currently on The Early Show and WCBS in the morning. If I ever come across him reporting on a multiple homicide, then I will truly see it as a sign of the Apolocalypse.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Goodbye solid food
This stacking is driving me krazy (intentional misspelling and if I could reverse the "z" I would). I have not had anything solid to eat in nearly 36 hours save for a Big Cup Peanut Butter Cup (and that was only because I couldn't find anything else to eat quickly).
It's not so much that I can't eat solid food, because this plan does encourage three meals a day, but rather my stomach is refusing to accept any more passengers after all the shakes and pills.
Last night, I dreamt of gorging myself on Chinese-Mexican food. I'm just saying.
A side note: Tomorrow marks the 200th post on Hikaruland. I guess I have had a lot of id to share.
It's not so much that I can't eat solid food, because this plan does encourage three meals a day, but rather my stomach is refusing to accept any more passengers after all the shakes and pills.
Last night, I dreamt of gorging myself on Chinese-Mexican food. I'm just saying.
A side note: Tomorrow marks the 200th post on Hikaruland. I guess I have had a lot of id to share.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Unintentionally Comedic Friday
Ok, La Podolskaya, you have won me over. The girl can definitely sing, but boy has she been witness to some serious cruelty when it comes to staging.
Poking around her old shabby-with-substance site, I came across some absolutely hilarious videos, wherein La Podolskaya proves herself to be an excellent performer despite having some dire supporters onstage. Witness her rendition of "Somebody to love" accompanied by slutty dancers wearing what seems to be the wardrobe from Tron. (I don't even want to know what the Dune-like couple at the beginning signify.)
Clive Davis needs to rescue her stat!
Addendum: Take a glance at La Podolskaya, Alcazar, and (I think) Julia Savicheva perform "This is the world we live in." Now, I don't know if I am using the term properly here, but these queens are throwing some major shade behind their smiles. Think about it, two Swedish queens, two Swedish divas, and two talent show princesses (both of whom I like, by the way), there is bound to be drama.
Poking around her old shabby-with-substance site, I came across some absolutely hilarious videos, wherein La Podolskaya proves herself to be an excellent performer despite having some dire supporters onstage. Witness her rendition of "Somebody to love" accompanied by slutty dancers wearing what seems to be the wardrobe from Tron. (I don't even want to know what the Dune-like couple at the beginning signify.)
Clive Davis needs to rescue her stat!
Addendum: Take a glance at La Podolskaya, Alcazar, and (I think) Julia Savicheva perform "This is the world we live in." Now, I don't know if I am using the term properly here, but these queens are throwing some major shade behind their smiles. Think about it, two Swedish queens, two Swedish divas, and two talent show princesses (both of whom I like, by the way), there is bound to be drama.
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
I am now stacking (taking multiple supplements for a culminative effect, in this case, muscle mass). Perhaps I am putting more focus on this than I should, but I think of this as a bit of a milestone. Either this is a sign that I'm taking bodybuilding rather seriously--although I still don't think I'm going to compete, nor do I want to--or this is a sign that I'm now a victim of gay body culture. Frankly, I don't know, and I hope that it's the former and not the latter at play here.
Here is the daily regime:
Here is the daily regime:
- After waking up: 3 scoops of protein with orange juice
- 30 minutes later: 4 Nitrix tablets
- 30-45 minutes before workout: 2-3 scoops of NO-Xplode
- Workout
- Immediately after workout (and lord, I do not like this): 2 scoops of Cellmass with water
- 30-45 minutes before lunch: 4 Nitrix tablets
- Mid-afternoon: 3 scoops of protein
- 45 minutes before dinner: 4 Nitrix tablets
- 30 minutes before dinner: 2 scoops of Cellmass with water
I am going to be a pill-popping, protein shake-drinking machine for 8-12 weeks. Jiminy Cricket.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Joyeux jour de Bastille
(Si cet petit part de l'internet était completement bilingue et je peut ecrire avec des accents facilement, puis je ferais le "post" de aujourd'hui en français. Cependant, je deteste d'aller au Babel Fish et le "character map" pour trouver des accents, allors nous ecrirons en l'anglais.)
