Explain this video
You can do so much better...
Friday, December 08, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The Worst Show on American Television
...has not aired yet. (We've still got at least another half century as a country, I reckon.)
One of the contenders for that honour, however; has just aired: Watch Over Me over on the strangely-titled MyNetwork TV.
If I may get all Cindy Adams on you, Children, "mother" must tell you something: If the best actors on a show are Casper Van Dien & Catherine Oxenberg, then you have got major problems.
What plot there is seems to revolve around the ex-Mrs. Marc Anthony (and former beauty pageant winner) and two men, who I'll call Light Hair and Dark Hair. Light Hair is the Beauty Queen's current boyfriend and a bit of a prick. We know that he is a prick, because traditionally bastard male characters have light hair while virtuous or purely evil ones have dark hair. Dark Hair used to be in the military or something and has lingering guilt over his dead girlfriend who was shot, and--you guessed it--Dark Hair couldn't save her. (Dark hair also means scarred by the past, you know.) Beauty Queen gets the hots for Dark Hair in some meet cute scene involving her car breaking down while off to go buy a tuxedo for Light Hair. When Beauty Queen's life is targeted, Dark Hair becomes employed as her bodyguard.
There's some business with other people, but really the show is about those three. It would be actually be tolerable if there was decent acting--even over-the-top acting--involved, but there isn't. Everyone is being serious to whatever level their mediocre acting ability will allow them. Beauty Queen's contribution seems to be utilising vacant stares whenever possible. Dark Hair does the same thing. You see, whenever they open their mouths the lack of comprehension of their respective characters comes pouring out by the bucketload.
Some would say, "well Tatum O'Neal wasn't exactly doing Strindberg an hour earlier." You're right, she wasn't. She was aware she was in trash and lept into it just like Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. Dark Hair & Beauty Queen can't figure out how to do camp and still come across as earnest.
Guess who has to actually do the actual acting for Dark Hair & Beauty Queen? The editors. Dark Hair has to show agony? Slow-motion. Beauty Queen has to convey lust? Quick cuts over Dark Hair shirtless.
Oh jiminy cricket, this network is truly Rupert Murdoch's public way of laundering money.
One of the contenders for that honour, however; has just aired: Watch Over Me over on the strangely-titled MyNetwork TV.
If I may get all Cindy Adams on you, Children, "mother" must tell you something: If the best actors on a show are Casper Van Dien & Catherine Oxenberg, then you have got major problems.
What plot there is seems to revolve around the ex-Mrs. Marc Anthony (and former beauty pageant winner) and two men, who I'll call Light Hair and Dark Hair. Light Hair is the Beauty Queen's current boyfriend and a bit of a prick. We know that he is a prick, because traditionally bastard male characters have light hair while virtuous or purely evil ones have dark hair. Dark Hair used to be in the military or something and has lingering guilt over his dead girlfriend who was shot, and--you guessed it--Dark Hair couldn't save her. (Dark hair also means scarred by the past, you know.) Beauty Queen gets the hots for Dark Hair in some meet cute scene involving her car breaking down while off to go buy a tuxedo for Light Hair. When Beauty Queen's life is targeted, Dark Hair becomes employed as her bodyguard.
There's some business with other people, but really the show is about those three. It would be actually be tolerable if there was decent acting--even over-the-top acting--involved, but there isn't. Everyone is being serious to whatever level their mediocre acting ability will allow them. Beauty Queen's contribution seems to be utilising vacant stares whenever possible. Dark Hair does the same thing. You see, whenever they open their mouths the lack of comprehension of their respective characters comes pouring out by the bucketload.
Some would say, "well Tatum O'Neal wasn't exactly doing Strindberg an hour earlier." You're right, she wasn't. She was aware she was in trash and lept into it just like Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. Dark Hair & Beauty Queen can't figure out how to do camp and still come across as earnest.
Guess who has to actually do the actual acting for Dark Hair & Beauty Queen? The editors. Dark Hair has to show agony? Slow-motion. Beauty Queen has to convey lust? Quick cuts over Dark Hair shirtless.
Oh jiminy cricket, this network is truly Rupert Murdoch's public way of laundering money.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
The Belarus "Selection" for Eurovision 2007
Dot Eurovision has the shortlist of the 15 songs "competing" to represent Crazy Lukashenko Land, aka Belarus.
Amongst the possible contenders--which god help us all will not get selected--a song entitled "Call me (September 11)."
For anyone familiar with Spagna, it just conjures up images wrong on so many levels.
Amongst the possible contenders--which god help us all will not get selected--a song entitled "Call me (September 11)."
For anyone familiar with Spagna, it just conjures up images wrong on so many levels.
This Is Milwaukee (In The Middle of A Snowstorm)
Tim Cuprisin's blog is a frequent read of mine and his coverage of the TV coverage of the recent snowstorm is hilarious.
Milwaukee television, who knew it was so vicious?
Milwaukee television, who knew it was so vicious?
Monday, December 04, 2006
The Splash Post-Mortem: uh...
I don't remember much except that I did wake up at home with all my limbs attached.
The only other thing that I do recall is that apparently The Brat is now subdued and that it takes forever to get a drink from a Cypriot bartender with steroid gut.
So to make up for the brevity, here is a CBS promo from 1994.
Note how passive-aggressive Dan Rather is in this. If I had known that Dan was this bitchy, I would've watched him.
By the way, talk about a network in transition: It's odd to think that this was the twilight of the original CBS comedy years and still nearly a decade away before CBS became the Jerry Bruckheimer-Mark Burnett network.
The only other thing that I do recall is that apparently The Brat is now subdued and that it takes forever to get a drink from a Cypriot bartender with steroid gut.
So to make up for the brevity, here is a CBS promo from 1994.
Note how passive-aggressive Dan Rather is in this. If I had known that Dan was this bitchy, I would've watched him.
By the way, talk about a network in transition: It's odd to think that this was the twilight of the original CBS comedy years and still nearly a decade away before CBS became the Jerry Bruckheimer-Mark Burnett network.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Sit Back and Cringe
It was one of the better promotional campaigns of the 1980's, but looking back from 2006, "Let's All Be There" was kind of cringeworthy.
Apparently, it also was international as well.
For maximum cringe, watch this NBC promo from 1988 featuring a "dancing" Michael Landon.
It really was just all downhill from that point on for the Peacock, wasn't it?
Apparently, it also was international as well.
For maximum cringe, watch this NBC promo from 1988 featuring a "dancing" Michael Landon.
It really was just all downhill from that point on for the Peacock, wasn't it?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The View-Splash-The View Post-Mortem: What's With All These Men Smelling Like Baby Powder?
The evening actually started out with me going to go see The Little Dog Laughed,"Douglas Carter Beane's new play. Now let me be honest with you here, I really hate Douglas Carter Beane, to the point that I consider him only one tiny bit above Tyler Perry (and it really takes a lot of animosity on my end to hate gay playwrights).
As much as it kills me to type the following sentence out, I really liked the play for one main reason: Julie White. As much as I hate Beane, the guy writes spectacular female characters. He just bombs out with his gay characters, which is even more strange since he's gay himself (how difficult is it to write about yourself, mister?). For her alone, you should get your posteriors over there. It may have very well been an off-night, but Johnny Galecki was horrible (like he was looking for cuecards) and Tom Everett Scott was pretty much a non-entity through the first act, a fact made even worse by the fact that his character's actions are the main plot.
So you can imagine the kind of mood I was in when discovered that I was seated next to some actor in his "I'm-trying-to-look-cheap-but-my-parents-support-me-because-they-think-I'm-cute" gear and his fawning sycophant friend who couldn't be more obvious with his unrequited lust over him. (I wouldn't pay so much attention except the non-working actor decided to eat candy right next to me.)
I was just gagging for a drink after this reminder why I don't go to the theatre frequently. So much so that I actually took a pedi-cab: not for the thrill of being overcharged in an unregulated transport, but because it is indeed the quickest way to get to Chelsea from Midtown. I plopped myself down at The View, which has been oddly video-free the last few times I've been in. I'm hoping that the VJ is just on vacation, but if The View stops showing music videos then my nights out will be limited to 3 hours in the early evening over at Splash.
At The View I started to notice something, practically all the well-coiffed scenesters were smelling like baby powder. Now I rarely wear cologne (once a year, basically), because I figure that deodorant does the same job without being overpowering, but I can't imagine that somebody would actually come out with a scent that smells like baby powder on adult men.
Somebody must've though, because when I went to Splash--a double shot of Jagermeister made me feel the urge to dance with my shirt off (I had exhausted all my Chaser pills) --that same smell was all over the place. Even after returning to The View for a nightcap way past Cinderella Hour, I could still smell it on me from dancing. I know it's nothing in my cabinet, and the mystery--like the smell--still lingers.
Nancy Drew has her work cut out for her.
As much as it kills me to type the following sentence out, I really liked the play for one main reason: Julie White. As much as I hate Beane, the guy writes spectacular female characters. He just bombs out with his gay characters, which is even more strange since he's gay himself (how difficult is it to write about yourself, mister?). For her alone, you should get your posteriors over there. It may have very well been an off-night, but Johnny Galecki was horrible (like he was looking for cuecards) and Tom Everett Scott was pretty much a non-entity through the first act, a fact made even worse by the fact that his character's actions are the main plot.
