Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Monotony past. Suburbia departed.
So Matt calls me at 5:30 today to ask if I want to go see a national touring company of Evita tonight at 8:00. Fortunately, I have no life the evening free, and within an hour we're having a nasty-ass dinner at a pub-grub diner in the south Loop (WHY are there no decent restaurants in the theater district? It makes no sense.) and then meandering over to the glorious Auditorium Theatre to catch the show.
Now, normally, I'm extremely leery about national tours of long-dormant musicals. They tend to be long on ambition and short on talent. And big on disappointment. (And I know every word and every note of Evita, so I was especially worried. I'm that gay.) But tonight I was pleasantly surprised. Make that ecstatically surprised.
The production is a faithful re-creation of the original Broadway show with some notable improvements: 1) The orchestrations are more robust—almost to the point of being decadent—thanks to the miracles of computer enhancement and click-track vocals. Though the canned violins are a definite detraction. 2) The choreography is more ambitious, and—with a few exceptions—danced with expert, fiery abandon. 3) There is more emphasis placed on humanizing Evita, exploring the roots and manifestations of her class resentment and how it fueled her thirst for power and control. 4) The singing and acting are spectacular across the board:
• Kathy Voytko morphs expertly from the innocently ambitous Eva Duarte to the commandeering Eva Peron and even collapses tragically into herself as the sickly, dying Evita. Best of all, she has a crystal-clear voice that can belt and soar with the best of them—with the exception of a few weak mid-range money notes like those at the end of her brief solo in "The Art of the Possible." (Even better still, she's NOT that vowel-chewing, diction-swallowing harridan Patti LuPone.)
• Bradley Dean brings out the most fully realized Che I've ever seen. He ushers the character seamlessly between anger, condescention, bewilderment and admonition—with a powerhouse voice that's equally as versatile.
• Hunky Gabriel Burrafato is a sexy, smoldering Magaldi with a clear, pure Irish (Argentinian?) tenor that reverberates off every accoustically perfect wall in the Auditorium Theater.
• Philip Hernandez brings the requisite gravity to Juan Peron, adding a dose of humanity that reveals more of the dictator's inner conflicts.
• And minuscule Kate Manning all but steals the show with her plaintive—and hauntingly clear—"Another Suitcase in Another Hall."
Matt, of course, didn't like it. We have exact opposite tastes in musical theater (and music and movies and art and men). It's a good thinghe drives a nice car we're friends, or we'd never make it as friends.
The only downside to the evening—aside from the literally glaring incompetence of the spotlight operators—was the trio of dumpy suburban women sitting in front of us. Something about the opening of Act II set them off a-giggling, which evolved to not-so-hushed conversations, which evolved to digging through purses to find something—which brought them all this close to being bitch-slapped across the backs of their poorly coiffed, chubby little heads.
This production ranks among the best Evitas I've ever seen—and I've seen a lot of them. But it leaves Chicago on November 28, so get your tickets now (or better yet, stop by the Auditorium Theatre box office and buy them in person so you don't getpunch fucked gouged by Ticketmaster charges).
Now, normally, I'm extremely leery about national tours of long-dormant musicals. They tend to be long on ambition and short on talent. And big on disappointment. (And I know every word and every note of Evita, so I was especially worried. I'm that gay.) But tonight I was pleasantly surprised. Make that ecstatically surprised.
The production is a faithful re-creation of the original Broadway show with some notable improvements: 1) The orchestrations are more robust—almost to the point of being decadent—thanks to the miracles of computer enhancement and click-track vocals. Though the canned violins are a definite detraction. 2) The choreography is more ambitious, and—with a few exceptions—danced with expert, fiery abandon. 3) There is more emphasis placed on humanizing Evita, exploring the roots and manifestations of her class resentment and how it fueled her thirst for power and control. 4) The singing and acting are spectacular across the board:
• Kathy Voytko morphs expertly from the innocently ambitous Eva Duarte to the commandeering Eva Peron and even collapses tragically into herself as the sickly, dying Evita. Best of all, she has a crystal-clear voice that can belt and soar with the best of them—with the exception of a few weak mid-range money notes like those at the end of her brief solo in "The Art of the Possible." (Even better still, she's NOT that vowel-chewing, diction-swallowing harridan Patti LuPone.)
• Bradley Dean brings out the most fully realized Che I've ever seen. He ushers the character seamlessly between anger, condescention, bewilderment and admonition—with a powerhouse voice that's equally as versatile.
• Hunky Gabriel Burrafato is a sexy, smoldering Magaldi with a clear, pure Irish (Argentinian?) tenor that reverberates off every accoustically perfect wall in the Auditorium Theater.
• Philip Hernandez brings the requisite gravity to Juan Peron, adding a dose of humanity that reveals more of the dictator's inner conflicts.
• And minuscule Kate Manning all but steals the show with her plaintive—and hauntingly clear—"Another Suitcase in Another Hall."
Matt, of course, didn't like it. We have exact opposite tastes in musical theater (and music and movies and art and men). It's a good thing
The only downside to the evening—aside from the literally glaring incompetence of the spotlight operators—was the trio of dumpy suburban women sitting in front of us. Something about the opening of Act II set them off a-giggling, which evolved to not-so-hushed conversations, which evolved to digging through purses to find something—which brought them all this close to being bitch-slapped across the backs of their poorly coiffed, chubby little heads.
This production ranks among the best Evitas I've ever seen—and I've seen a lot of them. But it leaves Chicago on November 28, so get your tickets now (or better yet, stop by the Auditorium Theatre box office and buy them in person so you don't get
Monday, November 15, 2004
Safety and health
SAFETY
I've always subscribed to a strict policy of safety first: I always wear my seatbelt, I always use a condom (I'm wearing one right now!), I shred my used financial documents, I don't allow myself to be thrown onto the tracks in front of oncoming trains, etc. But I've never been able to let go of the blindingly clever passwords (really! it's too bad I can't tell you what they are!) that I concocted years ago when I opened the two email accounts I still use to this day.
Last week, though, I decided it was just too scary to contemplate the thought of malicious strangers accessing my email and compromising the security of all those rehearsal schedules, fan letters and electronic Old Navy coupons.
So I did it. I changed my email password. (Just one, though. Baby steps.)
But—like the words to "Dancing Queen" and the proper way to fold a fitted sheet—that old password is hard-wired into my DNA. And I automatically type it every time I try to open that email account. Every. Fucking. Time.
The new password is blindingly clever, too. It's too bad I can't tell you what it is.
HEALTH
Last week, my adorable nephew told his teacher he had Virus One in an effort to get out of class and go sit with the school nurse. He's only five. When did he get to be such a creative hypochondriac? And where the hell did he come up with "Virus One"?
I've always subscribed to a strict policy of safety first: I always wear my seatbelt, I always use a condom (I'm wearing one right now!), I shred my used financial documents, I don't allow myself to be thrown onto the tracks in front of oncoming trains, etc. But I've never been able to let go of the blindingly clever passwords (really! it's too bad I can't tell you what they are!) that I concocted years ago when I opened the two email accounts I still use to this day.
Last week, though, I decided it was just too scary to contemplate the thought of malicious strangers accessing my email and compromising the security of all those rehearsal schedules, fan letters and electronic Old Navy coupons.
So I did it. I changed my email password. (Just one, though. Baby steps.)
But—like the words to "Dancing Queen" and the proper way to fold a fitted sheet—that old password is hard-wired into my DNA. And I automatically type it every time I try to open that email account. Every. Fucking. Time.
The new password is blindingly clever, too. It's too bad I can't tell you what it is.
HEALTH
Last week, my adorable nephew told his teacher he had Virus One in an effort to get out of class and go sit with the school nurse. He's only five. When did he get to be such a creative hypochondriac? And where the hell did he come up with "Virus One"?
Sunday, November 14, 2004
My clusterfuck adventure
So I go to my friendly neighborhood Jiffy Lube this afternoon to see why my Czech Engine light came on after they'd changed my oil and done something I'm too dumb to understand to my fuel injectors yesterday, and the guy tells me that sometimes when they do their magic fuel injector dance it sometimes sets off the check engine light. But they can't reset it at Jiffy Lube so I have to drive a couple miles west to AutoZone to have it reset.
Fine. I don't understand the logic and I kind of feel like I'm being dicked around like a trannie hooker at an insurance convention*, but I feel like I really have no choice but to do what the nice man tells me.
*I don't know what it means either. But if you don't think about it too hard, it sounds kind of funny.
The AutoZone isn't too terribly far, so I head over there and tell my story to the woman behind the counter, who promptly informs me that it's "illegal" for them to turn off check engine lights. After a few probing questions on my part, it turns out she is justretarded too lazy to explain the whole story to me: She can check and probably reset my light, but there are a few situations where she's not legally allowed to turn it off—though it sounds like mine is probably not one of those situations.