Well, it is Bastille Day and in honour of the only French national holiday commemorating a riot and total political overhaul, I'm going to do cite the many things that make la France le Force.
Well, it is Bastille Day and in honour of the only French national holiday commemorating a riot and total political overhaul, I'm going to do cite the many things that make la France le Force.
- Political expressions like "le metropole" and "les DOM-TOM." Now doesn't that just sound inherently better than just saying "the mainland" and "the dependencies and territories?"
- With the exceptions of Asia and Anarctica, France (see DOM-TOM above) is literally on every single continent: Reunion and Mayotte are in Africa; St. Pierre & Miquelon is right off the coast of Newfoundland (Terre-Neuve aujourd'hui); French Polynesia and New Caledonia in Australasia; Guadeloupe, St. Martin, Martinque, and French Guiana (home of the French space programme) are in Central & South America.
- You know that somewhere in the French National Archives there is a document that can revoke the Louisiana Purchase and cede it back to France. I would certainly support it. I hope that the French found it amusing that some people living in places like Pierre, St. Louis, Vermillion, and Belleville wanted to change the name of french fries to "freedom fries." I certainly did.
- No one does a Eurovision power ballad like the French. For examples see: 1968, 1977, 1979, 1991, 2001, and 2002. Absolutely full of profound meditations on life. (Courtesy of Yahoo's National Final MP3 group, I've also heard some amazing songs from the 1960's French national selections like "Il est mort, le soleil." I'm sorry, but a song like that can only be sung in French, because "The Sun is dead" just lacks the same punch in English.)
- The French also do a good upbeat Eurovision number. See: 1976, 1981, 1990, 1994, 1995, 1998, and 2005.
- As bad as Chirac is, he is no George W. Bush.
- French socialism is truly one of the greatest ideologies out there.
- The glory that is Paris's intermodal transit system.
- Paris itself. What I love about Paris is that it is cold, dirty, modern, snobbish, and the least romantic place on Earth (no matter what the Hollywood films say). It just says "c'est moi." That is my kind of town.
- France Télévisions. It may have scatter-shot content, but it is probably one of the most stylish state broadcasters out there.
- Asterix
- Mathieu Kassovitz. Not only is he handsome, he's also flat out brilliant as a director.
- Every single French person that I have met has been able to pronounce Hikaru correctly on the first try: three syllables, no stress on any of the vowels (the "u" is pronounced, people!)
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Cue the Puff Daddy jokes
Just unloaded my digital camera with my first post surgery photos, which were taken on July 1, the first official day of my life without the corset. Who knew tummy tucks could make you this puffy? 
And I assure you, it will be a cold day in hell before someone takes another photo of me with my boxers showing! (Or at least, not without some money changing hands.)
And I assure you, it will be a cold day in hell before someone takes another photo of me with my boxers showing! (Or at least, not without some money changing hands.)
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
L.A. Race Story? (Part 1)
Is Los Angeles this dire?
From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:
"No matter what people say, race matters in L.A. In the ethnic hierarchy of gay L.A., black and African American often finishes last. That's unless you're one of the following: 1) light enough to pass for being mixed with something other than black, even if you're just pretending to be biracial, which raises the value of your romantic stock dramatically, since being one hundred percent black is a liability and being mixed de-emphasizes blackness; 2) thuggish enough to pass for a gang banger pr a rapper to fulfill someone's colored boy/bling bling fetish and stereotypes of black men; 3) muscular enough to pass for a professional athlete, hopefully a basketball player, because everyone wants the long legs and torso pressed against their bodies; 4) mainstreamed or assimilated enough to blend in with the majority white crowds of West Hollywood, laugh, smile, and buffoon yourself and your people for their entertainment, and spout off well-rehearsed lines such as 'People are people and I don't see color,' when they really do, or 'I grew up around white people and I don't feel comfortable in all-black settings,' when they really grew up in South Central, South Bronx, or Southside Chicago and know the only white people they grew up with were an occasional teacher, mailman, or their mother's supervisor who gave them hand-me-down clothes before the new school year."