So you can imagine the kind of mood I was in when discovered that I was seated next to some actor in his "I'm-trying-to-look-cheap-but-my-parents-support-me-because-they-think-I'm-cute" gear and his fawning sycophant friend who couldn't be more obvious with his unrequited lust over him. (I wouldn't pay so much attention except the non-working actor decided to eat candy right next to me.)
I was just gagging for a drink after this reminder why I don't go to the theatre frequently. So much so that I actually took a pedi-cab: not for the thrill of being overcharged in an unregulated transport, but because it is indeed the quickest way to get to Chelsea from Midtown. I plopped myself down at The View, which has been oddly video-free the last few times I've been in. I'm hoping that the VJ is just on vacation, but if The View stops showing music videos then my nights out will be limited to 3 hours in the early evening over at Splash.
At The View I started to notice something, practically all the well-coiffed scenesters were smelling like baby powder. Now I rarely wear cologne (once a year, basically), because I figure that deodorant does the same job without being overpowering, but I can't imagine that somebody would actually come out with a scent that smells like baby powder on adult men.
Somebody must've though, because when I went to Splash--a double shot of Jagermeister made me feel the urge to dance with my shirt off (I had exhausted all my Chaser pills) --that same smell was all over the place. Even after returning to The View for a nightcap way past Cinderella Hour, I could still smell it on me from dancing. I know it's nothing in my cabinet, and the mystery--like the smell--still lingers.
Nancy Drew has her work cut out for her.
Melodifestivalen 2007: Start Your Engines
We basically now know who will be duking it out to represent Sweden at Melodifestivalen 2007, and it's a fierce lot according to the list from dot eurovision. (And the wild cards haven't even been announced yet.) Personally, I'm hoping that Nanne finally takes the prize after she was so royally done in by the jury vote in 2005. (Not to mention that this past year has been a bit of rough one for her.)
Interestingly, during the Eurovision season the 2nd highest amount of visitors to this part of the internet come from Sweden. Currently, however; 2nd place is a three-way tie between Canada, the UK, and France...there's a metaphor in there, but I'm buggered if I know what it is.
Interestingly, during the Eurovision season the 2nd highest amount of visitors to this part of the internet come from Sweden. Currently, however; 2nd place is a three-way tie between Canada, the UK, and France...there's a metaphor in there, but I'm buggered if I know what it is.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Pledge for December
Until December 30th, I pledge to do the following:
- Reduce the amount of digs at Mike Woods to once every fortnight--even though he makes it so easy.
- Figure what it is about Jodi Applegate that leads her to be so searched, because I don't see it.
- Complete the first act of the play I'm working on.
- Finally get rid of the last vestiges of Dell on my computer.
- Make more references to Kumi Koda.
- Cautiously support The Closet if only for the chance to hear and see dialogue like "(SLAP) Don't say shit to me!" and "I'm not gonna be yuh secret anymore!"
- Watch at least one episode of the MyNetwork TV shows.
- Do something special for the upcoming 666th post.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
This Is Milwaukee (deep sigh)
Now let me be one of many people to say that Milwaukee is not Chicago and neither the twain shall meet except on I-94.
A prime example of this difference, this is playing at one of the theatres over at The Marcus Center.
Meanwhile, how appropriate is it for my idiot-laden suburb of Milwaukee to have the archetypal grumpy old white man with too much money and too little sense writing editorials for its lobotimised website? This man would never be wise enough to figure out that I'm a product of his Mequon. (Yet it gives me much satisfaction to know that his ilk is dying out like fruit flies.)
A prime example of this difference, this is playing at one of the theatres over at The Marcus Center.
Meanwhile, how appropriate is it for my idiot-laden suburb of Milwaukee to have the archetypal grumpy old white man with too much money and too little sense writing editorials for its lobotimised website? This man would never be wise enough to figure out that I'm a product of his Mequon. (Yet it gives me much satisfaction to know that his ilk is dying out like fruit flies.)
Friday, November 24, 2006
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade 2006 Post-Mortem
Yes, indeed it's back again, and again, it's a "post-mortem" since I'm watching it from the Central Time Zone where the parade doesn't start until 9 AM local time, meaning that everything onscreen has already happened.
Apparently this is the 80th Parade, and I steel myself for constant mentions of it.
Then deep-voiced cokehead (because he's just that animated) announcer man starts reeling off the names of the "celebrities" appearing in this year's parade, and all I have to say is "DENISE VAN OUTEN?" Ms. Jay Kay-shagging-Maxim-staple?
Is there some sort of US welfare for '90s British television staples? Sean Maguire is on The Class, Cat Deeley is on some show on Fox, and now Denise Van Outen is attacking US television.
Camp Broadway [the double entendre] does some inane number about "give me a drum," without actually having any drums whatsoever, and we go to commercials.
NBC plug #1: Heroes. The amount of desperation in the three actors is palpable from space. It's like Al Roker has to try to push them off screen.
Oh, jesus! A Chorus Line. Well, I already said my piece about the revival at AfterElton, and transposed to Herald Square makes it look even more pitiful. Go away now.
NBC plug #2: Friday Night Lights. Maria Celeste interviews an actress from the show and treats it like a political interview. It's kind of cringe-inducing, but mostly boring. One nitpicking thing I have with that show is that it's depressing to see a bunch of people who peak at high school. Schadenfreude, but still depressing.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas performs. I like to think--and my mother backed me up on this--that I had more of a grip on reality as a child, so that trifle like this would not appeal to me whatsoever. That aside, I think the Chuck Jones animated special was good enough, this just screams naked greed.
Cokehead announcer says "this dramatic view of New York is from the top of Rockefeller Center." What the television audience sees: low level clouds and a faint outline of a building. Absolutely stirring, I tell you.
After commercials, there's a video piece with Martin Short tracing the route of the parade by helicopter: 1) He's looking old--especially on HD; 2) I actually used to be indifferent to him, but since his musical has opened, I can't stand him and his mugging, ironic or not.
The Colour Purple: Eh.
NBC plug #3: ER and Maura Tierney, who has been promo'd like crazy. It's the first plug today that didn't seem like it was blatantly begging people to watch them.
After commercials, Al Roker chills my blood by saying that there's a revival of Grease and they are turning the auditions for the leads into a television show--on NBC, of course--hosted by...Denise Van Outen. Denise looks no different than she did in the nineties.
The horror of that announcement marinates in me throughout Spamalot's performance. By the way, Spamalot doesn't seem all that interesting without any star power. (And for those in the New York television market, the new ads just prove that even more.)
Commercials: Even though I grew up in the 1980's, there is no way you can make me believe that Izod is sexy, because I still think of uptight yuppies thinking of ways to get rich off of others' labour.
Matt & Meredith intro The Rockettes and I have to say that Meredith is kind of a non-entity. Maybe it was the raspy voice and sub-textual bitchy comments that Katie Couric kept throwing in, but she did seem to add something extra to the show. By the way, I'm continually amazed that people kicking their legs up in sync manages to impress people.
The parade arrives in Herald Square with lots of rain pouring on The Rockettes. There's a metaphor there, but I'm buggered if I can find it at the moment.
One thing that is good about all the rain is that for the people still in my neighbourhood, the foot traffic is not as horrid as it could be.
The Post Office float has some people from some show called High School Musical which I have never heard of, but I'm not hip, especially not to things Disney. Fortunately, the Cokehead Announcer cuts them off a minute into singing.
Local commercials: Generally daytime television in Milwaukee has commercials for "cash advances" and injury lawyers. Today, it is nothing but ads for Farm & Fleet and Menards. Feel the Wisconsin-ness.
After commercials, Julie Andrews sings on top of a golden goose. I say singing, but she's more talk-singing than anything else. Still, a valiant effort and justly rewarded with applause.
I'm developing some sympathy for the participants since it looks like it's pouring down, but then they bring out some daft children's singing act going on about bumblebees. Mother Nature is just expressing her opinion.
Barbie float: Whoever is playing Barbie is going to have serious facial pain from grinning that widely for so long.
Matt makes mention of the 1926 Macy's Parade Queen. What he doesn't say is that these days the Macy's Parade Queens number in the hundreds and few of them are female. (I'm sorry, but the joke was just too tempting.)
Marching bands: Are there any marching bands that aren't from the South or the West? Surely, there are some from the Tri-State.
Oklahoma float: Sandi Patty is still around? Or is that Kim Zimmer? Either way, I don't think you could write such a rising anthem about Wisconsin.
Commercials: We Are Marshall makes me think of "We Are Legion."
Sesame Street Float: More welfare for aging performers. Seriously, a significant amount of the humans on the float have been on that show since I was born.
Synergy plug: "Vote for your favourite float on iVillage," says Matt. "What would anyone get out of that?" says Hikaru.
Some random PBS float: Another pre-pubescent faux-rock group that I have never heard of. Befitting the ADD generation, their song snippet lasts about 30 seconds.
Animal Planet & NBC plug (because they're airing that dog show) float: They cut off Gloria Estefan! Gutsy.
The Dora the Explorer balloon is flying awfully low and threatening to knock out another tourist from Albany.
Tutenstein (NBC Plug!) float: Diana Degarmo performs with the Phoenix Boys Choir. It's saccharine, but considering that last year featured Jai Rodriguez singing "King Tut" uncensored and after Madonna (you go, girl!) gave a brilliant and bleep laden performance last night on NBC, I can understand the rationale.
