Friday Jukebox, 11.30.07

And the holiday cheer continues. Sure, he's plying her with liquor and undressing her against her will, but still one has to admit, Mr. Rourke was quite a hottie in his day. And it does ease the mind somewhat that after Ricardo seduced Esther, they ... went swimming.

Sticks and Stones

Last night, I was driving home and listening to NPR, and there was a story about a sock factory in Honduras. And every time Melissa Block (or was it Michelle Norris?) said "sock" in oh-so-serious tones (because this industry is apparently very important in Honduras), I was reminded that "sock" can at once mean a snuggly thing made of cotton or yarn that keeps your feet warm, but it can also mean a fist in your face.

And my mind wandered to other words that indicate violence, and it seems that they all have alternative, mostly postive meanings as well.

"Hit" could mean a pop song that everyone is listening to right now.

"Punch" could mean a fruity concoction served in large glass bowls at parties.

"Strike" could mean a group of workers collectively standing up for their rights, or even better, hitting all your bowling pins with just one roll of the ball down the alley.

"Belt" could refer to that strap of leather that holds my pants up (always a good thing).

"Stab" could mean a brave attempt at something you've always wanted to do but never tried before.

"Box" could mean a lovely brown paper package tied up with string, which is indeed one of my favorite things.

"Kick" could mean an extra bit of spice (or alcohol) in that dish (or cocktail) you're currently enjoying.

"Bash" could mean one hell of a party.

"Batter" could be a delightful blend of ingredients used to make waffles or pancakes.

"Blow" could mean lightly exhaling onto a liquid soapy material to create bubbles that joyously float away, and um ... (ahem) other kinds of oral pleasure.

The only word I could think of that indicates physical violence and cannot be used to describe something lovely and pleasant is "clobber," but even that is very similar to "cobbler" and there's nothing more lovely or pleasant that a warm blueberry cobbler placed next to your Sunday morning cup of coffee.

I don't really have a point, except to ponder this: if language is all we really have to help us make sense of the world, and if this is the language we're using, then is it any wonder that we're so screwed up? Just sayin'.

To HRC or Not To HRC

Not sure if my faithful straight readers (both of you) will have a clue about this controversy, but last month, the House of Representatives passed a piece of legislation called the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, or ENDA, that provides federal protection against employment discrimination for all Americans, regardless of sexual orientation. Simply put, if this law makes it past the Senate and Dubya signs it, no one will be able to be fired or harassed just because s/he is gay ... or straight. In other words, it'll never happen.

But that's not the part that's controversial.

What's got some folks ripping mad is that at one point the bill also included "gender identity," and would have actively protected transgender people as well as gays and lesbians. Only when the vote drew nearer, some cautious folks felt that the trans-inclusive bill had little chance of passing the House, so the words "gender identity" were taken out, and a the sexual orientation-only version passed. Much sturm und drang ensued.

A lot of the sturming und dranging had to do with the Human Rights Campaign, or HRC -- the largest LGBT-focused civil rights organization in America. Except that now some people are wondering if HRC should be including the "T" in that description. You see, the HRC at one point supported the trans-inclusive bill, and went so far as to say that they would never, ever, under any circumstances, support any legislation that didn't include gender identity. Months later, after the edits to the bill had been made, the HRC went ahead and endorsed it, and lots of transgender folk felt the sensation of all-weather radials crushing them into the pavement -- because that's what it feels like to be thrown under the bus.

There are folks I respect on both sides of the debate, but I side on the side of the folks who were saddened when the trans-inclusive language was stripped from the bill. Firstly and for starters, it's a sad statement when those who are fighting for equality are compelled to edit language out of a civil rights law because they feel that the majority of Americans "aren't ready" to treat people like human beings that are worthy of respect. Yeah, that's just ... sad. Really, really, unbelievably sad.

But there are other reasons, too. I don't think that a gender identity-exclusive bill actually does that much good for gays and lesbians, because a great many of those who have suffered on-the-job discrimination weren't so much discriminated against because they were gay, but because they looked or acted gay. Hyper-masculine gay men and feminine lesbians might face discrimination or the lack of advancement opportunities; in fact, I'm sure they do -- but I'd bet not nearly so much as the "effeminate" gay man or the "mannish" lesbian ... and that's where it becomes difficult to tell whether the discrimination is about sexual orientation or gender identity, and why it's really important to have a law that includes both of them.