She grabs her sensor andrubs it furiously until she shoots her womanly juices all over the bed follows me out into the parking lot. It's only when we get to my car that she asks me what model year it is, and when it say 1995, she gravely informs me that her particular AutoZone can service only 1996 models or later, but there's another AutoZone "just two miles away" that can do earlier models.
Struggling mightily not to bitch-slap her and everyone else withing bitch-slapping distance at the moment, I thank her and continue my trek west waaaaaaaay fucking farther than "just two miles" to the next stop on my clusterfuck adventure.
This AutoZone has a nicer parking lot and is in a nicer neighborhood, so I feel a little less stressed when I finally get there. But just a little. After standing in an irritatingly long line behind a cute-ish biker boi and his functionally illiterate Japanese war bride (she keeps admiring the "pitty" slip-on seat covers in the aisle we are standing in, but she can never answer his weird pop-quiz challenge ("How much? How many?") about everything she picks up to look at), I get to the front of the line only to have the functionally illiterate Latino guy behind the counter tell me that he, too, can't service a car made before 1996. But he reaches behind the counter to grab his sensorand rubs it furiously until he shoots his manly juice all over the headboard above him and heads out to the parking lot. Not quite sure if he is walking away from me or intending to check out my car despite what he's just told me, I follow him, and in no time he has the sensor plugged in and whirring like a weird-people sex toy in an obscure fetish video.
He needs to have the car running to get a reading, though, so I start the engine—and immediately my stereo blares the chorus rehearsal CD I've been listening to: the baritone line from a jaunty little Spanish tune called Procesión jíbara. I get a little smile because I'm sure this will impress him to the point that we'll become best friends—you know, because I obviously speak Mexican and shit—but he motions for me to turn it off and he just keeps looking at the little sensorlying all flaccid and unimpressive in his lap.
Eventually he unpluggs it and—this is where I decide that every AutoZone employee in the universe really is retarded—starts to walk away. I call to him to see what he's found out and he turns to me, surprised, and mutters something about an oxygen sensor and then keeps walking. Honestly. The guy has just performed a diagnostic test on my car—with the sole purpose of diagnosing what is wrong with it so as to tell me the nature of the problem—and he completely doesn't grasp the importance of that last telling-me-what-is-wrong-with-it step. The mind BOGGLES.
Now frustrated to the point that I switch my radio to NPR in the hopes that Car Talk will be on so I can call Tom and Ray right there from my cell phone and tell them my sad tale of woe and single-handedly drive Jiffy Lube AND CarZone out of business (but it isn't so I can't), I head back to Jiffy Lube to give them a piece of my mind.
The guy who had originally sent me on this wild goose chase sees me pull up and comes right out to talk to me. I calmlyand without a single bitch-slap tell him my story, and he seems genuinely concerned—and surprised that CarZone couldn't fix the light or give me a helpful diagnosis. I ask how often this happens and why Jiffy Lube can't fix the check engine lights it inadvertently turns on, and he says it's so rare it's not worth buying the expensive equipment needed to handle the problem. But he assures me the light is not something to worry about and that any mechanic with diagnostic tools can fix it and that whatever expense is incurred will be covered by my Jiffy Lube warranty. And unlike the Bush administration and its mindless minions he apologizes repeatedly.
And when I start my car and pull out of the Jiffy Lube parking lot, my check engine light is suddenly off.
Fine. I don't understand the logic and I kind of feel like I'm being dicked around like a trannie hooker at an insurance convention*, but I feel like I really have no choice but to do what the nice man tells me.
*I don't know what it means either. But if you don't think about it too hard, it sounds kind of funny.
The AutoZone isn't too terribly far, so I head over there and tell my story to the woman behind the counter, who promptly informs me that it's "illegal" for them to turn off check engine lights. After a few probing questions on my part, it turns out she is just
She grabs her sensor and
This AutoZone has a nicer parking lot and is in a nicer neighborhood, so I feel a little less stressed when I finally get there. But just a little. After standing in an irritatingly long line behind a cute-ish biker boi and his functionally illiterate Japanese war bride (she keeps admiring the "pitty" slip-on seat covers in the aisle we are standing in, but she can never answer his weird pop-quiz challenge ("How much? How many?") about everything she picks up to look at), I get to the front of the line only to have the functionally illiterate Latino guy behind the counter tell me that he, too, can't service a car made before 1996. But he reaches behind the counter to grab his sensor
He needs to have the car running to get a reading, though, so I start the engine—and immediately my stereo blares the chorus rehearsal CD I've been listening to: the baritone line from a jaunty little Spanish tune called Procesión jíbara. I get a little smile because I'm sure this will impress him to the point that we'll become best friends—you know, because I obviously speak Mexican and shit—but he motions for me to turn it off and he just keeps looking at the little sensor
Eventually he unpluggs it and—this is where I decide that every AutoZone employee in the universe really is retarded—starts to walk away. I call to him to see what he's found out and he turns to me, surprised, and mutters something about an oxygen sensor and then keeps walking. Honestly. The guy has just performed a diagnostic test on my car—with the sole purpose of diagnosing what is wrong with it so as to tell me the nature of the problem—and he completely doesn't grasp the importance of that last telling-me-what-is-wrong-with-it step. The mind BOGGLES.
Now frustrated to the point that I switch my radio to NPR in the hopes that Car Talk will be on so I can call Tom and Ray right there from my cell phone and tell them my sad tale of woe and single-handedly drive Jiffy Lube AND CarZone out of business (but it isn't so I can't), I head back to Jiffy Lube to give them a piece of my mind.
The guy who had originally sent me on this wild goose chase sees me pull up and comes right out to talk to me. I calmly
And when I start my car and pull out of the Jiffy Lube parking lot, my check engine light is suddenly off.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Weekend adventures
After a lovely 13-hour workday on Friday, I headed straight to Crew for Brandon's birthday party. Crew is Chicago's first (?) gay sports bar, and it opened pretty recently in a neighborhood on the verge of mega-gentrification—which also happens to be a not-too-terribly-long walk from my house. Every time I've been there, it's been pretty packed, but it doesn't seem to attract the caliber of hotties one would expect at a gay sports bar. But we keep hoping.
Dashed locker-room fantasies notwithstanding, we had a great night, and I finally got to meet Sven—who's even cuter than his pictures let on.
Tuesday's migraine has left me tired and out of sorts all week, but I had nothing terribly important to do today, so I climbed into bed when I got home Friday night intending to sleep as long as I could, and I ended up getting in a good 12 hours. Which makes me feel almost better.
My weekend to-do list included getting my oil changed and getting a start on my shopping for some of thecrap thoughtful gifts I've already decided to get my family for Christmas. But by the time I got to my friendly neighborhood Jiffy Lube this afternoon, there was a long wait—so long that I got through a Newsweek AND a half-read New Yorker and ended up being forced to watch football to keep killing time in the waiting area (the horror!)—and one oil change and an unplanned fuel-injector flush later, I wasn't in the mood to do any shopping. So I headed home—only to discover my Czech Engine light had been on since Ieft Jiffy Lube. (Honestly, I don't know why they can't build decent, reliable engines in America, but that's a rant for a different post.) So I get to go back to Jiffy Lube tomorrow to see what the hell they did to fuck up my engine. Yay me.
Dashed locker-room fantasies notwithstanding, we had a great night, and I finally got to meet Sven—who's even cuter than his pictures let on.
Tuesday's migraine has left me tired and out of sorts all week, but I had nothing terribly important to do today, so I climbed into bed when I got home Friday night intending to sleep as long as I could, and I ended up getting in a good 12 hours. Which makes me feel almost better.
My weekend to-do list included getting my oil changed and getting a start on my shopping for some of the
Friday, November 12, 2004
Puppet porn
In our first act of civil disobedience to protest the second Dubya Reich presidency, Andy and I attended a public screening of lewd puppet porn last night.
Team America: World Police is filled—as expected—with Trey Parker and Matt Stone's brilliant social commentary, staggeringly (and yet somehow sweetly) inappropriate sexual humor, and garden-variety cinematic cliches like copious puppet vomit and all-out puppet fucking. And we laughed out loud at the appearance of the two ferocious tigers played by bored (and not even striped) housecats.
But, while we were thoroughly entertained, I was glad when it was over. Maybe I'm just politicked (politiced? politic-ed?) out. Maybe I'm a little upset with myself for not being clever enough to write songs like "Everyone Has AIDS" and "America, Fuck Yeah."
Maybe I was more than a little disturbed by my sexual attraction to all three puppets playing the Team America guys. (Hey—the fuckers are hot.)