This show is full of filler when you get down to it. A perfect example of this is the fact that there is a jump roping team. Al Roker joins Matt & Meredith in the booth to introduce a bunch of Cartoon Network characters butchering "A Little Help from my friends." Absolute filler, I tell you.
Some random Rhinoceros float: I don't get Chris Brown, but puberty looks like it's going to be mean to him.
Commercials: The Apprentice is going to premiere on January 7, along with that acrid Grease show. January 7th is the day that television died...on NBC. I do not pay attention to David Blaine's stupid stunts, but if he is suspended in the air over Hell's Kitchen, I am very glad that I'm not there getting annoyed as well as getting drunk.
Royal Caribbean float: Ciara is lip-syncing her butt off, and as Clay Cane astutely pointed out: Ciara & Wanda Sykes look exactly the same. Nonetheless, those evil people at GE cut. her. off!
Marching Band update: Well apparently Indiana bucks the South & West monopoly.
Hershey's Float: My lack of hipness continues since I have no idea who RBD is, platinum album sales or not. It's a ballad so my curiosity is negligible. They get cut off as well. Would it kill NBC to let people perform for at least a minute?
Cokehead announcer says "don't touch that dial." I haven't seen a dial on a television in over a decade.
Marching Band update: NYPD marching band. Is this the only Tri-State representation? For shame.
And this is a weak year if I'm paying any attention at all to the marching bands. Al Roker makes a "Battery Park" joke in reference to the Energizer Bunny. Please lobotomise him, somebody.
New York float: Hall & Oates. The unspoken theme of this year's parade is "The Eighties Have Come Back with a vengeance." Hall & Oates get an extra 30 seconds for some bizarre reason.
Hess float: Some scruffy man with a guitar and a grin surrounded by a bunch of people wearing traffic signs. They should legalise LSD for occasions like this. Scruffy gets cut off by the Cokehead Announcer. Conspiracy Theorists start your engines!
Football float: "A tradition for 120 million Americans" says Matt. Count me as part of the 180 million Americans that don't celebrate that tradition. Some blonde girl from MTV called Cheyenne (I thought it was Chayanne, as in the Puerto Rican singer, at first) tries to maintain her coolness while performing around a bunch of football mascots. Did you really want a singing career that desperately?
Retro (read: AARP nostalgia) float: Darlene Love manages to perform without looking awkward while still embracing some hokum. She gets cut off by Cokehead Announcer. The best performance so far.
Commercials: Isn't Identity just an update of What's My Line?
Charlotte's Web float: Sarah McLachlan tries to maintain her dignity on a float surrounded by kids and a big pig looming over her head. I don't think anyone could manage that. She barely gets cut off by Meredith to talk about the new "healthy" Mr. Potato Head float.
This is our country, kids; Mr. Potato Head is being used as a symbol of healthy living.
Americana Overload float: The question lingering in my head is whether they would dare cut off the USAF Marching band and Renee Fleming singing "America the Beautiful." They didn't, but Cokehead Announcer jumps in very quickly to mention that Barry Manilow is coming up.
Boy, this parade has fallen on hard times.
For some reason they are running this parade extremely quickly. Everything is blink-or-you'll-miss it. On the upside, the cringe inducing numbers don't have that long to unnerve.
Random New York float: Barry Manilow gestures angrily to somebody on the float, then switches on the syrup to "sing" "What the world needs now." Based on the anger and the fact that he was "on" so quickly after looking pissed off, I would never want to get on his bad side. Barry does not get cut off, but he also didn't sing a full version.
Matt & Meredith mention John Tartaglia (Shock! Openly gay famous person), but unless he's turned into the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I don't see him. Also on the Pillsbury float, some people from some production of White Christmas that I've never heard of. They get cut off quickly.
Polar Express (boy, are they trying to get their money back on that): Somebody called Natalie Grant sings some dirge about "believing." She gets about 90-120 seconds and is not cut off. Whoever scheduled the appearances this year messed up royally.
Santa Claus arrives after a tacky dance sequence and Meredith meekly says "I'm so excited."
Am I getting older or was it always so anticlimactic?
Al Roker keeps his mouth blissfully shut as they sign off.
Apparently this is the 80th Parade, and I steel myself for constant mentions of it.
Then deep-voiced cokehead (because he's just that animated) announcer man starts reeling off the names of the "celebrities" appearing in this year's parade, and all I have to say is "DENISE VAN OUTEN?" Ms. Jay Kay-shagging-Maxim-staple?
Is there some sort of US welfare for '90s British television staples? Sean Maguire is on The Class, Cat Deeley is on some show on Fox, and now Denise Van Outen is attacking US television.
Camp Broadway [the double entendre] does some inane number about "give me a drum," without actually having any drums whatsoever, and we go to commercials.
NBC plug #1: Heroes. The amount of desperation in the three actors is palpable from space. It's like Al Roker has to try to push them off screen.
Oh, jesus! A Chorus Line. Well, I already said my piece about the revival at AfterElton, and transposed to Herald Square makes it look even more pitiful. Go away now.
NBC plug #2: Friday Night Lights. Maria Celeste interviews an actress from the show and treats it like a political interview. It's kind of cringe-inducing, but mostly boring. One nitpicking thing I have with that show is that it's depressing to see a bunch of people who peak at high school. Schadenfreude, but still depressing.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas performs. I like to think--and my mother backed me up on this--that I had more of a grip on reality as a child, so that trifle like this would not appeal to me whatsoever. That aside, I think the Chuck Jones animated special was good enough, this just screams naked greed.
Cokehead announcer says "this dramatic view of New York is from the top of Rockefeller Center." What the television audience sees: low level clouds and a faint outline of a building. Absolutely stirring, I tell you.
After commercials, there's a video piece with Martin Short tracing the route of the parade by helicopter: 1) He's looking old--especially on HD; 2) I actually used to be indifferent to him, but since his musical has opened, I can't stand him and his mugging, ironic or not.
The Colour Purple: Eh.
NBC plug #3: ER and Maura Tierney, who has been promo'd like crazy. It's the first plug today that didn't seem like it was blatantly begging people to watch them.
After commercials, Al Roker chills my blood by saying that there's a revival of Grease and they are turning the auditions for the leads into a television show--on NBC, of course--hosted by...Denise Van Outen. Denise looks no different than she did in the nineties.
The horror of that announcement marinates in me throughout Spamalot's performance. By the way, Spamalot doesn't seem all that interesting without any star power. (And for those in the New York television market, the new ads just prove that even more.)
Commercials: Even though I grew up in the 1980's, there is no way you can make me believe that Izod is sexy, because I still think of uptight yuppies thinking of ways to get rich off of others' labour.
Matt & Meredith intro The Rockettes and I have to say that Meredith is kind of a non-entity. Maybe it was the raspy voice and sub-textual bitchy comments that Katie Couric kept throwing in, but she did seem to add something extra to the show. By the way, I'm continually amazed that people kicking their legs up in sync manages to impress people.
The parade arrives in Herald Square with lots of rain pouring on The Rockettes. There's a metaphor there, but I'm buggered if I can find it at the moment.
One thing that is good about all the rain is that for the people still in my neighbourhood, the foot traffic is not as horrid as it could be.
The Post Office float has some people from some show called High School Musical which I have never heard of, but I'm not hip, especially not to things Disney. Fortunately, the Cokehead Announcer cuts them off a minute into singing.
Local commercials: Generally daytime television in Milwaukee has commercials for "cash advances" and injury lawyers. Today, it is nothing but ads for Farm & Fleet and Menards. Feel the Wisconsin-ness.
After commercials, Julie Andrews sings on top of a golden goose. I say singing, but she's more talk-singing than anything else. Still, a valiant effort and justly rewarded with applause.
I'm developing some sympathy for the participants since it looks like it's pouring down, but then they bring out some daft children's singing act going on about bumblebees. Mother Nature is just expressing her opinion.
Barbie float: Whoever is playing Barbie is going to have serious facial pain from grinning that widely for so long.
Matt makes mention of the 1926 Macy's Parade Queen. What he doesn't say is that these days the Macy's Parade Queens number in the hundreds and few of them are female. (I'm sorry, but the joke was just too tempting.)
Marching bands: Are there any marching bands that aren't from the South or the West? Surely, there are some from the Tri-State.
Oklahoma float: Sandi Patty is still around? Or is that Kim Zimmer? Either way, I don't think you could write such a rising anthem about Wisconsin.
Commercials: We Are Marshall makes me think of "We Are Legion."
Sesame Street Float: More welfare for aging performers. Seriously, a significant amount of the humans on the float have been on that show since I was born.
Synergy plug: "Vote for your favourite float on iVillage," says Matt. "What would anyone get out of that?" says Hikaru.
Some random PBS float: Another pre-pubescent faux-rock group that I have never heard of. Befitting the ADD generation, their song snippet lasts about 30 seconds.
Animal Planet & NBC plug (because they're airing that dog show) float: They cut off Gloria Estefan! Gutsy.
The Dora the Explorer balloon is flying awfully low and threatening to knock out another tourist from Albany.
Tutenstein (NBC Plug!) float: Diana Degarmo performs with the Phoenix Boys Choir. It's saccharine, but considering that last year featured Jai Rodriguez singing "King Tut" uncensored and after Madonna (you go, girl!) gave a brilliant and bleep laden performance last night on NBC, I can understand the rationale.