But mostly I'm saddened by the move because of my friend James. That's him on the right. Isn't he handsome?

The thing is, James was born into a female body. At one point I knew what name he was given at birth, but I've since forgotten it, and truth be told, I don't much care. He's just James.

After his transition, James could have retreated into that which we call a "normal" life, settling down with his beautiful wife Heidi, and not disturbing the nice neighbors with his biological history. Instead, he's been working tirelessly for equal rights for transgender people for almost twenty years. When my company was finally willing to consider amending its EEO and Workplace Harassment policies to include gender identity and expression, I called James right away. He helped us make our case to our Chief Personnel Officer this year, and all signs currently point to success.

James joined the HRC Business Council a few years ago. But today, he quit. He and fellow trans activist Donna Rose, who also used to serve on HRC's Board of Directors, issued a joint letter today. It read, in part, like this:

Considering recent broken promises, the lack of credibility that HRC has with the transgender community at large, and HRC's apparent lack of commitment to healing the breach it has caused, we find it impossible to maintain an effective working relationship with the organization.

Ouch. And ... I'm a member of the HRC. I have a recurring payment plan that sends them a few bucks each month. And ... I totally support James's decision to leave the Business Council. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to work with people if you honestly believe they stabbed you in the back for their own gain. And ... I don't think I'll be cancelling my HRC membership. At least not now.

Don't get me wrong; I'm completely disappointed in the Human Rights Campaign for going back on their word and (to my mind) putting the rights of some humans within the LGBT community on a higher pedestal than those of other humans, who just happen to be transgender. At the same time, I think we still need the HRC. Joe Solmonese (HRC's current President) takes meetings with Ted Kennedy, Tammy Baldwin, and Barney Frank when he needs to bend their ear about something. Matt Foreman (who leads the National Gay & Lesbian Task Force, who rightly and ethically stood by the transgender community and condemned the trans-exclusive bill) probably can't get most Senators or Congresspeople to take his calls. Sad, but true (see update, below).

So the HRC still gets my money. And therefore, it's tough to sound too huffy about my principled stances. And while I can console myself by saying that there's room in the movement for differing opinions and that political success requires a certain amount of pragmatism, it doesn't do much good, because now I feel like a bad friend.

Being oppressed totally sucks.

UPDATE: Matt Foreman actually visited my blog this morning and left a comment which clarifies my statements above, letting me (and you) know that, in fact, he does get his phone calls answered. Which is mighty good news.

Tryppin' Out

How was your Thanksgiving? Mine was TRYPTOPHANTASTIC.

Which is to say, sleepy and drowsy. Even though the connection between tryptophan, the amino acid contained in turkey, and the sleepy, drowsy feeling often experienced by people who've spent most of the afternoon helping themselves to third and fourth servings of turkey is largely known to be a myth, I still believe in tryptophan's mysterious powers, partly because I believe it gives me an air of childlike innocence, and also because I live in denial about those third and fourth helpings, each with a generous portion of gravy. Hi, I like run-on sentences.

As my faithful readers (all four of them) know, I spent the long holiday weekend with the adoptive lesbian moms. One of them was scheduled for surgery on her knee on Tuesday, and I was warned that the weekend would be a quiet one, featuring lots of lounging around in our pajamas, catering to the invalid's every whim while snacking on whatever happened to be lying around the house and watching lots of movies and home improvement shows. Which, truth be told, sounded just ducky to me (does duck contain tryptophan too, or just turkey?).

Well, the best laid plans of sloths and men appeared to be in jeopardy when, on Tuesday morning, as she was literally being wheeled into the operating room, the surgery was cancelled. It's a long story, but it all has to do with a surgeon who was being cautious -- over-cautious according to some who tell the tale, but I figure that's the side of that particular fence I'd want my future surgeons to err on, so ... there it is.

So ... the mom could walk. We found ourselves invited to a friend's home for Thanksgiving, and that was lovely. On Friday, we did a few things that needed doing around the house. On Saturday, bereft of any plans (no one bothered to make plans because we thought we'd be housebound with the patient), we decided to go back to Plan A: lots of lounging around in our pajamas while snacking on whatever happened to be lying around the house and watching lots of movies and home improvement shows.