Team America: World Police is filled—as expected—with Trey Parker and Matt Stone's brilliant social commentary, staggeringly (and yet somehow sweetly) inappropriate sexual humor, and garden-variety cinematic cliches like copious puppet vomit and all-out puppet fucking. And we laughed out loud at the appearance of the two ferocious tigers played by bored (and not even striped) housecats.
But, while we were thoroughly entertained, I was glad when it was over. Maybe I'm just politicked (politiced? politic-ed?) out. Maybe I'm a little upset with myself for not being clever enough to write songs like "Everyone Has AIDS" and "America, Fuck Yeah."
Maybe I was more than a little disturbed by my sexual attraction to all three puppets playing the Team America guys. (Hey—the fuckers are hot.)
Thursday, November 11, 2004
The inner sanctum
I promised you something less depressing after yesterday's post. I've promised you pictures of my domestic handiwork in tons of earlier posts. And I've blathered on and on about how cool my bedroom and bathroom look now that I've finally made some damn decisions about paint colors and wall decorations.
It's about time I pooped or got off the pot, ya think?
So here, without further ado, is a photo of the new arrangement of wall crap over my bed. As is the case with most of my home-improvement projects, it's still a work in progress; the knickknacks on the shelves still aren't finalized and that gaping hole in the bottom left of the arrangement is just waiting for me to discover the elusive pièce de résistance that will complete my vision of artistry and self-expressionthat nobody will see anyway because my bedroom is apparently sprayed with Man Repellant every day by a naked and slightly sweaty John Ashcroft.
Do note the cool candle shelves, though. They were made by my amazingly handy ex, Jeff, and creatively finished by yours truly with metallic stencil paint. Although an arrangement of candles over a bed does give off a certain reptilian sexual-predator vibe.Not that anyone will see it.
(And the bed frame, for those of you who are interested, is the Room & Board Parsons model. And I LOVE IT. It's sleek and elegant and well-builtand it doesn't rock or creak or slam against the wall or make any noise whatsoever when you're hopped up on cocaine and airplane glue and banging hookers into next week on it.)
I'll stop typing now. Enjoy the picture:
It's about time I pooped or got off the pot, ya think?
So here, without further ado, is a photo of the new arrangement of wall crap over my bed. As is the case with most of my home-improvement projects, it's still a work in progress; the knickknacks on the shelves still aren't finalized and that gaping hole in the bottom left of the arrangement is just waiting for me to discover the elusive pièce de résistance that will complete my vision of artistry and self-expression
Do note the cool candle shelves, though. They were made by my amazingly handy ex, Jeff, and creatively finished by yours truly with metallic stencil paint. Although an arrangement of candles over a bed does give off a certain reptilian sexual-predator vibe.
(And the bed frame, for those of you who are interested, is the Room & Board Parsons model. And I LOVE IT. It's sleek and elegant and well-built
I'll stop typing now. Enjoy the picture:
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
More marathon photos!
I finally got my official marathon photos ordered and received and scanned.
The marathon hires these photographers, see, who take bajillions of pictures along the marathon route. Then some poor schmuck has to look at all the pictures and identify which bib numbers are showing in them. Then you can use your bib number to find your photos online andmortgage your house and sell your kidneys to buy your very own copies. I ordered four 5x7 prints for a whopping $80. It's information superhighway robbery, if you ask me.
And here are two of my expensive new pix: me crossing the finish line (looking surprisingly awake and alive and happy) and me smiling like the proud parent of two gifted quadriceps at the finishers' photo op. Enjoy!
The marathon hires these photographers, see, who take bajillions of pictures along the marathon route. Then some poor schmuck has to look at all the pictures and identify which bib numbers are showing in them. Then you can use your bib number to find your photos online and
And here are two of my expensive new pix: me crossing the finish line (looking surprisingly awake and alive and happy) and me smiling like the proud parent of two gifted quadriceps at the finishers' photo op. Enjoy!
Monday, November 08, 2004
One big day. Two minor celebrities.
Steve from Blue's Clues
I spent my last few hours in Iowa yesterday morning snuggled up on the couch with random combinations of my niece, my nephew, their favorite toys and their boneless, co-dependent cat, Lucy. At some point, my niece insisted we watch Blue's Clues, a show I'd heard about but had never seen. And in short order, I'd discovered the cuteness of Steve, the show's adorable, wide-eyed host. He was probably like 12 years old when the episode we watched was filmed, so I'm sure that just admitting I thought he was cute guarantees me a spot in the top bunk of Michael Jackson's prison cell. But, in my defense, I can point out that he looks much older (and still pretty cute) today.
Clinton from What Not To Wear
I got back to Chicago yesterday just in time to head to chorus rehearsal. Afterward, Matt and I had our ceremonial IHOP dinner (where I -- in an ill-advised fit of creative indulgence -- made the mistake of trying the stuffed french toast) and then I headed to Sidetrack topick up guys spend the last few moments of my weekend among my people. I hadn't been there five minutes when I ran into Anders, who promptly spun me around and introduced me to his new best friend, Clinton Kelly (who seemed less than impressed with me and my Old Navy ribbed V-neck T-shirt that I got for $3 at the Brown Elephant, even though I helpfully pointed out a pre-famous Teri Garr shaking her coochie in the background of Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" video mere moments after we were introduced). I won't retaliate to his indifference with bitchy comments, but I will say the guy is really gay tall, and I definitely wouldn't wear the cheerleader-sweater-and-untucked-shirt ensemble he was sporting. But it worked for him. In that light.
I spent my last few hours in Iowa yesterday morning snuggled up on the couch with random combinations of my niece, my nephew, their favorite toys and their boneless, co-dependent cat, Lucy. At some point, my niece insisted we watch Blue's Clues, a show I'd heard about but had never seen. And in short order, I'd discovered the cuteness of Steve, the show's adorable, wide-eyed host. He was probably like 12 years old when the episode we watched was filmed, so I'm sure that just admitting I thought he was cute guarantees me a spot in the top bunk of Michael Jackson's prison cell. But, in my defense, I can point out that he looks much older (and still pretty cute) today.
Clinton from What Not To Wear
I got back to Chicago yesterday just in time to head to chorus rehearsal. Afterward, Matt and I had our ceremonial IHOP dinner (where I -- in an ill-advised fit of creative indulgence -- made the mistake of trying the stuffed french toast) and then I headed to Sidetrack to
Thursday, November 04, 2004
¿Cómo se llama tu llama?
4-H Llama Showmanship Rules
• You should dress neat and clean.
• Don't wear other logos or emblems, or a name tag.
• Don't wear flashy jewelry ... show your llama, not yourself.
• Be courteous and show good sportsmanship at all times.
• You may use soft voice commands with your llama.
• You are not supposed to touch your llama at any time except to smooth messed up wool, or assist the judge during inspection.
• Don't be distracted by anything or anyone outside the show ring.
• Be confident and stay "up" all the time, even if you don't feel like it.
• Be alert to the judge, keep your eye on him/her and keep smiling!
• Your llama should be clean and well groomed.
• Make sure your llama's toenails are trimmed.
• Halters and leads need to be clean, in good repair, and well fitting.
• Respect your llama. You may be dismissed from the show if you jerk your llama, become angry, or otherwise mistreat him/her in the ring.
• You should dress neat and clean.
• Don't wear other logos or emblems, or a name tag.
• Don't wear flashy jewelry ... show your llama, not yourself.
• Be courteous and show good sportsmanship at all times.
• You may use soft voice commands with your llama.
• You are not supposed to touch your llama at any time except to smooth messed up wool, or assist the judge during inspection.
• Don't be distracted by anything or anyone outside the show ring.
• Be confident and stay "up" all the time, even if you don't feel like it.
• Be alert to the judge, keep your eye on him/her and keep smiling!
• Your llama should be clean and well groomed.
• Make sure your llama's toenails are trimmed.
• Halters and leads need to be clean, in good repair, and well fitting.
• Respect your llama. You may be dismissed from the show if you jerk your llama, become angry, or otherwise mistreat him/her in the ring.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Something in me died last night.
A sense of hope. A trust in the relative intelligence of the electorate. The feeling that good, old-fashioned common sense always wins over religious extremism; transparent political cronyism; and a curiously proud legacy of policies that have undermined our economy, our environment, our social fabric and the respect we command in the world.
Something else died as well. Something even more important to me: A lifetime of unblinking patriotism.
Today I feel sucker-punched. Betrayed. Terrified.
By religious extremists who manufacture a threat to marriage where none exists and use it to inflame the passions of weak-minded voters and hijack an election.
By citizens who vote against their own economic self-interest to elect a man brazenly beholden to the wealthy few over the non-wealthy majority.
By a president who describes himself as a “uniter” but who presided over one of the most divisive elections in recent memory.
By a man who wouldn’t go to war with his contemporaries but who doesn’t hesitate to play war when he grows up to be president.