This show is full of filler when you get down to it. A perfect example of this is the fact that there is a jump roping team. Al Roker joins Matt & Meredith in the booth to introduce a bunch of Cartoon Network characters butchering "A Little Help from my friends." Absolute filler, I tell you.
Some random Rhinoceros float: I don't get Chris Brown, but puberty looks like it's going to be mean to him.
Commercials: The Apprentice is going to premiere on January 7, along with that acrid Grease show. January 7th is the day that television died...on NBC. I do not pay attention to David Blaine's stupid stunts, but if he is suspended in the air over Hell's Kitchen, I am very glad that I'm not there getting annoyed as well as getting drunk.
Royal Caribbean float: Ciara is lip-syncing her butt off, and as Clay Cane astutely pointed out: Ciara & Wanda Sykes look exactly the same. Nonetheless, those evil people at GE cut. her. off!
Marching Band update: Well apparently Indiana bucks the South & West monopoly.
Hershey's Float: My lack of hipness continues since I have no idea who RBD is, platinum album sales or not. It's a ballad so my curiosity is negligible. They get cut off as well. Would it kill NBC to let people perform for at least a minute?
Cokehead announcer says "don't touch that dial." I haven't seen a dial on a television in over a decade.
Marching Band update: NYPD marching band. Is this the only Tri-State representation? For shame.
And this is a weak year if I'm paying any attention at all to the marching bands. Al Roker makes a "Battery Park" joke in reference to the Energizer Bunny. Please lobotomise him, somebody.
New York float: Hall & Oates. The unspoken theme of this year's parade is "The Eighties Have Come Back with a vengeance." Hall & Oates get an extra 30 seconds for some bizarre reason.
Hess float: Some scruffy man with a guitar and a grin surrounded by a bunch of people wearing traffic signs. They should legalise LSD for occasions like this. Scruffy gets cut off by the Cokehead Announcer. Conspiracy Theorists start your engines!
Football float: "A tradition for 120 million Americans" says Matt. Count me as part of the 180 million Americans that don't celebrate that tradition. Some blonde girl from MTV called Cheyenne (I thought it was Chayanne, as in the Puerto Rican singer, at first) tries to maintain her coolness while performing around a bunch of football mascots. Did you really want a singing career that desperately?
Retro (read: AARP nostalgia) float: Darlene Love manages to perform without looking awkward while still embracing some hokum. She gets cut off by Cokehead Announcer. The best performance so far.
Commercials: Isn't Identity just an update of What's My Line?
Charlotte's Web float: Sarah McLachlan tries to maintain her dignity on a float surrounded by kids and a big pig looming over her head. I don't think anyone could manage that. She barely gets cut off by Meredith to talk about the new "healthy" Mr. Potato Head float.
This is our country, kids; Mr. Potato Head is being used as a symbol of healthy living.
Americana Overload float: The question lingering in my head is whether they would dare cut off the USAF Marching band and Renee Fleming singing "America the Beautiful." They didn't, but Cokehead Announcer jumps in very quickly to mention that Barry Manilow is coming up.
Boy, this parade has fallen on hard times.
For some reason they are running this parade extremely quickly. Everything is blink-or-you'll-miss it. On the upside, the cringe inducing numbers don't have that long to unnerve.
Random New York float: Barry Manilow gestures angrily to somebody on the float, then switches on the syrup to "sing" "What the world needs now." Based on the anger and the fact that he was "on" so quickly after looking pissed off, I would never want to get on his bad side. Barry does not get cut off, but he also didn't sing a full version.
Matt & Meredith mention John Tartaglia (Shock! Openly gay famous person), but unless he's turned into the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I don't see him. Also on the Pillsbury float, some people from some production of White Christmas that I've never heard of. They get cut off quickly.
Polar Express (boy, are they trying to get their money back on that): Somebody called Natalie Grant sings some dirge about "believing." She gets about 90-120 seconds and is not cut off. Whoever scheduled the appearances this year messed up royally.
Santa Claus arrives after a tacky dance sequence and Meredith meekly says "I'm so excited."
Am I getting older or was it always so anticlimactic?
Al Roker keeps his mouth blissfully shut as they sign off.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The Splash-View Post-Mortem: This Is How I Reckon The World Works
Bet you weren't expecting another one so soon.
The fact of the matter is that my general m.o. when faced with an early morning departure is to just stay up all night. Since I already spend a lot of time at home, I figured why not just go out.
So I did.
Apparently, Splash on Sunday nights has a dance contest. I dutifully watched and waited for it to end so I could just listen to the music and bop my head along.
It was during this dance contest that I stepped upon a personal epiphany.
The American gay world in general is geared towards one type and one type only: GWMs aged 30-35, with a height of 5'7"-5'10", lean bodies, with a skin tone between slight pink to lightly tan.
Everyone else is basically their playthings, or entertainment, or learns to derive their pleasure within that spectrum.
And you know what? That's alright.
I don't at all agree that this is the way things should be, but for the time being (and it is a short time), I can live within these parameters.
Primarily because I know (not hope, but know) that this is going to change within my lifetime.
On a completely superficial note, if you play "Pride (A Deeper Love)" on repeat twice in a row, it's damn near spiritual. Could we declare that our anthem?
The fact of the matter is that my general m.o. when faced with an early morning departure is to just stay up all night. Since I already spend a lot of time at home, I figured why not just go out.
So I did.
Apparently, Splash on Sunday nights has a dance contest. I dutifully watched and waited for it to end so I could just listen to the music and bop my head along.
It was during this dance contest that I stepped upon a personal epiphany.
The American gay world in general is geared towards one type and one type only: GWMs aged 30-35, with a height of 5'7"-5'10", lean bodies, with a skin tone between slight pink to lightly tan.
Everyone else is basically their playthings, or entertainment, or learns to derive their pleasure within that spectrum.
And you know what? That's alright.
I don't at all agree that this is the way things should be, but for the time being (and it is a short time), I can live within these parameters.
Primarily because I know (not hope, but know) that this is going to change within my lifetime.
On a completely superficial note, if you play "Pride (A Deeper Love)" on repeat twice in a row, it's damn near spiritual. Could we declare that our anthem?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The View-Splash Post-Mortem: When Red Eyes Goes Out
Originally, the plan was to have 4 drinks over at The View and be done with it.
Unfortunately several things came together to make it a bigger night than it should've been. For starters, there's this new guy over at The View who seems to personify the definition of robotic twink. Factor in the upspeaking fag hags and after 2 Twisted Teas I was out of there.
I was going to go to Splash only if there was a short or no line whatsoever. Goddamit, there was practically no line, so I had to. The only people in front of me were a group of fags mit hags who apparently were shocked that Men's Night charged $40 for women. (Well, it's called Men's Night! Don't tell me you were expecting your hags to get in cheaply at a gay bar.) Grudgingly, they all came in as a group a priori my own entrance, which ultimately wound up being a good thing since the bouncer/doorman & I wound up having a very interesting (albeit one-sided) conversation:
Doorman: Like these white people couldn't pay?
Me: (courtesan laugh)
Doorman: You know, I saw Amistad and was pissed off.
Me: I know what you mean.
Doorman: I say pay, dammit. You get more money than we do, so you can pay.
Me: (courtesan laugh)
And I got in.
Now, I had no idea it was leather night, and in general, that thought would fill me with dread, since I had no leather on (nor would I, since I don't own any standard leather "accessories").
But there was an upside! That upside being that I really love the intense music that plays on leather nights. So I was bopping my head like a crazy man throughout the night.
I situated myself in a non-Brat area and was served by a bartender who I'll call J. J & I get along very well. Perhaps it's flirtatious (more on his part than mine), but at the end of the day, J likes me...probably because I'm so damn simple to figure out drink-wise: "Corona" and that's all.
Now while I seated in a non-Brat area, it did not mean that I was immune to The Brat since he had just gotten off his shift and he really likes showing off for J. So The Brat got onto one of the podiums generally used for go-go boys and shook his thing ad nauseam. He actually wound up being a pleasant distraction since I was sandwiched between a pair of "fabulous" friends and a new couple or two guys who were horny as hell for each other.
I'll admit it, I can get jealous. I am constantly trying to figure out what the criteria of the ideal guy is for me: I want him to be whip smart so we can debate public affairs, but with a high degree of sexual experience so that he has several surprises up his sleeve; he should be able to get as shallow as I can get without spending too much time there; and frankly, he should realise how much more stock I put in post-coital conversation than anything we do in bed.
And it kind of freaks me out when I realise just who could fit this criteria, but I'd have no problem making that leap mind you...if I'm on his radar.
Nonetheless, all I can say is that I'm happy I made it home in the condition I wanted to: solitary.
Unfortunately several things came together to make it a bigger night than it should've been. For starters, there's this new guy over at The View who seems to personify the definition of robotic twink. Factor in the upspeaking fag hags and after 2 Twisted Teas I was out of there.
I was going to go to Splash only if there was a short or no line whatsoever. Goddamit, there was practically no line, so I had to. The only people in front of me were a group of fags mit hags who apparently were shocked that Men's Night charged $40 for women. (Well, it's called Men's Night! Don't tell me you were expecting your hags to get in cheaply at a gay bar.) Grudgingly, they all came in as a group a priori my own entrance, which ultimately wound up being a good thing since the bouncer/doorman & I wound up having a very interesting (albeit one-sided) conversation:
Doorman: Like these white people couldn't pay?