The movies we watched included Fracture (Anthony Hopkins phoning in another homicidal creep, i.e. he was brilliant), For Your Consideration (so funny, so painful to watch), The Incredibles (just as fun the second time), Music & Lyrics (exactly what you think it's going to be and that's okay), Shopgirl (unexpected and lovely), and the full five hours of the BBC version of Pride & Prejudice (swoonworthy, thy name is Mr. Darcy).

It was fun, but eventually the sloth (and the snackin') got to me. I drove home this morning, and am still in a state of lethargy. I came home to a lot of laundry to do and a few dirty dishes in the sink, and so far have not been able to muster up the willpower to tackle any of it. I feel fat and sleepy, and not particularly charming or attractive, wholly unprepared should my own Mr. Darcy make an appearance and yet safe in the knowledge that there's little chance of that at present.

And yet, it's probably good to slow down every now and then, even if it's difficult to get back up to speed when reality threatens to re-introduce itself. Tomorrow morning should be oodles of fun, kids. Ciao for now (that's "Ciao," not "chow" ... just sayin').

Friday Jukebox, 11.23.07

Sign me up with the folks who hate the utter commercialization of that which we call the holiday season. I understand what drives retailers across the land to urge everyone in America to buy, buy, buy this time each year, but it totally chaps my hide.



However, lest you think I'm some kind of Scrooge, I will admit this much: I love Christmas music. It gets me all warm and gooey inside. As a kid, my family owned a six-LP box set of Christmas records (that's right; I said records), one of those Reader's Digest music collections, that included every popular holiday tune, both secular and religious, you could possibly think of (plus others, like "Marshmallow World" and "Señor Santa Claus" that you'd probably never think of, nor should you).

On the day after Thanksgiving, my sister and I pulled out the records, which were in constant rotation until New Year's Day. So, I don't know that I'll play a holiday tune every Friday between here and 2008, but if I do, you're forewarned.

Thanks and Giving

So I spent a lot of last weekend feeling sorry for myself. The low point was Sunday evening, curled up on the couch with only a cat for company, watching TV alone, turning out the light alone, padding into the bedroom alone, falling asleep ... alone. You get the picture.

The next morning, a colleague at work asked me what my plans were for Thanksgiving. And I replied that I'd be going to Rehoboth, to spend the holiday with the moms, just as I've done for the past eight or nine years. And it hit me -- I have somewhere to go each Thanksgiving, with people who love me. I don't ask to be invited; it's assumed I will be there, the only question is, when will I be arriving.


And I thought about that, and about the previous night's bout of loneliness and self-pity. There are a lot of people who have nowhere to go today. Sure, I have yet to meet the man of my dreams, and it's okay that this makes me sad every now and again. After all, if I was perfectly content being single, it's likely I'd remain so the rest of my life. But on this particular Thanksgiving morning, I'm feeling particularly lucky.

And I think that's the whole point.

Here's wishing all of you a lovely Thanksgiving, complete with safe travels, minimal indigestion, and the raising of many glasses (Red Zinfandel and Gewurtztraminer best complement a traditional Thanksgiving meal ... just sayin').

Cheers.

Dad's Heart

Way, way back (way), I wrote about a phone call I received in February 2005. My Dad had passed out, was in the hospital, and his doctors had prescribed open heart surgery later that day. Yikes.

Luckily, after some tests, they determined that his heart was doing fine for the time being. They then prescribed some antibiotics and sent him home. Still, that cold day in '05, I learned that it was just a matter of time before Dad would go under the knife.

And that time has arrived. He's scheduled for surgery in January. He'll have a valve replaced; it's a procedure with a 95% rate of complete and total recovery. Moreover, my father is the best patient in the world; if there's one thing he learned in the Navy, it's how to take orders. Still and yet, it's a scary prospect, the knowledge that in six weeks or thereabouts, dear old Dad will have his ribcage sawed open in what can only be described as an extremely invasive procedure.

Luckily (??!!), a friend of mine recently underwent a similar operation and recovered with those "flying colors" we're always hearing about. So that's my mental template when it comes to open heart surgery these days, and it's a good template to hold onto, methinks.

This morning, I'm off to spend Thanksgiving with the adoptive lesbian moms. I hope that all of you enjoy safe travels and plentiful second helpings this holiday. And if you happen to be spending the holiday with your dad, give him an extra squeeze. You need not mention that it's for my benefit as much as his.