By a future securely in the hands irrational, venomous social conservatives and a horizon filled with Supreme Court turnover and long-overdue human-rights legislation.
I hung an American flag in my window the day after the September 11 terrorist attacks. It was a big flag, almost six feet tall. It filled the entire window. And since I live on the 24th floor, you could see my flag from almost anywhere in the neighborhood. I looked up at it every time I walked home from the grocery store or stood on the train platform four blocks away. I pointed it out to friends and family members. I was a proud American, and a hopeful believer in the inherent goodness of our country and the people who ran it.
I took my flag down this morning. And, as I write this, it lies in an unpatriotic, potentially unconstitutional crumple on my floor.
Right now I want to burn it.
Something else died as well. Something even more important to me: A lifetime of unblinking patriotism.
Today I feel sucker-punched. Betrayed. Terrified.
By religious extremists who manufacture a threat to marriage where none exists and use it to inflame the passions of weak-minded voters and hijack an election.
By citizens who vote against their own economic self-interest to elect a man brazenly beholden to the wealthy few over the non-wealthy majority.
By a president who describes himself as a “uniter” but who presided over one of the most divisive elections in recent memory.
By a man who wouldn’t go to war with his contemporaries but who doesn’t hesitate to play war when he grows up to be president.
By a future securely in the hands irrational, venomous social conservatives and a horizon filled with Supreme Court turnover and long-overdue human-rights legislation.
I hung an American flag in my window the day after the September 11 terrorist attacks. It was a big flag, almost six feet tall. It filled the entire window. And since I live on the 24th floor, you could see my flag from almost anywhere in the neighborhood. I looked up at it every time I walked home from the grocery store or stood on the train platform four blocks away. I pointed it out to friends and family members. I was a proud American, and a hopeful believer in the inherent goodness of our country and the people who ran it.
I took my flag down this morning. And, as I write this, it lies in an unpatriotic, potentially unconstitutional crumple on my floor.
Right now I want to burn it.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
I did not vote today.
At least not yet. But I sure tried.
My polling place NEVER has a line, but this morning it had a pretty freakin' big one. I stood in it for 45 mintues and got as close as 10 people away from voting, but I had a client presentation this morning, see. And EVEN THOUGH I TOLD THE PEOPLE WHO SCHEDULE THESE THINGS TO SCHEDULE THE PRESENTATION FOR LATE IN THE DAY it was scheduled at 10 am. And it was already 8:30, and my commute can last up to an hour. Especially on a rainy day.
So I had no choice to ditch my line and head to work. As a very angry employee.
But every action has a reaction, and I'm gonna ditch work early today and head back to that line. And then watch the returns with Andy and his cat and his boyfriend. (In that order; the boyfriend will be arriving late.)
In the mean time, of you're so stupid you still haven't found a reason to vote against Dubya, this should push you over the edge.
My polling place NEVER has a line, but this morning it had a pretty freakin' big one. I stood in it for 45 mintues and got as close as 10 people away from voting, but I had a client presentation this morning, see. And EVEN THOUGH I TOLD THE PEOPLE WHO SCHEDULE THESE THINGS TO SCHEDULE THE PRESENTATION FOR LATE IN THE DAY it was scheduled at 10 am. And it was already 8:30, and my commute can last up to an hour. Especially on a rainy day.
So I had no choice to ditch my line and head to work. As a very angry employee.
But every action has a reaction, and I'm gonna ditch work early today and head back to that line. And then watch the returns with Andy and his cat and his boyfriend. (In that order; the boyfriend will be arriving late.)
In the mean time, of you're so stupid you still haven't found a reason to vote against Dubya, this should push you over the edge.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Five days in DC
Random thoughts on a fabulous family trip to the cradle of American history:
Getting there
Thanks the miracle of the Internet, my folks and I were able to book our flights to DC in separate cities and still manage to sit by each other on the plane. How cool is that? But first, we had to survive …
Security
A woman whose name was only barely pronounceable was NOT going to let me go through security because my ticket was issued to a man named Jake and my driver’s license had my real name on it, which has one different letter and one added letter. Summoning information from her vast knowledge base of Anglo nomenclature, she INSISTED these were two separate names and that I couldn’t possibly be the Jake on my ticket, even going so far as to suggest that I’d found the ticket on the ground and—seizing the vast opportunities afforded by the lucky coincidence that it contained my exact first and last name with the exception of two letters—hatched a nefarious plot to break through security and wreak a level of havoc never before seen in the world of aviation. I told her that I fly twice a month—often on this very airline—and nobody’s ever said a thing about my name before. I showed her a wallet full of credit cards and other documents with both names on them. (She countered—in all seriousness—that I could have stolen that wallet. Will magical coincidences never cease?) TWO of her supervisors told her she was nuts. Undaunted, she held her ground—and I was singled out for a thorough search of my person and my belongings … which, I must point out, produced nothing to clarify the whole Jake issue. But somehow a pawing-through of my toiletries and my car keys satisfied her that I was, in fact, Jake. Because nothing confirms your identity faster than your preferred brand of travel shampoo.
The Washington Monument
It’s perhaps my favorite monument in D.C.—and, judging from the way the other monuments and statues all face it, I’m not alone. The views from its tiny windows are breathtaking, and the accomplishment of reaching the top to take in those views is profoundly satisfying.
It’s been closed to the public the last three times I’ve been in D.C. The last. three. times. The gods hate me.
The National Museum of the American Indian
This soaring, month-old structure occupies the last available plot of museum-size land on the perimeter of the Mall. And, from the outside, it adds a refreshing twist to the visual menu of Victorian, Greek Revival and Terribly, Terribly Modern architecture that populates the rest of the Smithsonian complex. But the museum itself offers nothing but endless disappointment. We explored two floors of the place and came away with nothing more than questions and negative comments. The exhibits paint Native American history and culture in broad, meaningless strokes: images of old women sewing together panels of wet whale flesh, displays of unlabeled arrowheads arranged in funky geometric patterns, movies showing guys in football jerseys riding horses … you get the (incomplete) picture. The technological elements of the museum are at times pretty spectacular, which is a sadly ironic way to celebrate—and not educate anyone about—the lives of a simple people who lived simply off the land for generations.
The Library of Congress
I have a new fascination with the Declaration of Independence—which I remember was always housed in the National Archives, but we were told it was on display in the Library of Congress, which I’d never visited. So we headed to the Library of Congress to see it. But it wasn’t there. It was in the National Archives, just like it had always been. We decided to explore the building anyway, and we were rewarded with a tour of the Great Hall, one of the most stunning interior spaces in the history of American architecture.
The National Archives
Warning: Show tune reference ahead! I’d recently seen the musical 1776, which tells the stories of the epic struggles and sacrifices involved in declaring our independence from the British almost 230 years ago. John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin et al. literally risked their lives to write—and then sign—the Declaration of Independence, and I wanted to see it again with a clearer understanding of what they’d gone through to create it. Tragically, the ink on the document has faded to almost nothing. But as I stood before that humble but magnificently historic parchment, I openly wept—over the unfathomable bravery those men displayed in the simple act of signing their names, over the uncanny prescience they had in crafting a document that would endure and remain relevant for so long, and over Thomas Jefferson’s soaring language, which continues to stir the hearts of Americans generations upon generations after it was crafted.
Ford’s Theater
We spent our entire vacation under the watchful eyes of the gods of good timing, and our tour of Ford’s Theater was no exception; we arrived minutes before the final presentation of the day was to start, and we were rewarded with front-row seats to a fascinating monologue about the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Southern fury that transformed popular actor John Wilkes Booth into a cold-blooded murderer, and the events both epic and mundane that led to Abraham Lincoln’s assassination. If you go, don’t miss the museum in the basement, which contains an exhaustive collection of sometimes gruesome artifacts from the murder.
The Lincoln Memorial
There is nothing like the view from the top of the steps of this venerable monument—especially at dusk. You can stare—with Lincoln himself looking right over your shoulder—out over the entire length of the Mall, past the Washington Monument to the majestic Capitol. Not even the most jaded, Bush-beleaguered American could sit there and not feel profound stirrings of history and patriotism.
The National World War II Memorial
This brand-new memorial has been criticized for being bland, lacking in educational content, and even misguidedly celebrating the austere architectural styles favored by Hitler and Mussolini. It is guilty of all three things, but it’s still a beautiful, moving and apt monument to everyone involved in the second world war. With its broad, people-friendly spaces, its magnificent fountains, and its majestic views of the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial, it invites both congregation and contemplation. And while it offers very little in the way of education, it still helps you understand the separate battles fought on the Pacific and Atlantic fronts, and it helps you appreciate the supreme sacrifices made by the men and women who fought in the war.
The Korean War Memorial
See it at night. Be prepared to shiver.