Well, isn't that just idyllic? I guess by that criteria I'm screwed if I live in Los Angeles. I may be light enough to pass for a different ethncity, but I like my family too much to say they aren't what they are. I'm too bad of an actor to be a thug, since I feel extremely uncomfortable wearing baggy pants low enough to show my underwear. Muscular? The bodybuilding has more to do with wanting to exorcise the demons of my overweight past, and there is no way I'd get into the competitive side of it with a history of anorexia. Mainstreamed and assimilated? That's a tough one. I did actually grow up around mostly white people. It is what it is, and for its many faults, I liked growing up in Ozaukee County. However, considering that my mother's job involved crunching numbers in order to prove fair hiring practices, I learned early on that you can't quite cross off colour. I wouldn't say that I feel uncomfortable in a majority African-American environment. It just feels different, not uncomfortable, but different than what I'm used to. I'd compare it to say an Italian-American going to Italy: "we're very similar, but we're also different as well."
(Some disclosure: I lived in Los Angeles for 4 months in 2000, while working at two internships, and taking classes as part of program organised by my college. During that entire period, I would describe my off-time as merely trying to catch my breath, so I have no real idea as to what it's like to really "live" there.)
In Part Two, other parts of the hierarchy as described in Down for Whatever.
From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:
"No matter what people say, race matters in L.A. In the ethnic hierarchy of gay L.A., black and African American often finishes last. That's unless you're one of the following: 1) light enough to pass for being mixed with something other than black, even if you're just pretending to be biracial, which raises the value of your romantic stock dramatically, since being one hundred percent black is a liability and being mixed de-emphasizes blackness; 2) thuggish enough to pass for a gang banger pr a rapper to fulfill someone's colored boy/bling bling fetish and stereotypes of black men; 3) muscular enough to pass for a professional athlete, hopefully a basketball player, because everyone wants the long legs and torso pressed against their bodies; 4) mainstreamed or assimilated enough to blend in with the majority white crowds of West Hollywood, laugh, smile, and buffoon yourself and your people for their entertainment, and spout off well-rehearsed lines such as 'People are people and I don't see color,' when they really do, or 'I grew up around white people and I don't feel comfortable in all-black settings,' when they really grew up in South Central, South Bronx, or Southside Chicago and know the only white people they grew up with were an occasional teacher, mailman, or their mother's supervisor who gave them hand-me-down clothes before the new school year."
Well, isn't that just idyllic? I guess by that criteria I'm screwed if I live in Los Angeles. I may be light enough to pass for a different ethncity, but I like my family too much to say they aren't what they are. I'm too bad of an actor to be a thug, since I feel extremely uncomfortable wearing baggy pants low enough to show my underwear. Muscular? The bodybuilding has more to do with wanting to exorcise the demons of my overweight past, and there is no way I'd get into the competitive side of it with a history of anorexia. Mainstreamed and assimilated? That's a tough one. I did actually grow up around mostly white people. It is what it is, and for its many faults, I liked growing up in Ozaukee County. However, considering that my mother's job involved crunching numbers in order to prove fair hiring practices, I learned early on that you can't quite cross off colour. I wouldn't say that I feel uncomfortable in a majority African-American environment. It just feels different, not uncomfortable, but different than what I'm used to. I'd compare it to say an Italian-American going to Italy: "we're very similar, but we're also different as well."
(Some disclosure: I lived in Los Angeles for 4 months in 2000, while working at two internships, and taking classes as part of program organised by my college. During that entire period, I would describe my off-time as merely trying to catch my breath, so I have no real idea as to what it's like to really "live" there.)