Days of Cheap Wine and Spotty Roses

When I first got to Washington as a young artist with aspirations of writing, acting, and directing for the theatre, I had no idea how to get connected. Foolishly, I believed that I'd simply be able to call any theatre in town and schedule an audition. After they were wowed by my precision and brilliance, thought I, I'd make my way into the inner circle (two years, three at the most) and happily work in the theatre all the rest of my days.

It doesn't quite work that way.

It worked that way in college, but -- as much as I loved my professors and my particular program -- my one complaint about them is that they didn't do a very good job preparing us for that which we call "the real world." I didn't even have a headshot and resume when I starting poking around the theatre scene.

Soon, I learned about this thing called "The Leagues." Every year, the League of Washington Theatres would sponsor a cattle call: five days of auditions, eight hours a day, ten actors per hour. Each actor got two minutes, on stage all by him/herself, to show 'em what s/he got. One year, ill-prepared as usual (they always seemed to sneak up on me), I got up there and did a little sketch from an old French & Saunders TV special I'd once seen (over, and over, and over). I killed -- (hello? French plus Saunders equals funny) -- and actually got a lot of calls. But most of the time, the Leagues didn't do anything for me.

Then I discovered the Washington Theatre Festival, otherwise known as the Source Fest. Every summer, DC-area playwrights would submit short plays, and actors and directors would mount them in a very bare-bones format. No one got paid, but the entire artistic staff of the Source Theatre Co. (at the time a very well-reputed professional troupe) would see every show. Unlike the artificiality of two minutes alone on a stage, this was an opportunity to really act in front of an influential someone who just might take a liking to you. And, it gave me the opportunity to act and direct and write, all three in the same year if I wanted to (and supposing that my plays were chosen, I got cast, and received a directing slot).

The Source Fest ended each year with the annual ten-minute play competition. Eight different plays of eleven minutes or less were staged each night for five nights, and at the end of the competition, one playwright would be the winner with two finalists by his/her side. Most of the plays were pure crap, but that was part of the fun on the competition. When you found a gem (and there were always at least one or two each evening), it felt like a real find.

In addition to being the craziest night of the entire Source Fest, the ten-minute play competition was a training ground of sorts for both writers and directors. They'd let just about anyone direct a ten-minute play in the competition, and directors got to choose the scripts themselves. The resulting five evenings of theatre were wild, crazy, raw, zany, and even a little dangerous.

Unfortunately, while the Leagues persist (the very thought makes this 36-year old shudder), the Source Fest died a while ago. The leadership of the sponsoring Source Theatre Co. fell apart, and thus ended the repository of many of my favorite memories of Washington theatre.

Except that now, it's back.

The new Source Festival (now its official name) is being co-sponsored by the Kennedy Center. The call for ten-minute plays was published earlier this month, and notes that Washington theatre luminaries such as Michael Khan (artistic director of DC's Shakespeare Theatre and the Julliard School), Molly Smith (artistic director of DC's Arena Stage), and other notable notables will be directing the 24 (no longer 40) ten-minute plays included in the festival.

Which is exciting. And a little disappointing. At the same time.

Of course, I'm preparing something to submit, and I'm fairly sure that my current effort will be a step above the stuff I was writing as an eager 22-year old. And the idea of Molly Smith or Michael Khan directing my work -- even ten minutes of it -- is the stuff of daydreams.


At the same time, it's hard to imagine a ten-minute play competition on even the smallest stage of the John F. Kennedy Center for Performing Arts feeling like a crazy party where folks who've had a bit too much to drink are stumbling onto the steep roofs of their eccentric host's rickety house just to get a view of the stars above. Because that's what the old festival always felt like to me.

I think you're beginning to get old when you wish things were the way they were "before." I also think that there are worse things than beginning to get old.

Friday Jukebox, 11.16.07

This is a favorite song of mine: "Courage," originally recorded by Canadian band The Tragically Hip, but sung here by Sarah Polley as part of the soundtrack of the Atom Egoyan film The Sweet Hereafter.

I actually heard the Sarah Polley version first, and I like it better. Even tho' The Hip wrote and first recorded the song, their version sounds more like a cover version than hers to me, like they're trying to do something unique and interesting with it. Altho' the line, "Piss on all your surroundings" suits the more rockin' version a bit more.

And yeah, the video is lame -- basically a bunch of film clips. But it was a decent movie, and it's such a gorgeous song, who cares? Now that Sarah is a big ol' film director in her own right, I wonder if she'll record much in future. She should, tho'. That's quite a voice that there girl's got.