The National Symphony Orchestra
Oh. My. Goodness. What a spectacular orchestra. What spectacular acoustics in the Kennedy Center—even in our nosebleed seats. And Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. It’s like a 20-minute orgasm.
Unfortunately, as I was packing in relative darkness for this trip, I found a dress shirt that decidedly did not go with my funky dress pants, which are a color that’s so hard to describe, I’ll just call them goldgrayblack. The shirt I packed, which was supposed to be black, turned out to be a rich midnight blue—the exact wrong shade no matter how hard I tried to rationalize the matchup in my head. Fortunately, the NSO attracts the cataracts-and-macular-degeneration crowd, so nobody noticed what a hideous excuse for a homosexual I was. I hope.
The Capitol Steps
Always funny. Always clever. Always up-to-the-minute topical. We celebrated Dad’s 65th birthday laughing our patriotic little butts off at skits and songs with names like “You’re so Vague,” “Duke of Oil” and “House of the Right-Wing Son.” Go here for info on tickets, tours and CDs.
Tourists
The following are hereby considered acceptable grounds for being slapped repeatedly, locked in an overflowing porta-potty with a tribe of angry bees and/or sitting on the receiving end of a very messy execution: Wearing a T-shirt or sweatshirt bearing a stupid saying (e.g., “Age is a number, and mine is unlisted.”). Talking during a presentation on something Historically Important. Being involved as a participant or chaperone in a junior-high bus tour. Being in junior high school. Wearing shorts, sandals and pantyhose. Being a very sexy buzz-cut-coiffed participant in the Marine Corps Marathon and parading around with impossibly muscular legs sticking out of short running shorts and showing no sexual interest in me whatsoever.
Our secret little hideaway
For years (decades, even) my family has stayed at a completely overlooked but ridiculously convenient Holiday Inn just blocks away from the Capitol every time we’ve gone to DC. Well, guess what? It’s been discovered. And it’s undergone a fabulous transformation from frumpy 1970s housefrau to sleek 2004 sophisticate—with jacked-up prices to match. But it’s still amazingly close to everything, and it’s still a pretty good deal. Check it out on your next visit.
The National Cathedral
But Jake, you’re not religious. Why would you go to church when you were on an otherwise delightful vacation? Um, because it makes my mother happy. And because have you seen this place? It’s freakin’ amazing. If the grounds around the building don’t give you an inner peace, the soaring cathedral itself—with its radiant stained-glass windows and catacombs and statues and flying buttresses—is guaranteed to stir something in your soul. And the organ often achieves bone-rattling levels of gloriousness. We try to go to a service at the National Cathedral every time we’re in DC. You should too. Really.
The impending election
Just as I’d guessed, there was no real election hoo-ha in the DC area while we were there in the last few days of the campaign. But did you know that DC, not being a state, has no Senators and no Representatives … and therefore no Electoral College and NO voice in the election? It’s just one of the many, many reasons the Electoral College is a terrible, pointless, insulting, anachronistic load of crap—one of very few such anomalies in the otherwise thoughtful, historic and richly American legacy our Founding Fathers left us to enjoy centuries after the birth of our great nation.
So go out and vote. Educate yourselves on the candidates. Educate yourselves on the issues. Make your voice heard. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams didn’t risk their lives so you could sit on your butts and watch musicals all day.
Getting there
Thanks the miracle of the Internet, my folks and I were able to book our flights to DC in separate cities and still manage to sit by each other on the plane. How cool is that? But first, we had to survive …
Security
A woman whose name was only barely pronounceable was NOT going to let me go through security because my ticket was issued to a man named Jake and my driver’s license had my real name on it, which has one different letter and one added letter. Summoning information from her vast knowledge base of Anglo nomenclature, she INSISTED these were two separate names and that I couldn’t possibly be the Jake on my ticket, even going so far as to suggest that I’d found the ticket on the ground and—seizing the vast opportunities afforded by the lucky coincidence that it contained my exact first and last name with the exception of two letters—hatched a nefarious plot to break through security and wreak a level of havoc never before seen in the world of aviation. I told her that I fly twice a month—often on this very airline—and nobody’s ever said a thing about my name before. I showed her a wallet full of credit cards and other documents with both names on them. (She countered—in all seriousness—that I could have stolen that wallet. Will magical coincidences never cease?) TWO of her supervisors told her she was nuts. Undaunted, she held her ground—and I was singled out for a thorough search of my person and my belongings … which, I must point out, produced nothing to clarify the whole Jake issue. But somehow a pawing-through of my toiletries and my car keys satisfied her that I was, in fact, Jake. Because nothing confirms your identity faster than your preferred brand of travel shampoo.
The Washington Monument
It’s perhaps my favorite monument in D.C.—and, judging from the way the other monuments and statues all face it, I’m not alone. The views from its tiny windows are breathtaking, and the accomplishment of reaching the top to take in those views is profoundly satisfying.
It’s been closed to the public the last three times I’ve been in D.C. The last. three. times. The gods hate me.
The National Museum of the American Indian
This soaring, month-old structure occupies the last available plot of museum-size land on the perimeter of the Mall. And, from the outside, it adds a refreshing twist to the visual menu of Victorian, Greek Revival and Terribly, Terribly Modern architecture that populates the rest of the Smithsonian complex. But the museum itself offers nothing but endless disappointment. We explored two floors of the place and came away with nothing more than questions and negative comments. The exhibits paint Native American history and culture in broad, meaningless strokes: images of old women sewing together panels of wet whale flesh, displays of unlabeled arrowheads arranged in funky geometric patterns, movies showing guys in football jerseys riding horses … you get the (incomplete) picture. The technological elements of the museum are at times pretty spectacular, which is a sadly ironic way to celebrate—and not educate anyone about—the lives of a simple people who lived simply off the land for generations.
The Library of Congress
I have a new fascination with the Declaration of Independence—which I remember was always housed in the National Archives, but we were told it was on display in the Library of Congress, which I’d never visited. So we headed to the Library of Congress to see it. But it wasn’t there. It was in the National Archives, just like it had always been. We decided to explore the building anyway, and we were rewarded with a tour of the Great Hall, one of the most stunning interior spaces in the history of American architecture.
The National Archives
Warning: Show tune reference ahead! I’d recently seen the musical 1776, which tells the stories of the epic struggles and sacrifices involved in declaring our independence from the British almost 230 years ago. John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin et al. literally risked their lives to write—and then sign—the Declaration of Independence, and I wanted to see it again with a clearer understanding of what they’d gone through to create it. Tragically, the ink on the document has faded to almost nothing. But as I stood before that humble but magnificently historic parchment, I openly wept—over the unfathomable bravery those men displayed in the simple act of signing their names, over the uncanny prescience they had in crafting a document that would endure and remain relevant for so long, and over Thomas Jefferson’s soaring language, which continues to stir the hearts of Americans generations upon generations after it was crafted.
Ford’s Theater
We spent our entire vacation under the watchful eyes of the gods of good timing, and our tour of Ford’s Theater was no exception; we arrived minutes before the final presentation of the day was to start, and we were rewarded with front-row seats to a fascinating monologue about the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Southern fury that transformed popular actor John Wilkes Booth into a cold-blooded murderer, and the events both epic and mundane that led to Abraham Lincoln’s assassination. If you go, don’t miss the museum in the basement, which contains an exhaustive collection of sometimes gruesome artifacts from the murder.
The Lincoln Memorial
There is nothing like the view from the top of the steps of this venerable monument—especially at dusk. You can stare—with Lincoln himself looking right over your shoulder—out over the entire length of the Mall, past the Washington Monument to the majestic Capitol. Not even the most jaded, Bush-beleaguered American could sit there and not feel profound stirrings of history and patriotism.
The National World War II Memorial
This brand-new memorial has been criticized for being bland, lacking in educational content, and even misguidedly celebrating the austere architectural styles favored by Hitler and Mussolini. It is guilty of all three things, but it’s still a beautiful, moving and apt monument to everyone involved in the second world war. With its broad, people-friendly spaces, its magnificent fountains, and its majestic views of the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial, it invites both congregation and contemplation. And while it offers very little in the way of education, it still helps you understand the separate battles fought on the Pacific and Atlantic fronts, and it helps you appreciate the supreme sacrifices made by the men and women who fought in the war.
The Korean War Memorial
See it at night. Be prepared to shiver.
The National Symphony Orchestra
Oh. My. Goodness. What a spectacular orchestra. What spectacular acoustics in the Kennedy Center—even in our nosebleed seats. And Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. It’s like a 20-minute orgasm.