In Part Two, other parts of the hierarchy as described in Down for Whatever.
Monday, July 11, 2005
I guess it's good
Apparently we're getting the first black gay & lesbian talk show: The Herndon Davis Reports.
Who?
My thoughts exactly. I have never heard of this man before reading the report on 365gay, but Herndon L. Davis wrote a "controversial" book called Black, Gay, and Christian. Considering that it's been over a decade since I've been in a church, no wonder I have no clue who this man is. Unfortunately, his show is not going to be available here, because it's only going to be available on Comcast and DirecTV. So I'll be spared the gay version of Tavis Smiley, thank you very much.
I kid because I love. But honestly, I'm holding out for LOGO's Noah's Arc to get my fix of black gay life, whenever the hell they choose to name a premiere date.
On a semi-related note, I'm now plowing my way through Down for Whatever by Frederick W. Smith. It's a real mixed bag, I have to say. The quotes are excellent--especially those on the (perceived) gay racial hierarchy, which are spot on, but the plot? Jesus wept. I mean, I'm halfway through and I don't care about half of the characters. They're all either uptight, whiny, deluded, or slutty. Now, I am the last person to decry sluttiness, but I like some flavouring with it, you know? Mix it up a bit, make them a slutty alcoholic or what have you. All that being said, I do like the Rashomon style of making each chapter from the perspective of a different character.
You rarely ever see my favourite archetype (and personal role model) in books, which is, the intelligent slut. I'm talking about the kind of guy who can go from spouting out where Marx was right and Keynes was wrong (and vice versa) to a XXX Titan video gang bang in no time flat. Now, that would be interesting.
Who?
My thoughts exactly. I have never heard of this man before reading the report on 365gay, but Herndon L. Davis wrote a "controversial" book called Black, Gay, and Christian. Considering that it's been over a decade since I've been in a church, no wonder I have no clue who this man is. Unfortunately, his show is not going to be available here, because it's only going to be available on Comcast and DirecTV. So I'll be spared the gay version of Tavis Smiley, thank you very much.
I kid because I love. But honestly, I'm holding out for LOGO's Noah's Arc to get my fix of black gay life, whenever the hell they choose to name a premiere date.
On a semi-related note, I'm now plowing my way through Down for Whatever by Frederick W. Smith. It's a real mixed bag, I have to say. The quotes are excellent--especially those on the (perceived) gay racial hierarchy, which are spot on, but the plot? Jesus wept. I mean, I'm halfway through and I don't care about half of the characters. They're all either uptight, whiny, deluded, or slutty. Now, I am the last person to decry sluttiness, but I like some flavouring with it, you know? Mix it up a bit, make them a slutty alcoholic or what have you. All that being said, I do like the Rashomon style of making each chapter from the perspective of a different character.
You rarely ever see my favourite archetype (and personal role model) in books, which is, the intelligent slut. I'm talking about the kind of guy who can go from spouting out where Marx was right and Keynes was wrong (and vice versa) to a XXX Titan video gang bang in no time flat. Now, that would be interesting.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Best Show You're Not Watching?
Most Haunted on the Travel Channel. A British show (airing on Living TV in the UK) that goes to various haunted sites all over the UK with a parapsychologist, paranormal investigators, crew, and intrepid blonde presenter.
The best part, they swear all the way through. The show is trying to scare you, but honestly, it's chock-a-block with so many unintentionally funny moments while you watch them freak out. Typical quote "what %&*)(@ was that @*#( right there?" Oh, I can't wait until the uncensored versions become available.
The best part, they swear all the way through. The show is trying to scare you, but honestly, it's chock-a-block with so many unintentionally funny moments while you watch them freak out. Typical quote "what %&*)(@ was that @*#( right there?" Oh, I can't wait until the uncensored versions become available.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Confessions of a Soap & Credit Sequence Junkie
As a side effect of the month-plus long sequestering I went through with the corset, I am now a soap addict. I did not want to be this way, and I feel dirty all the time, but I just can't help myself.