Me: (courtesan laugh)
Doorman: You know, I saw Amistad and was pissed off.
Me: I know what you mean.
Doorman: I say pay, dammit. You get more money than we do, so you can pay.
Me: (courtesan laugh)
And I got in.
Now, I had no idea it was leather night, and in general, that thought would fill me with dread, since I had no leather on (nor would I, since I don't own any standard leather "accessories").
But there was an upside! That upside being that I really love the intense music that plays on leather nights. So I was bopping my head like a crazy man throughout the night.
I situated myself in a non-Brat area and was served by a bartender who I'll call J. J & I get along very well. Perhaps it's flirtatious (more on his part than mine), but at the end of the day, J likes me...probably because I'm so damn simple to figure out drink-wise: "Corona" and that's all.
Now while I seated in a non-Brat area, it did not mean that I was immune to The Brat since he had just gotten off his shift and he really likes showing off for J. So The Brat got onto one of the podiums generally used for go-go boys and shook his thing ad nauseam. He actually wound up being a pleasant distraction since I was sandwiched between a pair of "fabulous" friends and a new couple or two guys who were horny as hell for each other.
I'll admit it, I can get jealous. I am constantly trying to figure out what the criteria of the ideal guy is for me: I want him to be whip smart so we can debate public affairs, but with a high degree of sexual experience so that he has several surprises up his sleeve; he should be able to get as shallow as I can get without spending too much time there; and frankly, he should realise how much more stock I put in post-coital conversation than anything we do in bed.
And it kind of freaks me out when I realise just who could fit this criteria, but I'd have no problem making that leap mind you...if I'm on his radar.
Nonetheless, all I can say is that I'm happy I made it home in the condition I wanted to: solitary.
More Quotes from Stage Struck
(Buy this book.)
On "Tolerance:"
The breadth of ideas permitted into the popular discourse is extremely narrow--yet these restrictions are accompanied by a rhetoric of "diversity." This contradiction, a narrow range of ideas presented as a broad range of ideas, has come to be known as "tolerance" and is now an intrinsic component of how dominant-culture people feel about themselves, how they rationalize their privileges and justify their own false sense of objectivity. Today we face a "tolerance" defined by the diminishment of the minority and the heroization of the majority, a "tolerance" that simply acknowledges that the minority exists and that claims that acknowledgement as an act of generosity. The fact that this minor recognition is the result of the suffering and insistence of millions of gay and lesbian people over centuries is completely erased.
Et tu, MySpace "bisexual" men?
On marketing and subculture:
The rapidity with which newly articulated identities get channeled into marketing is an interesting one. It is a postmodern affirmative action employment plan--designed, not with the purpose of social equity in mind but to give marketing companies direct-pipeline access to information about emerging consumer niches. The campaigns are increasingly created by design teams that include at least one representative individual from the particular consumer category in question, who works inside the marketing industry. Their job is to take their knowledge of the source community, to engage its sensibility and wrap that around the desire for specific products, presented in such a way as to acknowledge the codes of the particular niche. The presence of these representative individuals in the industry allows for a contained upward mobility, even though the larger marketing structure is controlled by dominant-culture people. Most seductively, the presence of these individuals in the industry allows their previously overlooked or excluded community a veneer of normalcy by the fact if being represented in the marketplace, which is now a measure of American citizenship.
True in 1998, even more true in 2006.
And finally, on marketing "rebellion:"
Millions and millions of product dollars are earned by convincing white straight young males that they are actually outlaws and therefore not responsible for the system that benefits them. The advertising offers them a way out of that responsibility without losing any of their privileges, if they purchase and display particular products that have been coded as oppositional. Gay men, on the other hand, who are concretely rejected by the government and by their families...are not described [by niche marketing firms] in outsider terminology. Instead they are defined by normative purchases. By going against the grain of gay men's real experience [niche marketing firms] offer themselves and gay consumers an illusory normalcy that fits both of their needs.
Again, it was true in 1998 and even moreso now. Look at how often various gay men either claim allegiance to or independence from other gay men by virtue of what they do and do not own. You can see it online, and you can hear it in on the street.
In addition, the statement about advertising offering "a way of that responsibility without losing any of their privileges" can be expanded to explain the many ways that some former liberals (moderate and radical) proceed to become arch-conservative without undergoing a crisis of conscience. They don't think that they are being inconsistent, because they made the appropriate generational rebellious choices. They believe that they have maintained that magnanimous outlook, because they bought the right things (including ideology) at that time, when what they really have done is just proved that they have been self-obsessed at all stages of their lives.
On "Tolerance:"
The breadth of ideas permitted into the popular discourse is extremely narrow--yet these restrictions are accompanied by a rhetoric of "diversity." This contradiction, a narrow range of ideas presented as a broad range of ideas, has come to be known as "tolerance" and is now an intrinsic component of how dominant-culture people feel about themselves, how they rationalize their privileges and justify their own false sense of objectivity. Today we face a "tolerance" defined by the diminishment of the minority and the heroization of the majority, a "tolerance" that simply acknowledges that the minority exists and that claims that acknowledgement as an act of generosity. The fact that this minor recognition is the result of the suffering and insistence of millions of gay and lesbian people over centuries is completely erased.
Et tu, MySpace "bisexual" men?
On marketing and subculture:
The rapidity with which newly articulated identities get channeled into marketing is an interesting one. It is a postmodern affirmative action employment plan--designed, not with the purpose of social equity in mind but to give marketing companies direct-pipeline access to information about emerging consumer niches. The campaigns are increasingly created by design teams that include at least one representative individual from the particular consumer category in question, who works inside the marketing industry. Their job is to take their knowledge of the source community, to engage its sensibility and wrap that around the desire for specific products, presented in such a way as to acknowledge the codes of the particular niche. The presence of these representative individuals in the industry allows for a contained upward mobility, even though the larger marketing structure is controlled by dominant-culture people. Most seductively, the presence of these individuals in the industry allows their previously overlooked or excluded community a veneer of normalcy by the fact if being represented in the marketplace, which is now a measure of American citizenship.
True in 1998, even more true in 2006.
And finally, on marketing "rebellion:"
Millions and millions of product dollars are earned by convincing white straight young males that they are actually outlaws and therefore not responsible for the system that benefits them. The advertising offers them a way out of that responsibility without losing any of their privileges, if they purchase and display particular products that have been coded as oppositional. Gay men, on the other hand, who are concretely rejected by the government and by their families...are not described [by niche marketing firms] in outsider terminology. Instead they are defined by normative purchases. By going against the grain of gay men's real experience [niche marketing firms] offer themselves and gay consumers an illusory normalcy that fits both of their needs.
Again, it was true in 1998 and even moreso now. Look at how often various gay men either claim allegiance to or independence from other gay men by virtue of what they do and do not own. You can see it online, and you can hear it in on the street.
In addition, the statement about advertising offering "a way of that responsibility without losing any of their privileges" can be expanded to explain the many ways that some former liberals (moderate and radical) proceed to become arch-conservative without undergoing a crisis of conscience. They don't think that they are being inconsistent, because they made the appropriate generational rebellious choices. They believe that they have maintained that magnanimous outlook, because they bought the right things (including ideology) at that time, when what they really have done is just proved that they have been self-obsessed at all stages of their lives.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Quotes for the Week
Techincally these should go on The Story The Person, since they are writing-based, but I think these quotes have a lot to say about present-day pop culture (in all formats).
From Sarah Schulman's Stage Struck:
On gay themes in theatre:
"It seems as though the post-Angels in America theatrical condition is a profoundly retrograde one. Because homosexuality and AIDS have been normalized as the province of heterosexual writers, gay writers are pressured back into metaphor, euphemism, and code. In other wordsm straight writers can now use AIDS and homosexuality to assert their universality while gay writers must obscure the same subjects to ensure theirs. That is not equality."
On Philadelphia:
"It is shocking that an entire film could be built on this premise [that a gay lawyer would go to homophobic lawyer, because there are no gay lawyers], which is not only absurd but grossly ahistorical, since the abandonment of people with AIDS by heterosexual society is the most historically significant factor in the initial escalation of the crisis in the United States...Gay lawyers were among the first professional sectors to respond to the epidemic. In other words, not only was the premise of Philadelphia false, it was the opposite of the actual truth. Yet this film was highly rewarded and made huge, moral claims. Throughout the film, gay people are vulnerable, weak, and alone. We take a back seat while the heroic straight people protect us and defend us. In the end of the film, Hanks dies happy."
And a quote that I just flat-out agree with:
"For the record, I find the reflective, "best"--female friend charater (a.k.a. "fag hag") to be a profoundly annoying mainstay of gay male artwork, and it is upsetting to see it picked up in a heterosexual man's play [David Rabe's A Question of Mercy] about gay life. But in a way, her presence reveals that the piece is written more from other representations of AIDS and gay life than from lived experience. Because in the real world, unlike in most work by and about gay men, a heterosexual woman who is a close friend of a gay man also has a life of her own."
From Sarah Schulman's Stage Struck:
On gay themes in theatre:
"It seems as though the post-Angels in America theatrical condition is a profoundly retrograde one. Because homosexuality and AIDS have been normalized as the province of heterosexual writers, gay writers are pressured back into metaphor, euphemism, and code. In other wordsm straight writers can now use AIDS and homosexuality to assert their universality while gay writers must obscure the same subjects to ensure theirs. That is not equality."