Unfortunately, as I was packing in relative darkness for this trip, I found a dress shirt that decidedly did not go with my funky dress pants, which are a color that’s so hard to describe, I’ll just call them goldgrayblack. The shirt I packed, which was supposed to be black, turned out to be a rich midnight blue—the exact wrong shade no matter how hard I tried to rationalize the matchup in my head. Fortunately, the NSO attracts the cataracts-and-macular-degeneration crowd, so nobody noticed what a hideous excuse for a homosexual I was. I hope.
The Capitol Steps
Always funny. Always clever. Always up-to-the-minute topical. We celebrated Dad’s 65th birthday laughing our patriotic little butts off at skits and songs with names like “You’re so Vague,” “Duke of Oil” and “House of the Right-Wing Son.” Go here for info on tickets, tours and CDs.
Tourists
The following are hereby considered acceptable grounds for being slapped repeatedly, locked in an overflowing porta-potty with a tribe of angry bees and/or sitting on the receiving end of a very messy execution: Wearing a T-shirt or sweatshirt bearing a stupid saying (e.g., “Age is a number, and mine is unlisted.”). Talking during a presentation on something Historically Important. Being involved as a participant or chaperone in a junior-high bus tour. Being in junior high school. Wearing shorts, sandals and pantyhose. Being a very sexy buzz-cut-coiffed participant in the Marine Corps Marathon and parading around with impossibly muscular legs sticking out of short running shorts and showing no sexual interest in me whatsoever.
Our secret little hideaway
For years (decades, even) my family has stayed at a completely overlooked but ridiculously convenient Holiday Inn just blocks away from the Capitol every time we’ve gone to DC. Well, guess what? It’s been discovered. And it’s undergone a fabulous transformation from frumpy 1970s housefrau to sleek 2004 sophisticate—with jacked-up prices to match. But it’s still amazingly close to everything, and it’s still a pretty good deal. Check it out on your next visit.
The National Cathedral
But Jake, you’re not religious. Why would you go to church when you were on an otherwise delightful vacation? Um, because it makes my mother happy. And because have you seen this place? It’s freakin’ amazing. If the grounds around the building don’t give you an inner peace, the soaring cathedral itself—with its radiant stained-glass windows and catacombs and statues and flying buttresses—is guaranteed to stir something in your soul. And the organ often achieves bone-rattling levels of gloriousness. We try to go to a service at the National Cathedral every time we’re in DC. You should too. Really.
The impending election
Just as I’d guessed, there was no real election hoo-ha in the DC area while we were there in the last few days of the campaign. But did you know that DC, not being a state, has no Senators and no Representatives … and therefore no Electoral College and NO voice in the election? It’s just one of the many, many reasons the Electoral College is a terrible, pointless, insulting, anachronistic load of crap—one of very few such anomalies in the otherwise thoughtful, historic and richly American legacy our Founding Fathers left us to enjoy centuries after the birth of our great nation.
So go out and vote. Educate yourselves on the candidates. Educate yourselves on the issues. Make your voice heard. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams didn’t risk their lives so you could sit on your butts and watch musicals all day.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Letter from Washington
I'm sitting at one of the free computers in the lobby of our hotel (VERY cool guest perk) and waiting to head out on one more family excursion before I wing my way home this afternoon. We've had a pretty spectacular week (detailed commentary and snide remarks to follow in a separate post), and Dad made it safely to the other side of 65. I didn't run into -- and get to slap -- Antonin "Scabby Little Butthole" Scalia or "Tiny" Dick "Scabby Little Butthole" Cheney while we were here, but my family and I did spend time in darn near every museum and monument we'd hoped to visit. And we stumbled on a few more that were equally as thrilling.
I'd packed my running gear in the hopes of making a few laps around the Mall under the watchful eye of my favorite DC landmarks, but my knee is still pretty banged up from the marathon. I did get to enjoy the next best thing, though: reveling in the palpable energy (and endless miles of hot, muscular legs) from the Marine Corps Marathon, which is freshly underway as I write this. The city -- our hotel especially -- has been PACKED with marathon runners (with those amazing legs) and Marines (with those sexy high-and-tight flattops) all weekend. And it's been extremely difficult to scope and flirt discreetly around my parents (not that any of those stupid Marines showed any interest in flirting back).
Enjoy your Halloween. And watch this space for more exciting news from Dad's Medicare Tour 2004.
I'd packed my running gear in the hopes of making a few laps around the Mall under the watchful eye of my favorite DC landmarks, but my knee is still pretty banged up from the marathon. I did get to enjoy the next best thing, though: reveling in the palpable energy (and endless miles of hot, muscular legs) from the Marine Corps Marathon, which is freshly underway as I write this. The city -- our hotel especially -- has been PACKED with marathon runners (with those amazing legs) and Marines (with those sexy high-and-tight flattops) all weekend. And it's been extremely difficult to scope and flirt discreetly around my parents (not that any of those stupid Marines showed any interest in flirting back).
Enjoy your Halloween. And watch this space for more exciting news from Dad's Medicare Tour 2004.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Happy birthday, Dad!
It's hard to believe that my father -- the man who taught me to ride a bike and replace a faucet and throw a football without looking too much like a big girl -- is crossing over into the realm of the Medicare eligible this weekend.
But he's not aging wimpliy. Indeed, he and Mom have planned a rockin' birthday week in the cradle (or grave, depending on the outcome of next week's election) of modern civilization: Washington, D.C. We take off tomorrow for five days of museums, concerts, food, impromptu history lessons and probably more food. Definitely more food.
And here, in no particular order, are some of the things I'm looking forward to:
• Sitting on the top steps of the Lincoln Memorial and gazing down at the Mall and all the monuments both epic and modest that commemorate all the history that has made me (usually very) proud to be an American.
• Sitting in the sunken sculpture garden behind the Hirshhorn, contemplating one of the most dynamic scupltures of all time: Rodin's The Burghers of Calais.
• Gawking like a big fag at the display of first lady inaugural gowns.
• Catching the always-brilliant Capitol Steps just a few days before a hotly contested election.
• Spending time with my folks. As adults. As friends. I'm incredibly lucky my family is so close, and I cherish every moment we have together.
• Not being at WORK.
I have no idea if I'll have the time or computer access (or inclination) to make any posts until I get back on Sunday. Be good while I'm gone.
But he's not aging wimpliy. Indeed, he and Mom have planned a rockin' birthday week in the cradle (or grave, depending on the outcome of next week's election) of modern civilization: Washington, D.C. We take off tomorrow for five days of museums, concerts, food, impromptu history lessons and probably more food. Definitely more food.
And here, in no particular order, are some of the things I'm looking forward to:
• Sitting on the top steps of the Lincoln Memorial and gazing down at the Mall and all the monuments both epic and modest that commemorate all the history that has made me (usually very) proud to be an American.
• Sitting in the sunken sculpture garden behind the Hirshhorn, contemplating one of the most dynamic scupltures of all time: Rodin's The Burghers of Calais.
• Gawking like a big fag at the display of first lady inaugural gowns.
• Catching the always-brilliant Capitol Steps just a few days before a hotly contested election.
• Spending time with my folks. As adults. As friends. I'm incredibly lucky my family is so close, and I cherish every moment we have together.
• Not being at WORK.
I have no idea if I'll have the time or computer access (or inclination) to make any posts until I get back on Sunday. Be good while I'm gone.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Circus train
When you're planning on taking three days of vacation -- how dare you! -- you end up working late, late, late on the nights before you actually escape.
And when you get on a late-night train home, you invariably share the ride with a menagerie of oddballs.
So tonight I get on a relatively empty car (one of the benefis of late-night train rides is you get a seat all to yourself) and take out my New Yorker for some nice light reading on the trip home. I'm enjoying yet another verbal evisceration of our butt-stupid president when out of the corner of my eye I spot The Conductor. And I'm not talking about the train conductor. This guy was just your garden-varietytwitchy freak who needed to be kicked by an angry donkey weird person with a tic: He waved his hand. A lot. He was sitting across the aisle from me with his Jake-facing arm draped across the back of the empty seat next to him. And he was using it to conduct an imaginary symphony. Or punctuate an animated conversation in his head. Or swat a swarm of clumsy bees. Or dry his nails. In any case, his fucking hand would not. stop. waving. And it summoned in me the need. to. kill.
Fortunately for The Conductor, my attention was diverted at the Belmont stop by the arrival of The Hoodlum. This wannabe-badasswho was so, so, so obviously gay slumped onto the train mumbling incoherently but loudly into a cell phone, and when he finished his conversation (and how did anyone involved in that conversation know it was finished? nothing was being said) he pulled on his earphones and blasted his Angry Disaffected Urban Kid Music so loud it actually interrupted The Conductor's symphony. Rotten kids.