The Bold & The Beautiful was my gateway drug. It's only 30 minutes long (hell, 15 minutes if you count commercials), so how honestly complex can it get? That was followed by Passions, which I really did not expect to be as campy and tongue-in-cheek as it is. (Can you really look down upon a self-referential quote like "I'll be gone quicker than Coupling from NBC's Thursday nights?") I knew things were bad when I started watching The Young & The Restless, which is not short, not campy, and really would have no attraction to me whatsoever save for the fact that I find it hilarious that in fictional Genoa City, Wisconsin nobody has an accent.
And then someone on a website directed me to World of Soap Themes. Lord, I did not need this. A site devoted to nothing but opening and closing sequences for soaps. I already am addicted to opening and closing sequences for Japanese animation. (I get that fix from bestanime.) Now I've got the theme from Another World running rampant in my head for nigh on three weeks now.
There has to be some equivalent of methadone to get me off of this.
The Bold & The Beautiful was my gateway drug. It's only 30 minutes long (hell, 15 minutes if you count commercials), so how honestly complex can it get? That was followed by Passions, which I really did not expect to be as campy and tongue-in-cheek as it is. (Can you really look down upon a self-referential quote like "I'll be gone quicker than Coupling from NBC's Thursday nights?") I knew things were bad when I started watching The Young & The Restless, which is not short, not campy, and really would have no attraction to me whatsoever save for the fact that I find it hilarious that in fictional Genoa City, Wisconsin nobody has an accent.
And then someone on a website directed me to World of Soap Themes. Lord, I did not need this. A site devoted to nothing but opening and closing sequences for soaps. I already am addicted to opening and closing sequences for Japanese animation. (I get that fix from bestanime.) Now I've got the theme from Another World running rampant in my head for nigh on three weeks now.
There has to be some equivalent of methadone to get me off of this.
Disturbed
I really have little to say about the terror attacks in London today, except that it was tragic to hear of them. I had a brief scare when I realised I hadn't heard from a close friend who was in London last week and I didn't know if he had made it back to New York yet. (He did, and I hope that everyone out there who is concerned about their friends, lovers, and families has the same positive outcome.)
I've had the television on mute for most of the morning, preferring to only glance occasionally at the captions to keep updated. Listening to it reminds me too much of the Admiral Duncan and Brixton nail-bombings back in 1999, two tragedies that will be forever seared on my memory.
I've had the television on mute for most of the morning, preferring to only glance occasionally at the captions to keep updated. Listening to it reminds me too much of the Admiral Duncan and Brixton nail-bombings back in 1999, two tragedies that will be forever seared on my memory.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
When Go-Go Boys Attack: The Bar Hopping Post-Mortem
First off, I can't even recall how many places I went to last night. I know I started off at Splash, and went to Rawhide, and then The View, but after that it's all a blur. All I know is that I woke up this morning with two stamps on my wrist, one from Rawhide and another one of a globe or something. I also woke up having bought two porn films which reveal that I might very well have some subconscious lust or appreciation for the work of Gus Mattox, Owen Hawk, and Kent Larson since they appeared in both films. Go figure.
So this was the first real proper night out I've had in more than a month. No corset, no restrictions, no worries. Unfortunately, I last went out in May when it was slightly cooler, therefore making my choice of a black t-shirt very unwise. I was boiling for most of the night. A bartender at Splash suggested that I doff the shirt, but I can tell you that ain't going to happen unless I'm drunk and dancing, neither of which I was at the time.
In general, it was just good to be out. The only real downside was yet another go-go "boy" (it's hard to call someone a "boy" when they look ten years your senior) dancing on the bar at Rawhide. I do not get this concept at all. If I want to give you the money, then I'll go up to the podium and stuff it in your g-string. It's very bizarre, because while in some situations I'd be all for a scantily dressed man thrusting his crotch and rear in my face while I suck on a beer. However, I'd like to at least invite the guy to do that, not just have it foisted upon me.