On Philadelphia:
"It is shocking that an entire film could be built on this premise [that a gay lawyer would go to homophobic lawyer, because there are no gay lawyers], which is not only absurd but grossly ahistorical, since the abandonment of people with AIDS by heterosexual society is the most historically significant factor in the initial escalation of the crisis in the United States...Gay lawyers were among the first professional sectors to respond to the epidemic. In other words, not only was the premise of Philadelphia false, it was the opposite of the actual truth. Yet this film was highly rewarded and made huge, moral claims. Throughout the film, gay people are vulnerable, weak, and alone. We take a back seat while the heroic straight people protect us and defend us. In the end of the film, Hanks dies happy."
And a quote that I just flat-out agree with:
"For the record, I find the reflective, "best"--female friend charater (a.k.a. "fag hag") to be a profoundly annoying mainstay of gay male artwork, and it is upsetting to see it picked up in a heterosexual man's play [David Rabe's A Question of Mercy] about gay life. But in a way, her presence reveals that the piece is written more from other representations of AIDS and gay life than from lived experience. Because in the real world, unlike in most work by and about gay men, a heterosexual woman who is a close friend of a gay man also has a life of her own."
Friday, November 17, 2006
Iroiro (this-and-that)
- Wisconsin faces a brain drain, according to 365Gay, and rightly so considering that a slim idiot majority is now voting. (Of course, in my home county there has always been a high idiot majority.)
- This whole Delta-US Airways merger talk is absolutely crazy. For starters, I'm happy that US Airways is now bouncing out of bankrupcy--after being swallowed by the even smaller America West, but smart business sense does not include being cocky. I say interline, mesh yourselves together via an alliance, but for the love of god, DO NOT MERGE! If anything, Delta ought to reposition itself as a domestic trunk routes only carrier with a slew of international destinations. (In other words, Pan Am for the new millenium.) Conversely, US Airways should give up most of its international routes and become the lead interregional airline which has always been its strength both as US Airways and as America West. All that aside, I actually think a Northwest-Continental merger is not that bad of an idea, though the fleet standardisation (Airbus versus Boeing) would be killer.
- President Tommy "Crying-at-the-Wisconsin-State-Fair-because-they-don't-like-me-in-DC" Thompson? God, I hope not. McCarthy ought to be proof enough that Wisconsin Republicans should not be allowed to run amok in national politics.
- Eye Update: The bruises are still there, and have left me with a rather nice look: Half of each eye is white, the other half is red. I personally like it (but I don't want it to be permanent), and my refusal to wear sunglasses--especially on a cloudy day--briefly scared a little child at Macy's yesterday. Life is good.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The XES-View Post-Mortem: Unfit In Love, But Optimistic
It might explain a lot about me if I tell you that one of my favourite films is Sweet Charity.
I don't know why, but the whole idea of remaining defiantly optimistic in the face of a world that says otherwise, appeals to me. I like to think that any time that the world says "no," it's really just saying "rethink." So I do.
I wasn't really planning to go out tonight, but I thought, "listen, you've got two big red sploshes in your eye...who cares?" And indeed, who does?
The first stop off was XES, where I realised that even my jaded self could still be taken in by mere sleight-of-hand, literally: There was a patron there who also did magic tricks such as punching a hole through a dollar bill (only to have the dollar bill reappear unscathed) and levitate a dollar bill. On a conscious level, I knew that these all involved being able to replace one dollar bill with another as well as the ability to use physics, but I didn't care. I wanted to believe in it, and I did.
Since I was without my beloved Chasers this evening, I cut myself off at XES after 2 Hard Lemonades prior to heading off to The View.
It was on the walk there where I found myself drifting off into ex-love land.
Perhaps "ex-love" is too dramatic a word, but "ex-possibility" sounds too clinical.
I was thinking of P, the designer whose world-weariness and sarcasm captured me for two years and whose coldness led me to do something that I never do: base a character on him in a play.
Then there's T, the accidental activist who fought for Equality in Wisconsin with his ex, and continued the fight after they broke up. I had hoped to be the salve for his wounds, but ultimately wound up being the salt, since you can never fairly compete with a memory. (There's much more to that story, but I won't go further without his consent.)
And G, who seemed to be fully engaged in my life, eagerly interested, and could make me laugh...and I had to go ruin it by becoming infatuated with someone who could never be that, or even allow himself to consider it. (Made all the more ironic by the fact that one of truths that I hold dear is that infatuations have a way of always being a letdown in the odd chance that they become reality.)
Perhaps the cosmos has a way of reading the subconscious, since when I got to The View, I wound up in a conversation with a man who was HIV+ and bemoaning his fate. Now, one of my best friends is HIV+ and an optimist that would put Annie to shame. In fact, my encounters and friendship with HIV+ guys have been ones that celebrate every single experience that life gives you, because you learn to put it in perspective.
Not this guy, he seemed to want the world to be his virtual Wailing Wall. Unfortunately for him, neither I nor the bartender were having it.
Now if you think we managed to change his mind, you're wrong. All we really did was just express ourselves and our world view: aka the "glass is full" rule. 2 against 1 adds to a big shot of "shut the hell up."
And he did...with his whining.
So with Ken Hirai playing away on the Zen , I went back home and I started to ponder: "Is it right to believe that one day someone will come along to soothe away all these ghosts?"
Yes, it is okay to believe that.
It boils down to this, I reckon: If you accept that every encounter you have with another person is unique and can rock your world, then any ache is open to being healed. Likewise, there will be someone who can best out the Ps, Ts, and Gs, and be wholly original in their own right.
And he'll come when you least expect it, but are fully prepared for it.
I don't know why, but the whole idea of remaining defiantly optimistic in the face of a world that says otherwise, appeals to me. I like to think that any time that the world says "no," it's really just saying "rethink." So I do.
I wasn't really planning to go out tonight, but I thought, "listen, you've got two big red sploshes in your eye...who cares?" And indeed, who does?
The first stop off was XES, where I realised that even my jaded self could still be taken in by mere sleight-of-hand, literally: There was a patron there who also did magic tricks such as punching a hole through a dollar bill (only to have the dollar bill reappear unscathed) and levitate a dollar bill. On a conscious level, I knew that these all involved being able to replace one dollar bill with another as well as the ability to use physics, but I didn't care. I wanted to believe in it, and I did.
Since I was without my beloved Chasers this evening, I cut myself off at XES after 2 Hard Lemonades prior to heading off to The View.
It was on the walk there where I found myself drifting off into ex-love land.
Perhaps "ex-love" is too dramatic a word, but "ex-possibility" sounds too clinical.
I was thinking of P, the designer whose world-weariness and sarcasm captured me for two years and whose coldness led me to do something that I never do: base a character on him in a play.
Then there's T, the accidental activist who fought for Equality in Wisconsin with his ex, and continued the fight after they broke up. I had hoped to be the salve for his wounds, but ultimately wound up being the salt, since you can never fairly compete with a memory. (There's much more to that story, but I won't go further without his consent.)
And G, who seemed to be fully engaged in my life, eagerly interested, and could make me laugh...and I had to go ruin it by becoming infatuated with someone who could never be that, or even allow himself to consider it. (Made all the more ironic by the fact that one of truths that I hold dear is that infatuations have a way of always being a letdown in the odd chance that they become reality.)
Perhaps the cosmos has a way of reading the subconscious, since when I got to The View, I wound up in a conversation with a man who was HIV+ and bemoaning his fate. Now, one of my best friends is HIV+ and an optimist that would put Annie to shame. In fact, my encounters and friendship with HIV+ guys have been ones that celebrate every single experience that life gives you, because you learn to put it in perspective.
Not this guy, he seemed to want the world to be his virtual Wailing Wall. Unfortunately for him, neither I nor the bartender were having it.
Now if you think we managed to change his mind, you're wrong. All we really did was just express ourselves and our world view: aka the "glass is full" rule. 2 against 1 adds to a big shot of "shut the hell up."
And he did...with his whining.
So with Ken Hirai playing away on the Zen , I went back home and I started to ponder: "Is it right to believe that one day someone will come along to soothe away all these ghosts?"
Yes, it is okay to believe that.
It boils down to this, I reckon: If you accept that every encounter you have with another person is unique and can rock your world, then any ache is open to being healed. Likewise, there will be someone who can best out the Ps, Ts, and Gs, and be wholly original in their own right.
And he'll come when you least expect it, but are fully prepared for it.
This Is My New State Assemblyman
Is this Wisconsin or Taliban-era Afghanistan? I'm confused.
I am being represented in Madison by a crazy former meterologist.
Amongst his beliefs:
I am being represented in Madison by a crazy former meterologist.
Amongst his beliefs:
- Support for the reinstatement of the death penalty
- "Ethical discussion" on stem cell research
- Allowing citizens to carry concealed weapons
I have a big problem with the last one. If you've ever seen what a whole bunch of soccer moms and Rotary members high off of lutefisk, beer, bratwurst, and hairspray are capable of, you do not want these people armed.
And you just know they won't get the death penalty. (And you know who will.)
The American Healthcare System At Work
One of my favourite movie sequences is from The Twelve Tasks of Asterix, wherein Asterix and Obelix go searching for a form inside a huge Roman bureaucracy entitled "The House That Drives You Mad."
Sample dialogue:
Bureaucrat 1: I can't give you form B, without form C. You'll have to go upstairs for form C.