You Have Been Disconnected

So today was supposed to be sort of relaxing. My team authorizes each of their staff to telecommute one day a week if they choose. So basically, if there's a day that doesn't require you to show up in person at any point, where all of your meetings could be conducted over the phone and all of your work can be transmitted via e-mail, you're good to go. Since our job is to advocate diversity throughout the organization, we often talk about work-life balance and flexible work schedules as a good way to attract and retain women (particularly working mothers), and so we walk the talk so that no one can come back to us and say, "those programs don't work." Because, hell0 ... they work for us.

Anyway, today was my work from home day. A few meetings, and a few presentations to tinker with, but no high-pressure deadlines, and hello -- I can wear jeans and an old sweater. And yes, I showered, but no I did not shave.

This morning, I trekked from my home to my favorite coffee shop, about eight city blocks away. And somewhere between my doorstep and my destination -- I lost my phone. Yes, kids -- Crackberry went missing. My regular readers (all four of you) will perhaps recall that this phone is not old. I purchased it less than three months ago. So, on top of the inconvenience, it's also really embarrassing.

When I got home and confirmed that I wasn't crazy and the phone was truly not in my possession, I did the responsible thing and called my wireless carrier to suspend service on the phone. I moved my late morning meeting to later in the afternoon, hopped on the Metro, and got myself to the wireless phone store to pick out a new phone. There, I learned that when you buy an overpriced monstrosity of a phone on a whim, there are actually some perks -- one of which is an insurance policy for lost or stolen phones. Rather than spending hundreds of dollars on a brand new overpriced monstrosity, I could have a new overpriced monstrosity delivered to my door for a surprisingly reasonable price ... about fifty bucks at the end of the day.

So, I left the phone store phoneless, but armed with a toll-free number to call and request a new phone. When I got back home, I did just that. My new phone would be delivered on Saturday, and that, so I thought, was that. I logged back in to my laptop and received an IM from a colleague -- had I received his message? No, I typed, it's been a crazy morning, but what's up. Apparently, he had received a call from a young girl earlier this morning. She had found my phone, but hadn't left a number.

So, I reactivated my service, and sent myself a text message: "if you find this phone, pls call (my home phone number)." After an hour (during which I actually did get some work done), I hadn't heard anything. I got nervous, and called the wireless carrier to suspend my service, again. I figured that even if I didn't see the phone again, it was cheap enough to replace, and the story I heard the first time I called my wireless carrier (an operator had just taken a call from a frantic man whose phone had been stolen by someone who had placed almost a thousand dollars' worth of international calls) scared me. The next operator I spoke to assured me that even with suspended service, the text message I had sent an hour before would come through.

Feeling less than hopeful that the mystery girl would return my phone, I sent a message out to everyone in my Address Book, asking them to re-send their numbers, addresses, e-mail addresses, etc. It was tres embarrassing, since I had just asked for this information a few months ago when the old phone died and the Crackberry had just been purchased. And after that was sent out, there was a conference call I needed to dial into.

While on the call, the call waiting on the home line beeped at me, but I was on the phone with a VP of my company, so I had to ignore it. When I went back to listen to it, a young girl who attends the nearby junior high left me a message. She found my phone, and when school got out at 3:15, she'd be willing to meet me and return it.

Longer story not quite as long, I ended up waiting on the corner of D & 15th Streets NE, not too far away from my home, for about ten minutes this afternoon. A police car drove by a couple of times and noticed me, but didn't stop. I'm sure had I not been a white guy loitering on the corner of a street corner in DC, I would have been given the third degree. The more I thought about this, the more it pissed me off, and I began to imagine what it would sound like if I ran after this police car, asking to be questioned in a threatening and belligerent manner. Lost in this particular daydream, I was surprised when a young girl in a puffy pink jacket asked me, "are you the guy who lost your phone?" She had a couple of friends with her (because she's smart), and she handed me the phone. I gave her a five dollar bill as a reward of sorts and thanked her for being an honest kid. She said thank you, grabbed the money, and ran like hell. Lucky the police car wasn't there to see that, I thought, because they'd be all over that black girl like white on rice. Anyway, I hope she uses the money to buy something completely unwise and frivolous, and knows how much I appreciate her honesty and integrity.