That last sentence is a sign I probably should get laid more often.
So this was the first real proper night out I've had in more than a month. No corset, no restrictions, no worries. Unfortunately, I last went out in May when it was slightly cooler, therefore making my choice of a black t-shirt very unwise. I was boiling for most of the night. A bartender at Splash suggested that I doff the shirt, but I can tell you that ain't going to happen unless I'm drunk and dancing, neither of which I was at the time.
In general, it was just good to be out. The only real downside was yet another go-go "boy" (it's hard to call someone a "boy" when they look ten years your senior) dancing on the bar at Rawhide. I do not get this concept at all. If I want to give you the money, then I'll go up to the podium and stuff it in your g-string. It's very bizarre, because while in some situations I'd be all for a scantily dressed man thrusting his crotch and rear in my face while I suck on a beer. However, I'd like to at least invite the guy to do that, not just have it foisted upon me.
That last sentence is a sign I probably should get laid more often.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Thank goodness!
London won the 2012 Olympics, which means the deranged capitalists, tourists, and general mayhem will not be made worse by New York having the games.
Of course now, the rumour mill has it that New York is angling for the 2016 games along with Toronto. So even if I immigrate I still run the risk of getting screwed by Olympic-size chaos 11 years from now.
Splash/Rawhide/View/Barracuda/XES post-mortem later today.
Of course now, the rumour mill has it that New York is angling for the 2016 games along with Toronto. So even if I immigrate I still run the risk of getting screwed by Olympic-size chaos 11 years from now.
Splash/Rawhide/View/Barracuda/XES post-mortem later today.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Independence Day
I realise that this is a day early, but since I'm writing a play for most of tomorrow, I'm posting today.
Suffice to say that I have an odd relationship with the land of my birth. On one hand, I feel truly uniquely American. My father was a Choctaw, my mother's ancestry includes African, Irish, and Cherokee peoples. Were it not for this ethnic mix, I would not exist today.
And yet, I feel at the same time like an outsider in my own country.
As a gay man, the federal government denies me equal parity with heterosexuals when it comes to marriage and the rights and benefits accorded to it. It also refuses to acknowledge sexual orientation under the hate crimes law, despite the best efforts of some politicians (of which I can say proudly that the two Senators from Wisconsin and New York are some of them) to include me. As a gay man, I am still the whipping boy of bigoted "Christians" who while professing to love to sinner and not the sin, seek to effectively extinguish me from the landscape. By the way, not just myself, but also any woman who chooses to have an abortion, any minority still struggling with the shackles of many years of oppression, and anyone who believes that church and state should be separate.
As a black man, I feel oddly disconnected from this country. My ancestors were brought here as slaves and while many strides have been made, the slave mentality still persists amongst many blacks: "Because I'm black, I shouldn't try," "because I'm black, I can't possibly be gay, "because I'm black, I don't need to assimilate." At some point, we have to realise that we are Americans. While we should definitely realise that our origins are in Africa, our own culture is most definitely unique and worth celebrating as well. We are distinct, but we are no better than Italian-Americans, Greek-Americans, German-Americans, and so on. No matter what ethnicity proceeds us, we are Americans and only we can shape our country. I'm not advocating forgetting the first part of the hyphen, but I think we should also never dare neglect the latter as well.
Chris Rock once said that "America is like the Uncle that abused you, but also sent you to college." I feel the same way. When I graduated high school, I tried to run away as far as possible from the US--all the way to Luton. Although, I wanted to stay in the UK, circumstances dictated that I had to come back to the US. I am here, and I know that in the immediate future, I am here, so I will fight to make this country live up to its ideals of "Liberty, Justice, and the pursuit of Happiness." Where does "the pursuit of Happiness" imply that "I'm right, and because I'm right, you're wrong?" Maybe I'm interpreting it incorrectly, but I don't see that anywhere. "The pursuit of Happiness" to me suggests that one find their own path to Happiness and another finds their own, and as long as their path is at the detriment of another's then what is wrong? I don't see where giving gays, lesbians, and minorities a fair chance (when it has been denied them for so long) is contradictory to the precepts that this nation was founded upon.