Bureaucrat 2: They didn't give you form C downstairs? Alright, but first you have to fill out form B. Go downstairs.
And so on and so forth.
Today, I went over to a eye hospital (I'm not saying where) to see if the redness in my eyes was pinkeye or something that required serious care.
Since I can see perfectly, I first go into the huge snaking line downstairs marked "Outpatient Registration." (This is at 10 am, for reasons that will become apparent later.) 5 minutes in, an employee canvassing the line (in order for it to move faster), pulls me aside and says that I should go upstairs to Triage. I go upstairs to Triage, wait in another line for 2 minutes, only to be told that the actual "Triage" section is around the corner. I go around the corner, wait 5 minutes only to be told to sign my name in a book and wait to be called.
I dutifully sign the book and wait 10 minutes for my name to be called. My name is called and I head into a room where I'm asked the standard medical questions (fever, cold, medication, etc.) and have my blood pressure and temperature taken. (Both normal, by the way.) Then I'm told to go into another area and wait.
I wait there for 5 minutes until my name is called. Another nurse collects me and takes me into another room where my vision is checked and again, I'm asked the standard medical questions. She then gives me a set of forms and instructs me to go back down to Outpatient Registration and hand them to the employee canvassing the line.
That's right, literally go back to where I came from.
I give the forms to the employee canvassing the line, who gives me a congenial look that tells me that he was expecting my return. He gives me another set of forms to fill out with a dull pencil. I fill them out. He then announces to the rest of the line: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but this is an emergency patient and due to hospital policy, he must be served first." I'm subsquently escorted to the front of the line, to do something which I could've accomplished 22 minutes ago.
At registration, I'm asked about my insurance and social status for about 10-12 minutes through a tinny speaker. After parting smiles with several new forms and shiny red card with my name on it, I'm then sent back upstairs to another section, where I wait in line for 5 minutes to give the card and forms to the receptionist. In a bit of comic irony, these vaulted forms are received with a perfunctory "please sit down over there."
And I sit.
And I sit.
And I sit some more.
When I start pondering how insane this system is considering that I've been labelled an "emergency" patient, the receptionist calls my name and has me fill out another form.
I was rather struck by the repetitiveness of the forms. They all ask me my birth date, name, medical provider, and how long I've been having the trouble. Do they not read the forms they ask people to give them? Does one slip of paper have a different meaning than the other? It seemed more like an action to pass the time rather than provide necessary information.
After a 30 minute wait, I'm finally called into a room and meet with an attending doctor who again runs vision tests on me that are the exact spitting image of the ones I had earlier. Then I'm treated to a fresh hell I have never experienced before: having my eyelids flipped. I did not do this as a child and I do not do this as an adult. I don't know if it's the shape of my eyelids, but it was having chlorine rush into your eyes. Painful.
The intern then puts eyedrops in my eyes to dilate them. She chides me for not keeping both eyes open. I have no trouble sympathising with her--since it's clearly evident that everyone there is overworked--but at the same time, it is not the easiest thing to keep both eyes open when someone is dropping something that stings into your eyeball.
I'm just saying.
An attending doctor comes in and does pretty much the same thing: look left, look right, look up, look down, let's flip your lid again.
He then talks mostly to the intern, saving only the same standard medical questions for me. (Don't you people talk about this beforehand?) The intern drops even more dilating fluid into my eyes and has me do the look left, look right dance again with both tearing and twitching eyes open.
Then I'm told to wait outside for 20 minutes for the dilating fluid to kick in.
Oh, joy.
The intern comes and picks me up again and we go into the same examination room from whence we came. More of the look left, look right dance. Another attending comes in and does the same. This one is rather mean because he doesn't even warn me when he flips my eyelids.
The ultimate diagnosis: subconjunctival hemorrage. No need to do anything but just let it clear up, but "would you follow up with us?"
I nod my head because I'm supposed to, but in all honesty, there's no way on god's green earth I'm going to go back there and through that maze for a follow up visit.
So what have we learned here, Charlie Brown?
Well, I reckon it's that the pass-the-buck nature of HMOs and other trappings of American healthcare wherein profits trump people has created a pointless bureaucracy where people spend more time telling others the when, if, and how they're going to pay as opposed to actually getting treated.
Either that or the next time you think you might be sick, just stay at home and wish it away.
By the way, remember that I started this process at 10 am? I left there at 1:59 pm, complete with blurry drunk vision from having my pupils dilated.
Sample dialogue:
Bureaucrat 1: I can't give you form B, without form C. You'll have to go upstairs for form C.
Bureaucrat 2: They didn't give you form C downstairs? Alright, but first you have to fill out form B. Go downstairs.
And so on and so forth.
Today, I went over to a eye hospital (I'm not saying where) to see if the redness in my eyes was pinkeye or something that required serious care.
Since I can see perfectly, I first go into the huge snaking line downstairs marked "Outpatient Registration." (This is at 10 am, for reasons that will become apparent later.) 5 minutes in, an employee canvassing the line (in order for it to move faster), pulls me aside and says that I should go upstairs to Triage. I go upstairs to Triage, wait in another line for 2 minutes, only to be told that the actual "Triage" section is around the corner. I go around the corner, wait 5 minutes only to be told to sign my name in a book and wait to be called.
I dutifully sign the book and wait 10 minutes for my name to be called. My name is called and I head into a room where I'm asked the standard medical questions (fever, cold, medication, etc.) and have my blood pressure and temperature taken. (Both normal, by the way.) Then I'm told to go into another area and wait.
I wait there for 5 minutes until my name is called. Another nurse collects me and takes me into another room where my vision is checked and again, I'm asked the standard medical questions. She then gives me a set of forms and instructs me to go back down to Outpatient Registration and hand them to the employee canvassing the line.
That's right, literally go back to where I came from.
I give the forms to the employee canvassing the line, who gives me a congenial look that tells me that he was expecting my return. He gives me another set of forms to fill out with a dull pencil. I fill them out. He then announces to the rest of the line: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but this is an emergency patient and due to hospital policy, he must be served first." I'm subsquently escorted to the front of the line, to do something which I could've accomplished 22 minutes ago.
At registration, I'm asked about my insurance and social status for about 10-12 minutes through a tinny speaker. After parting smiles with several new forms and shiny red card with my name on it, I'm then sent back upstairs to another section, where I wait in line for 5 minutes to give the card and forms to the receptionist. In a bit of comic irony, these vaulted forms are received with a perfunctory "please sit down over there."
And I sit.
And I sit.
And I sit some more.
When I start pondering how insane this system is considering that I've been labelled an "emergency" patient, the receptionist calls my name and has me fill out another form.
I was rather struck by the repetitiveness of the forms. They all ask me my birth date, name, medical provider, and how long I've been having the trouble. Do they not read the forms they ask people to give them? Does one slip of paper have a different meaning than the other? It seemed more like an action to pass the time rather than provide necessary information.
After a 30 minute wait, I'm finally called into a room and meet with an attending doctor who again runs vision tests on me that are the exact spitting image of the ones I had earlier. Then I'm treated to a fresh hell I have never experienced before: having my eyelids flipped. I did not do this as a child and I do not do this as an adult. I don't know if it's the shape of my eyelids, but it was having chlorine rush into your eyes. Painful.
The intern then puts eyedrops in my eyes to dilate them. She chides me for not keeping both eyes open. I have no trouble sympathising with her--since it's clearly evident that everyone there is overworked--but at the same time, it is not the easiest thing to keep both eyes open when someone is dropping something that stings into your eyeball.
I'm just saying.
An attending doctor comes in and does pretty much the same thing: look left, look right, look up, look down, let's flip your lid again.
He then talks mostly to the intern, saving only the same standard medical questions for me. (Don't you people talk about this beforehand?) The intern drops even more dilating fluid into my eyes and has me do the look left, look right dance again with both tearing and twitching eyes open.
Then I'm told to wait outside for 20 minutes for the dilating fluid to kick in.
Oh, joy.
The intern comes and picks me up again and we go into the same examination room from whence we came. More of the look left, look right dance. Another attending comes in and does the same. This one is rather mean because he doesn't even warn me when he flips my eyelids.
The ultimate diagnosis: subconjunctival hemorrage. No need to do anything but just let it clear up, but "would you follow up with us?"
I nod my head because I'm supposed to, but in all honesty, there's no way on god's green earth I'm going to go back there and through that maze for a follow up visit.
So what have we learned here, Charlie Brown?
Well, I reckon it's that the pass-the-buck nature of HMOs and other trappings of American healthcare wherein profits trump people has created a pointless bureaucracy where people spend more time telling others the when, if, and how they're going to pay as opposed to actually getting treated.
Either that or the next time you think you might be sick, just stay at home and wish it away.
By the way, remember that I started this process at 10 am? I left there at 1:59 pm, complete with blurry drunk vision from having my pupils dilated.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
The Splash-View Post-Mortem: Entitlement
Tonight's drunken stumble back home brought to you by Kumi Koda, who I reckon would probably not come close to being as obnoxious as some people that I encountered at The View.
There are few things that stoke my ire like entitlement. I just cannot comprehend what goes through people’s minds that cause them to believe that the place they are in can adapt to them, as opposed to adapting to the patrons.