So ... my Crackberry and I are together again, and life is good. And even though there was some drama in between the losing of the thing and the getting it back, it gave me an interesting opportunity to reflect. It occurred to me that I was never upset about losing the shiny gadget with all the bells and whistles. Even when heading to the store to buy another phone, I wasn't all that upset about the money I'd have to spend for a new phone (in fact, I rather enjoyed the idea of a new phone with a camera and no freakin' Brickbreaker game).

Nope ... the only thing about the entire day that upset me was the fact that, without my shiny gadget, I was essentially cut off from my friends and family, those who know that number and use it to call me, wherever I might be, and say hello. I pictured myself, at home on a Friday evening, not knowing whether anyone wanted to reach out to me or not, and the not knowing being both sad and scary. I was also a little upset at the notion that my phone might have been stolen, because I hate it when events conspire to chip away at my faith in the basic goodness of people, but since my faith was reaffirmed by a young girl in a puffy pink jacket, I've released that worry back to the universe for someone else to latch onto.

So anyway ... if you're one of the folks in the world who knows the number to my elusive cell phone, you can call it now. And I'd be ever so glad to hear from you.

A Damn Fine Cup of Coffee

So last week, my most recent luxury purchase arrived in the mail: the definitive "Gold Box" edition of Twin Peaks, the genius show developed by Mark Frost and David Lynch in the early 90's ... ten (10!!) DVDs in all.

So far, I've only watched about half of the Special Features, the pilot, and the first regular episode, but it's just as good as I remember it being. And yet, while I'm having a grand time watching it, it's hell on my writing. As a storyteller, I just feel incredibly inadequate in comparison to Frost and Lynch. These are two brilliant guys, and for my money better together than apart. David Lynch has made some wild and interesting films, but nothing as good as what he did for TV with Mark Frost working with him.

For those who don't know (and if you don't know, where the hell were you in 1990?!), Twin Peaks focuses on a murder. One sunny morning, the body of Laura Palmer, the recently crowned homecoming queen, washes up on shore, wrapped in plastic, raped and murdered. When the investigation commences, the town (and we, the audience) learn that she had deep, dark secrets belied by her pristine image.

As long as we didn't know who killed Laura Palmer, the show was brilliant. Unfortunately, the network forced the creative team to solve the mystery halfway through the second season for fear of alienating the fan base. Unfortunately, once the fan base knew who the murderer was, they lost interest -- and so, apparently, did the creative forces behind the show. Without a central mystery to unify all the quirkiness, it became weird for weird's sake, whereas prior to the murder being solved, the weirdness seemed to highlight the themes being explored by the show -- that the world is sometimes more dangerous than we can imagine, and that we never know people nearly as well as we think we do.

One of my favorite memories from college took place in September of my senior year. During the semester before, half the students in the theatre department were, like myself, devotees of the show. The other half hadn't seen it from the beginning, and felt a little left out -- so, a classmate of mine taped the entire show from the summer repeats, and brought the videocassettes back to school with her in the fall. On the first weekend after classes, we watched nine hours of Twin Peaks while drinking much coffee and eating much pizza (and yes, someone made a cherry pie). About an hour after the marathon, we tuned into the second season premiere of the show. And then we all walked home. In the dark. While the wind whistles through the pine trees. We were scared out of our young, fragile minds. It was fantastic.

I'm not sure if the adoptive lesbian moms ever watched Twin Peaks, but I'm packing the DVDs in my suitcase anyway. Bonnie will be recovering from knee surgery and pretty well couch-bound, and will want something to obsess over for a few days. And this is really just the thing.

Damn, now I'm hungry for pie. Or donuts.

Safe Passage

Yesterday, my new passport arrived in the mail.

There was some doubt as to whether or not my passport application would be approved, because my old passport was really old. It expired in 1989, soon after I graduated from college, and I haven't been outside the country for eighteen years. The lady at the passport office was sure I'd need a birth certificate in order to verify my citizenship, but I crossed my fingers that my old (old) passport would be good enough and sent it in by itself -- and lo and behold, I was right and she was wrong (neener neener neener) and a bright new shiny passport is now in my possession.

Most people I know spent their entire childhoods in the U.S. and first ventured overseas as an adult. I had the opposite experience. Growing up as a child of the U.S. Navy, I moved to Spain when I was eighteen months old. We lived there for four years. My mother was a schoolteacher, and always found work at every new destination the Navy sent us, so during the day, I was cared for by Pepe, a woman from the nearby village. Pepe was hired to clean the house, but in Spanish tradition, watching over children and ensuring their safety was just part of the job. When I left Spain at the age of six, I was as fluent as any Spanish six-year old. But after three years in the Washington DC area, all of my Spanish had left the conscious part of my brain.