Since I left grad school in 2004, I've been debating immigrating to Canada, and to be honest, I still have it on the back burner. Yet, I find it tragically bizarre that Canada is living up to the ideals that were once [US] American. Where did we go wrong? When did we choose that bigotry would trump all else. It seems like there is this streak in the United States wherein people think "thank you for letting me in, now keep everybody else out." I know that there are people who are quite literally killing themselves to get to this country (and other countries as well). However, when it comes to the US, what country are they risking life and limb to get to? This is not the same country of the 1880's, 1900's, or even the 1970's. This is a country that has stopped saying "you can be yourself" and encouraged "you must be like us." It's almost eerily similar to Invasion of The Body Snatchers. Why are we afraid of differences now? The Norman Rockwell days are gone, if indeed they ever existed.
Listen, I'd like to envision myself sitting at a table with my family and waving "hi" to my neighbours before sitting down to dinner, but that just does not happen anymore. Both father and mother are working to the bone to just merely put food on the table. The kids are not even allowed to be children anymore because they are exhausted from extracurricular activities all in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they might get a scholarship to college and Mom & Dad won't have to work even harder (and be more absent) to get them there. When the kids do actually reach college, what do they do? They repeat the same cycle and happy memories are few and fare between.
So have we built upon the ideals of the declaration of Independence and Constitution? I don't think so. In fact, on some level, it seems like we are promoting our lifestyle based upon the thought that if we're not happy, nobody should be.
And it should never be like that.
Suffice to say that I have an odd relationship with the land of my birth. On one hand, I feel truly uniquely American. My father was a Choctaw, my mother's ancestry includes African, Irish, and Cherokee peoples. Were it not for this ethnic mix, I would not exist today.
And yet, I feel at the same time like an outsider in my own country.
As a gay man, the federal government denies me equal parity with heterosexuals when it comes to marriage and the rights and benefits accorded to it. It also refuses to acknowledge sexual orientation under the hate crimes law, despite the best efforts of some politicians (of which I can say proudly that the two Senators from Wisconsin and New York are some of them) to include me. As a gay man, I am still the whipping boy of bigoted "Christians" who while professing to love to sinner and not the sin, seek to effectively extinguish me from the landscape. By the way, not just myself, but also any woman who chooses to have an abortion, any minority still struggling with the shackles of many years of oppression, and anyone who believes that church and state should be separate.
As a black man, I feel oddly disconnected from this country. My ancestors were brought here as slaves and while many strides have been made, the slave mentality still persists amongst many blacks: "Because I'm black, I shouldn't try," "because I'm black, I can't possibly be gay, "because I'm black, I don't need to assimilate." At some point, we have to realise that we are Americans. While we should definitely realise that our origins are in Africa, our own culture is most definitely unique and worth celebrating as well. We are distinct, but we are no better than Italian-Americans, Greek-Americans, German-Americans, and so on. No matter what ethnicity proceeds us, we are Americans and only we can shape our country. I'm not advocating forgetting the first part of the hyphen, but I think we should also never dare neglect the latter as well.
Chris Rock once said that "America is like the Uncle that abused you, but also sent you to college." I feel the same way. When I graduated high school, I tried to run away as far as possible from the US--all the way to Luton. Although, I wanted to stay in the UK, circumstances dictated that I had to come back to the US. I am here, and I know that in the immediate future, I am here, so I will fight to make this country live up to its ideals of "Liberty, Justice, and the pursuit of Happiness." Where does "the pursuit of Happiness" imply that "I'm right, and because I'm right, you're wrong?" Maybe I'm interpreting it incorrectly, but I don't see that anywhere. "The pursuit of Happiness" to me suggests that one find their own path to Happiness and another finds their own, and as long as their path is at the detriment of another's then what is wrong? I don't see where giving gays, lesbians, and minorities a fair chance (when it has been denied them for so long) is contradictory to the precepts that this nation was founded upon.