At the next stop, Sullen Lady and her Pleading Boyfriend got up to leave. She'd been self-hugging and boyfriend-ignoring since the stop after I got on. But that didn't stop him from working to get on her good sideif the drama queen even had one. And when he offered his hand to help her up from her seat at their final destination, she sat there defiantly in her baby-pink car coat, ignoring his hand and standing up All By Herself once the train came to a complete stop. Good girl!
As the train pulled us out of their station and away from their Epic Drama, the door on the front end of our car slammed open, and The Maverick appeared. (You see, there are tons of signs forbidding people from traveling from car to car while the train is moving -- except in extreme emergencies -- but those rules don't apply to everyone. At least once a week, someone in The Maverick family makes a big show of emerging from one end of my car and clomping down the aisle only to disappear through the door at the other end. In the mean time, those of us who have been so unfairly prevented from embarking on such adventures look on and hope that this time -- oh please oh please oh please -- The Maverick will slip and be crushed to a painful, bloody death as he travels between cars. But we never get our wish.) Tonight, the part of The Maverick was dramatically played by a limping lothario in a knee-length duster and jaunty fedora. But he didn't smell bad, so he literally lacked the required air of authenticity.
Mercifully, by the time The Maverick had disappearedinto a bloody pulp beneath the wheels, my stop came into view. One whoosh of the door, and I left this chapter of the circus life behind me.
And then I raced home to blog about it.
And when you get on a late-night train home, you invariably share the ride with a menagerie of oddballs.
So tonight I get on a relatively empty car (one of the benefis of late-night train rides is you get a seat all to yourself) and take out my New Yorker for some nice light reading on the trip home. I'm enjoying yet another verbal evisceration of our butt-stupid president when out of the corner of my eye I spot The Conductor. And I'm not talking about the train conductor. This guy was just your garden-variety
Fortunately for The Conductor, my attention was diverted at the Belmont stop by the arrival of The Hoodlum. This wannabe-badass
At the next stop, Sullen Lady and her Pleading Boyfriend got up to leave. She'd been self-hugging and boyfriend-ignoring since the stop after I got on. But that didn't stop him from working to get on her good side
As the train pulled us out of their station and away from their Epic Drama, the door on the front end of our car slammed open, and The Maverick appeared. (You see, there are tons of signs forbidding people from traveling from car to car while the train is moving -- except in extreme emergencies -- but those rules don't apply to everyone. At least once a week, someone in The Maverick family makes a big show of emerging from one end of my car and clomping down the aisle only to disappear through the door at the other end. In the mean time, those of us who have been so unfairly prevented from embarking on such adventures look on and hope that this time -- oh please oh please oh please -- The Maverick will slip and be crushed to a painful, bloody death as he travels between cars. But we never get our wish.) Tonight, the part of The Maverick was dramatically played by a limping lothario in a knee-length duster and jaunty fedora. But he didn't smell bad, so he literally lacked the required air of authenticity.
Mercifully, by the time The Maverick had disappeared
And then I raced home to blog about it.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Odds and ends
So Tucson was gross, boring and kind of depressing fun. The plane rides there and back were among the bumpiest I've ever experienced. There was a point on the trip home where we hit some kind of air pocket so hard that people actually shrieked and my complimentary beverage became airborne, making a wet mess of my tray table (which was not in the locked and upright position at the time). I turned to the dork guy next to me and made a lame joke about potholes, and he shot me a look that said -- in all seriousness -- Dude, there are no potholes in the air.
The focus groups we observed there were interesting as well. The participants in the first group were duly knowledgeable and thoughtful, but the second group was infested with conspiracy theorists -- one of whom went off on multiple tangents about how the government is willfully keeping the public sick by withholding funding for cloning technology. And the man was a retired pharmacist.
The focus group facility itself was in the middle of a depressing trailer-park neighborhood a couple miles down the road from our hotel, which was relatively nice -- and decorated very theatrically in a Mexican villa sort of way. It even had a courtyard with a huge fountain, and I spent a couple hours Friday morning reading in the sun next to it until it was time to head to the airport. Business travel can be so exhausting.
I'm choreographing the chorus' holiday show (if you loved me you'd get your tickets now), and Saturday was the first of our two dance auditions. I'm always so impressed by how hard people work at my auditions -- and I'm always amused when I see them struggling to perform combinations I put together dancing around the house in my underwear or even in the shower -- but I HATE the casting part of the process; people are guaranteed to be disappointed or get their feelings hurt and there's nothing I can do to make everyone happy. But I get a huge kick out of seeing my ideas take shape on stage and an even bigger kick out of seeing my dancers' confidence and skills grow. (Plus, it's my personal mission to teach the entire world to soft-shoe, and I'm almost done with the Homosexual Phase of the process. So if you're a breeder, start limbering up and practice dancing on the balls of your feet. You're next.)
The focus groups we observed there were interesting as well. The participants in the first group were duly knowledgeable and thoughtful, but the second group was infested with conspiracy theorists -- one of whom went off on multiple tangents about how the government is willfully keeping the public sick by withholding funding for cloning technology. And the man was a retired pharmacist.
The focus group facility itself was in the middle of a depressing trailer-park neighborhood a couple miles down the road from our hotel, which was relatively nice -- and decorated very theatrically in a Mexican villa sort of way. It even had a courtyard with a huge fountain, and I spent a couple hours Friday morning reading in the sun next to it until it was time to head to the airport. Business travel can be so exhausting.
I'm choreographing the chorus' holiday show (if you loved me you'd get your tickets now), and Saturday was the first of our two dance auditions. I'm always so impressed by how hard people work at my auditions -- and I'm always amused when I see them struggling to perform combinations I put together dancing around the house in my underwear or even in the shower -- but I HATE the casting part of the process; people are guaranteed to be disappointed or get their feelings hurt and there's nothing I can do to make everyone happy. But I get a huge kick out of seeing my ideas take shape on stage and an even bigger kick out of seeing my dancers' confidence and skills grow. (Plus, it's my personal mission to teach the entire world to soft-shoe, and I'm almost done with the Homosexual Phase of the process. So if you're a breeder, start limbering up and practice dancing on the balls of your feet. You're next.)
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Jet Age interrupts the Information Age
I'm winging off to Tucson on business in a few hours.
Here's some stuff you can look forward to seeing Right! Here! On! This! Site! when I get back:
• More marathon photos!
• Pictures of my new bathroom!
• Pictures of all theartfully arranged gay-ass stuff I hung over my bed!
• More pathetic rants about how I can't find a boyfriend!
• Random pictures of hunky men I found on the Internet!
Be good while I'm gone.
Here's some stuff you can look forward to seeing Right! Here! On! This! Site! when I get back:
• More marathon photos!
• Pictures of my new bathroom!
• Pictures of all the
• More pathetic rants about how I can't find a boyfriend!
• Random pictures of hunky men I found on the Internet!
Be good while I'm gone.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Performances and misconceptions
PERFORMANCE
Last night the chorus sang a short 10-minute set to kick off an evening of song and dance called Jubliate, a fund-raiser for Bonaventure House, which provides housing and assistance for people living with HIV and AIDS. What made the event different from our regular appearances is the fact that Bonaventure House is not your typical gay-run organization. In fact, it’s a Catholic thing—and the event purportedly draws its audience from the rich straight white see-and-be-seen Gold Coast socialite demographic instead of the rich gay white see-and-be-seen Attitude Queen demographic, which is what we’re used to singing for. So we got exposure in front of a whole new segment of the population. And, as usual, we rocked.
And the hope is that after seeing and hearing just how much we rock, this new segment of the population will think we’re handsome and talented young men and will 1) adopt us in a benefactor sort of way and 2) tell its friends (and elected officials) that Those Gay People sure are nice—and handsome and talented!—and maybe everyone should stop discriminating against them.
What was even cooler was that the event took place in the brand-spanking-new Harris Theater for Music and Dance, conveniently located under (as in many stories deep in the earth below) Frank Gehry’s magnificent new Pritzker Pavilion in Chicago’s magnificent new Millennium Park. Though the new theater suffers from a bad case of Butt-Ugly Lobby, the performance space itself is spectacular, with amazing sightlines and acoustics that border on perfection. It was a total trip to sing on the stage—especially so soon after it opened.
I’m always interested in comparing the public spaces of great theaters—and this place is destined to become a great theater—with their backstage spaces. The backstage spaces at the Harris Theater are decorated in an efficient military-blah style, with floor after floor of spacious—though sparsely decorated—dressing rooms organized along endless corridors filled with exposed pipes (for easy access!), whitewashed to cheerless uniformity and stenciled with minimalist signage pointing you anywhere you want to go. It’s all very Titanic steerage, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble on a poor Irish girl or two struggling into a life jacket or two as I walked the halls last night.
And there’s a rumor—just a rumor, mind you—that this theater will become the chorus’ new performance home as soon as next season. Which gives me a huge, all-singing, all-dancing boner.