The night started off at Splash, oddly enough in The Brat’s section (wow, has he muted himself) . I plopped myself down and ordered myself a Corona. Well, at that moment a guy—who I’ll call The Grabber—sat down next to me. The Grabber told me that he had only recently moved to New York from LA, because he missed the street life and interaction. I fully agree, that is one of the things that I love about urban life. Amidst several, very flattering statements about my attractiveness, he proceeded to grab my shoulders, neck, back, and even my scalp to "massage" them.
Now, I have had massages before, but none were quite as "firm" as his. If a "massage" was supposed to involve the Vulcan Death Grip, it is news to me. This man attacked my corpus as if it was the last food on Earth and he was starving. A wise man would tell him to ease up, but I've always operated differently. The way I show someone that they are barking up the wrong tree is that I show that I am unaffected by whatever they are doing. That way--I reckon--the transgressor learns and I can get relief without embarassing either of us.
Unfortunately, The Grabber didn't pick this up. So at this moment, I've got a bruised shoulder, back, and oblique muscles from his "massage." Even now they feel very raw and tender.
Still, I don't lay all the blame at The Grabber, but instead at myself. Inside of me, I still see the chunky teenager who believes that any attention is good attention, despite the fact that the present me, really just wants to have his drinks, listen to others, and stay an observer.
In all honesty, the whole time that The Grabber was brutalising my body, I was strictly focused on a bartender in another section: Mr. Glasses. I have tried for years to ascertain what my "type" is, and Mr. Glasses comes extremely close to it. He wears rimmed glasses and has a (likely steroided--this is Splash) physique which combined with the glasses just makes me weak-in-the knees. I'm almost embarassed since nine times out of ten, I need to have a sense of personality before launching into lust mode, but Mr. Glasses does it to me and I have yet to exchange any words with him at all.
I think I'm probably too scared to do so. See, that's the funny thing about lust objects: You find yourself wanting to get closer and closer to them, but when the time to talk to them comes about, you lose all sense. In short, I'm too chicken to actually sit in his section. I know that I could not at all register on his radar (why would I?) beyond the patron/bartender dynamic, but still I can't help myself from wanting to at least catch a glimpse. At least dreaming about him gives me a modicum of euphoria, that is probably better than any real interaction. (A dream coming true always has a way of becoming a letdown, such is the power of the human lust.)
After a slightly cunning escape from The Grabber (involving the fact that Splash only serves Mike's Lemonade downstairs), I made my way over to The View.
Well, The View was quite more crowded than I reckoned it would be. (Damn you, Roxy, for being shut this weekend.) It was jammed pack full of that combination that drives me up a wall: eunuch gays and their fag hags. Even worse, it also had the several examples of the people I try to avoid: fag hags in search of a fag for the night.
Remember how I mentioned "entitlement" at the top? Well, this is where it comes into play: Now I fully understand that many times you just want to be out with your girls and be left alone by any lecherous straight males. Fair point and I totally believe in that. It crosses the line, however; when you try to drag me into it, because you feel: A) uncomfortable (welcome to the world of being gay in a straight world), B) deluded to the point that you think engaging me into your car-crash of a self-absorbed life is a sign of being magnamious.
Note: It isn't.
Seriously, at a gay bar, sometimes I just want to look at scenery and imagine. Sometimes, I just want to listen to the videos. At no time do I want to play happy eunuch to you and your girlfriend, while you coo over the bartender that you have deemed your "best friend," after knowing him for 10 minutes.
Another note: not all gay men know each other. Just because I'm near the bartender and standing (primarily because you went and took a seat before I could), does not that mean I know him. I'd hate to shatter the comfortable worldview you have, but let's be honest here--apart from drag queens, very few GWMs in their 20s know GBMs and vice versa. It's not right, but that's the way things are in this country. I hope--nay, I pray--that things will change before I die, but that's the ugly truth. So no, I do not know the bartender that you are cooing over, I just want to have my Twisted Tea, and since I'm flying solo and this is the sole spot (not seat, but spot) where I can have it, I'm having it right here.
After debunking that the secret gay fraternity doesn't exist, the two upseaking women proceed to tell me that they are lawyers and my age. Like I care. I'm much more interested in the video that's playing than anything they have to say. They don't care, since apparently they are the queens of the night, and I should feel humbled in their presence. They ask me my name. I tell them "Hikaru."
There are few things that stoke my ire like entitlement. I just cannot comprehend what goes through people’s minds that cause them to believe that the place they are in can adapt to them, as opposed to adapting to the patrons.
The night started off at Splash, oddly enough in The Brat’s section (wow, has he muted himself) . I plopped myself down and ordered myself a Corona. Well, at that moment a guy—who I’ll call The Grabber—sat down next to me. The Grabber told me that he had only recently moved to New York from LA, because he missed the street life and interaction. I fully agree, that is one of the things that I love about urban life. Amidst several, very flattering statements about my attractiveness, he proceeded to grab my shoulders, neck, back, and even my scalp to "massage" them.
Now, I have had massages before, but none were quite as "firm" as his. If a "massage" was supposed to involve the Vulcan Death Grip, it is news to me. This man attacked my corpus as if it was the last food on Earth and he was starving. A wise man would tell him to ease up, but I've always operated differently. The way I show someone that they are barking up the wrong tree is that I show that I am unaffected by whatever they are doing. That way--I reckon--the transgressor learns and I can get relief without embarassing either of us.
Unfortunately, The Grabber didn't pick this up. So at this moment, I've got a bruised shoulder, back, and oblique muscles from his "massage." Even now they feel very raw and tender.
Still, I don't lay all the blame at The Grabber, but instead at myself. Inside of me, I still see the chunky teenager who believes that any attention is good attention, despite the fact that the present me, really just wants to have his drinks, listen to others, and stay an observer.
In all honesty, the whole time that The Grabber was brutalising my body, I was strictly focused on a bartender in another section: Mr. Glasses. I have tried for years to ascertain what my "type" is, and Mr. Glasses comes extremely close to it. He wears rimmed glasses and has a (likely steroided--this is Splash) physique which combined with the glasses just makes me weak-in-the knees. I'm almost embarassed since nine times out of ten, I need to have a sense of personality before launching into lust mode, but Mr. Glasses does it to me and I have yet to exchange any words with him at all.
I think I'm probably too scared to do so. See, that's the funny thing about lust objects: You find yourself wanting to get closer and closer to them, but when the time to talk to them comes about, you lose all sense. In short, I'm too chicken to actually sit in his section. I know that I could not at all register on his radar (why would I?) beyond the patron/bartender dynamic, but still I can't help myself from wanting to at least catch a glimpse. At least dreaming about him gives me a modicum of euphoria, that is probably better than any real interaction. (A dream coming true always has a way of becoming a letdown, such is the power of the human lust.)
After a slightly cunning escape from The Grabber (involving the fact that Splash only serves Mike's Lemonade downstairs), I made my way over to The View.
Well, The View was quite more crowded than I reckoned it would be. (Damn you, Roxy, for being shut this weekend.) It was jammed pack full of that combination that drives me up a wall: eunuch gays and their fag hags. Even worse, it also had the several examples of the people I try to avoid: fag hags in search of a fag for the night.
Remember how I mentioned "entitlement" at the top? Well, this is where it comes into play: Now I fully understand that many times you just want to be out with your girls and be left alone by any lecherous straight males. Fair point and I totally believe in that. It crosses the line, however; when you try to drag me into it, because you feel: A) uncomfortable (welcome to the world of being gay in a straight world), B) deluded to the point that you think engaging me into your car-crash of a self-absorbed life is a sign of being magnamious.
Note: It isn't.
Seriously, at a gay bar, sometimes I just want to look at scenery and imagine. Sometimes, I just want to listen to the videos. At no time do I want to play happy eunuch to you and your girlfriend, while you coo over the bartender that you have deemed your "best friend," after knowing him for 10 minutes.
Another note: not all gay men know each other. Just because I'm near the bartender and standing (primarily because you went and took a seat before I could), does not that mean I know him. I'd hate to shatter the comfortable worldview you have, but let's be honest here--apart from drag queens, very few GWMs in their 20s know GBMs and vice versa. It's not right, but that's the way things are in this country. I hope--nay, I pray--that things will change before I die, but that's the ugly truth. So no, I do not know the bartender that you are cooing over, I just want to have my Twisted Tea, and since I'm flying solo and this is the sole spot (not seat, but spot) where I can have it, I'm having it right here.
After debunking that the secret gay fraternity doesn't exist, the two upseaking women proceed to tell me that they are lawyers and my age. Like I care. I'm much more interested in the video that's playing than anything they have to say. They don't care, since apparently they are the queens of the night, and I should feel humbled in their presence. They ask me my name. I tell them "Hikaru."
"Wow, that's so cool. Are you Japanese?"
"No, I'm not. I just have a Japanese name."
"That's so cool. I want my children to have Japanese names, even though I'm not."
What am I supposed to do? Wave a banner and say "that's great?"
A welcomed lull in the conversation leads them to point out that the "fat" bartender (as opposed to the twink in our section) doesn't seem to jive with that environment, even though one of the women states that she dates "fat guys."
Now was that called for? Isn't she Mother Theresa?
I tell them that if it wasn't for a "fat guy" (aka my father), I wouldn't exist.
"Oh, yeah, that's like so true."
All I can say is thank god for my bladder being full at that time. After I relieved it, I finished my 2nd Twisted Tea and got the hell out of Dodge.
Lo these many years later, people still have trouble reading others.
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