Since I left grad school in 2004, I've been debating immigrating to Canada, and to be honest, I still have it on the back burner. Yet, I find it tragically bizarre that Canada is living up to the ideals that were once [US] American. Where did we go wrong? When did we choose that bigotry would trump all else. It seems like there is this streak in the United States wherein people think "thank you for letting me in, now keep everybody else out." I know that there are people who are quite literally killing themselves to get to this country (and other countries as well). However, when it comes to the US, what country are they risking life and limb to get to? This is not the same country of the 1880's, 1900's, or even the 1970's. This is a country that has stopped saying "you can be yourself" and encouraged "you must be like us." It's almost eerily similar to Invasion of The Body Snatchers. Why are we afraid of differences now? The Norman Rockwell days are gone, if indeed they ever existed.
Listen, I'd like to envision myself sitting at a table with my family and waving "hi" to my neighbours before sitting down to dinner, but that just does not happen anymore. Both father and mother are working to the bone to just merely put food on the table. The kids are not even allowed to be children anymore because they are exhausted from extracurricular activities all in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they might get a scholarship to college and Mom & Dad won't have to work even harder (and be more absent) to get them there. When the kids do actually reach college, what do they do? They repeat the same cycle and happy memories are few and fare between.
So have we built upon the ideals of the declaration of Independence and Constitution? I don't think so. In fact, on some level, it seems like we are promoting our lifestyle based upon the thought that if we're not happy, nobody should be.
And it should never be like that.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Shopping for a husband
I got a good shock today, when I realised that at 26, people my age are starting to get married. I've even overheard 20 year old gay men using the word "husband" when referring to their significant others. Whatever happened to the tradition of gay men having their slutty period? I enjoyed mine...for the most part. Oh well, youth fades and at 26, I'm nearing the infamous 30 closer than I'd like it to be. The age when you supposedly all of a sudden drop the bar-hopping life and get a vacation home to share with a man who magically appears out of nowhere.
However, magic can only do so much work, so I'm starting the hunt early to avoid any possible "I'm single!" panic at 11:59pm February 5, 2009.
Here are the requirements:
However, magic can only do so much work, so I'm starting the hunt early to avoid any possible "I'm single!" panic at 11:59pm February 5, 2009.
Here are the requirements:
- Canadian or Spanish citizenship or residency preferred. I can expand that to include Belgium, but we've got to live in Brussels or Wallonia. I can hold my own in French (and to a lesser extent Spanish), but I'm a little bit wary of being too close to the Vlaams Blok, banned or not, since my Flemish is non-existent. I can't envision going to Alberta in the future, so that's no problem.
- For two days in May, we're watching Eurovision. It's 6 hours spread out over 2 days out of your life, and I'll do that thing you like afterwards for being such a good sport.
- Once a week, we work out together. When you're busy and I'm busy, it'll be something to look forward to.
- Come 35, we're adopting or having (listen, science is working on it) a child. Just one, it's not going to kill you and you might very well like imparting your knowledge on a future generation.
- All heights are welcome, but there are certain things we might have to overcome. I'm versatile in a relationship, but if you're a total inflexible top under 5' 7" (1.7m) we're going to have some logistical problems as I'm 6' (1.82m).
- Realise that you're marrying a playwright. There are no guarantees that I won't write about you. Be on your best behaviour.
- Politically, you've got to be pretty much able to deal with a Socialist, be it in SP-USA or DSA colours. (In Canada, this means I'll pretty much bleed NDP, perhaps even make a random trip to Saskatchewan to pray at the altar of Tommy Douglas.)
There, that's not much to ask for.
(Note: If you think I'm being serious with all this...well, I won't say if I am or not. Being released from the corset out of hell has made me cocky.)
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