MISCONCEPTION
As many of you more regular readers knowbecause I pathetically won’t stop carping about it, I have been single for more than a regular human could be realistically expected to bear quite some time now.
And last night I might have figured out one of theobvious to everyone but me reasons why: It seems that there’s this misconception that I already have a boyfriend.
As we were changing clothes after the concert last night, hunky little Rick turned and asked me a question that I suddenly realized I’d heard in one form or another about ten times in the last month alone: “You have a boyfriend, right?”
AS IF. Would a man in the throes of romantic bliss have the time to writePulitzer-worthy endlessly entertaining blog entries day in and day out? Would a man with a bottomless pit of sexual need boyfriend have time to run a marathon? Would a man who’s been validated by love spend his evenings killing hookers in the basement spend his evenings killing hookers in the basement?
In a word: No.
Once I realized there was a pattern here and explained it to Rick, he responded—without coaching of any sort—honest!—with a charming rationalization: The world thinks I’m such great husband material that everyone just assumes I have a husband.
Which pretty much floored me. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a sweeter compliment. Especially one that also managed to fill me withgut-wrenching despair concern that this find-a-boyfriend project is even more of an uphill battle than I’d feared.
And it didn’t do much to stop me from going to bedbitter and alone and reeking of smoke after yet another unsuccessful evening of husband-hunting at Sidetrack last night.
Last night the chorus sang a short 10-minute set to kick off an evening of song and dance called Jubliate, a fund-raiser for Bonaventure House, which provides housing and assistance for people living with HIV and AIDS. What made the event different from our regular appearances is the fact that Bonaventure House is not your typical gay-run organization. In fact, it’s a Catholic thing—and the event purportedly draws its audience from the rich straight white see-and-be-seen Gold Coast socialite demographic instead of the rich gay white see-and-be-seen Attitude Queen demographic, which is what we’re used to singing for. So we got exposure in front of a whole new segment of the population. And, as usual, we rocked.
And the hope is that after seeing and hearing just how much we rock, this new segment of the population will think we’re handsome and talented young men and will 1) adopt us in a benefactor sort of way and 2) tell its friends (and elected officials) that Those Gay People sure are nice—and handsome and talented!—and maybe everyone should stop discriminating against them.
What was even cooler was that the event took place in the brand-spanking-new Harris Theater for Music and Dance, conveniently located under (as in many stories deep in the earth below) Frank Gehry’s magnificent new Pritzker Pavilion in Chicago’s magnificent new Millennium Park. Though the new theater suffers from a bad case of Butt-Ugly Lobby, the performance space itself is spectacular, with amazing sightlines and acoustics that border on perfection. It was a total trip to sing on the stage—especially so soon after it opened.
I’m always interested in comparing the public spaces of great theaters—and this place is destined to become a great theater—with their backstage spaces. The backstage spaces at the Harris Theater are decorated in an efficient military-blah style, with floor after floor of spacious—though sparsely decorated—dressing rooms organized along endless corridors filled with exposed pipes (for easy access!), whitewashed to cheerless uniformity and stenciled with minimalist signage pointing you anywhere you want to go. It’s all very Titanic steerage, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble on a poor Irish girl or two struggling into a life jacket or two as I walked the halls last night.
And there’s a rumor—just a rumor, mind you—that this theater will become the chorus’ new performance home as soon as next season. Which gives me a huge, all-singing, all-dancing boner.
MISCONCEPTION
As many of you more regular readers know
And last night I might have figured out one of the
As we were changing clothes after the concert last night, hunky little Rick turned and asked me a question that I suddenly realized I’d heard in one form or another about ten times in the last month alone: “You have a boyfriend, right?”
AS IF. Would a man in the throes of romantic bliss have the time to write
In a word: No.
Once I realized there was a pattern here and explained it to Rick, he responded—without coaching of any sort—honest!—with a charming rationalization: The world thinks I’m such great husband material that everyone just assumes I have a husband.
Which pretty much floored me. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a sweeter compliment. Especially one that also managed to fill me with
And it didn’t do much to stop me from going to bed
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Post-marathon excitement
So since I posted all my marathon pix and stories, I've been waiting for something Just As Epic to happen to me so I could write about it.
Unfortunately, the marathon has pretty much been my life since I started training for it in April. And now that it's over, apparently so is my life.
To wit:
• I had a business trip this week. To Minnesota. Whee. (We were, however, presenting concepts for the upcoming Harley-Davidson Visa Sweet Ride Sweepstakes, so the creative that we were working on was definitely cool.)
• I ran out of my favorite peanut butter AND my favorite salad dressing. So I had to go to the store.
• I watched The Apprentice. They fired my favorite hunk of meat.
• I programmed my TiVo to record a six-hour PBS series about Broadway. Because, apparently, I'm gay.
• You get the picture.
But everything changed today, when I found myself with ACTUAL SOCIAL PLANS: I met Bob downtown at noon to have lunch and then to see The Forgotten, which I loved! Not only is the plot engaging and suitably thrilling, but it never gets bogged down by those annoying that-would-never-happen moments that drive me NUTS in most other movies. (Yes, the movie involves some weird supernatural/alien/government-cover-up storyline -- which requires a certain willingness to suspend disbelief -- but it never leaves you hanging with day-to-day unbelievabilities. And just when you think it does -- like the scene where two characters go to an office building in an airplane hanger and find every door mysteriously unlocked -- it explains away this seeming implausability with a very logical plot development. I totally dig when that happens.) It also stars the always-cool Julianne Moore, who is on my very short list of females I would fuck if I absolutely had to. (Hey, when I feel a compliment coming on, I share it. Even when it's this saccharine-sweet and potentially blush-inducing. And Julianne is very deserving of such effusive praise.) Best of all, the movie gives not one but THREE examples of smokin' hot men in (or at least approaching) their 40s:
Dominic West, best known (to me) as the doomed (but hunky) Fred Casely in Chicago
Linus Roache, best known (to me) as the scandalously gay Priest
Gary Sinise, best known (to me) as, well, Gary Sinise
But that's not all of today's excitement, my friends. Noooooo! After the movie, we went bag shopping! And after years of schlepping through business trips with my embarrassingly rural green-and-blue Lands' End carry-on, I'm now the proud owner of a stylish (though admirably understated) black leather shoulder bag with tons of compartments, ingenious zippered expandability, and a sleek aesthetic that says I'm Someone And I'm Going Somewhere.
And the first place I'm going with it is Tucson. This Thursday.
And heads will turn.
Unfortunately, the marathon has pretty much been my life since I started training for it in April. And now that it's over, apparently so is my life.
To wit:
• I had a business trip this week. To Minnesota. Whee. (We were, however, presenting concepts for the upcoming Harley-Davidson Visa Sweet Ride Sweepstakes, so the creative that we were working on was definitely cool.)
• I ran out of my favorite peanut butter AND my favorite salad dressing. So I had to go to the store.
• I watched The Apprentice. They fired my favorite hunk of meat.
• I programmed my TiVo to record a six-hour PBS series about Broadway. Because, apparently, I'm gay.
• You get the picture.
But everything changed today, when I found myself with ACTUAL SOCIAL PLANS: I met Bob downtown at noon to have lunch and then to see The Forgotten, which I loved! Not only is the plot engaging and suitably thrilling, but it never gets bogged down by those annoying that-would-never-happen moments that drive me NUTS in most other movies. (Yes, the movie involves some weird supernatural/alien/government-cover-up storyline -- which requires a certain willingness to suspend disbelief -- but it never leaves you hanging with day-to-day unbelievabilities. And just when you think it does -- like the scene where two characters go to an office building in an airplane hanger and find every door mysteriously unlocked -- it explains away this seeming implausability with a very logical plot development. I totally dig when that happens.) It also stars the always-cool Julianne Moore, who is on my very short list of females I would fuck if I absolutely had to. (Hey, when I feel a compliment coming on, I share it. Even when it's this saccharine-sweet and potentially blush-inducing. And Julianne is very deserving of such effusive praise.) Best of all, the movie gives not one but THREE examples of smokin' hot men in (or at least approaching) their 40s:
Dominic West, best known (to me) as the doomed (but hunky) Fred Casely in Chicago
Linus Roache, best known (to me) as the scandalously gay Priest
Gary Sinise, best known (to me) as, well, Gary Sinise
But that's not all of today's excitement, my friends. Noooooo! After the movie, we went bag shopping! And after years of schlepping through business trips with my embarrassingly rural green-and-blue Lands' End carry-on, I'm now the proud owner of a stylish (though admirably understated) black leather shoulder bag with tons of compartments, ingenious zippered expandability, and a sleek aesthetic that says I'm Someone And I'm Going Somewhere.
And the first place I'm going with it is Tucson. This Thursday.
And heads will turn.
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