When I was nine, the family moved to Japan. We didn't know it at the time, but we'd be there for five years: three years in Misawa, on the northern tip of Honshu, and two years in Yokosuka, closer to Tokyo. I remember when we first arrived, we were offered a plate of sushi. It occurred to me in that moment that putting a piece of cold, raw fish in my mouth, chewing, and swallowing -- however distasteful it seemed at the age of nine -- was a perfect opportunity to simultaneously please my parents and gross out my sister. Not only did I try it, I did a passable job of pretending to enjoy it. Predictably, my sister turned green.

After Japan, the family moved to Newport, Rhode Island for a year, while my father studied at the Naval War College. It was a hard year for my sister, because it was her senior year of high school. It was harder yet for her to hear that while she was off to college, we were off to Hawaii. Still, I think she enjoyed leaving her compatriots at the University of Idaho during Christmas break and coming back with a tan.

We were only in Hawaii for one year, which honestly suited me just fine. It was beautiful, but it was the pimpliest, fattest, most awkward year of my adolescence. I didn't fit into the social scene very well, and was eager to leave it behind. I would have been happy going anywhere, but I just about swooned when I learned that my final years in high school would be spent in Scotland.


I loved my time in the U.K. I still wasn't the most popular kid in school, but I made all the popular kids laugh and so still got invited to all of the parties, etc. When you have a graduating class of thirteen kids, those at the top of the social strata can't be too exclusive. I even got a girlfriend (!!) when I started school there, but it didn't last long. In hindsight, I think she broke up with me because I never initiated sex and it made her feel really unattractive. I thought I was being responsible at the time; of course, now we know the real reason why it never occurred to me to ... go there.

But more than being more popular in school, I loved the cobblestone streets, the way the sun never went down for two weeks during the summer, and even the way it never came up during two weeks in the winter. I loved living in a place where you could actually see the stars at night -- all of them. I loved the fact that every celebration featured men in kilts blowing on bagpipes, and I loved learning to fake a Scottish brogue so that the local pubs would serve us pints of lager.

When I started college in 1988, I was sad to go -- but was able to see Scotland again when visiting my folks during my Christmas break. The next summer, my parents were relocating from Scotland back to Washington DC, and I was told to move in with my grandmother for the summer and consider getting a job at the bullet factory. I think it goes without saying that this did not happen. But my point is ... I stayed stateside, and haven't ventured outside U.S. borders since.

But now, I have a passport, and I can go anywhere I want. It's strange -- because of my international upbringing, I just haven't had the desire to travel far and wide, for a really long time. Also, during my twenties, international travel was cost-prohibitive -- and hello, I'm just not the backpacking-across-Europe kind of guy. But earlier this summer, the adoptive lesbian mom told me that she's considering a destination birthday to celebrate her 60th next year, and that it would be great if I had a boyfriend by then so that we could share a cabin if we end up on a cruise. Gee, thanks. But in the back of my head, I thought, "Damn ... I'd better get a passport."

And now it's here. And even though I've always subscribed to the belief that you don't need to travel the world to experience life -- that you can travel across the street and experience something life-changing and that you can travel the globe and will always find yourself there -- I can't help but thumb through my brand new passport and notice that the pages and pages designed for representatives of foreign countries to stamp visas documenting my worldly travels are sadly and pathetically empty.

Friday Jukebox, 11.9.07

Even though it's the Friday Jukebox, I felt like spinning The Sundays. Unfortunately, the video for "Can't Be Sure," the song I wanted to play, isn't embeddable (is that a word), this is a lovely little ditty from their very first album. Happy Friday, everybody.

While I Was Away

Two whole weeks without blogging, and you might very well ask what I accomplished in that time. No, I did not enjoy ... how did Tater put it? Ah yes ... I did not enjoy endless bouts of "bologna wrestling." I can't say exactly why, because this new man in my life I alluded to sometimes reads this blog ... from Minneapolis. Except there's a pretty strong hint.

Nor, as Lynette queried, did I work on the book I always talk about writing but never seem to write. No, ladies and germs, what I did was watch a lot of television (Ugly Betty is going strong, Heroes is starting to seriously lose me, Dirty Sexy Money is funny as hell, and Brothers & Sisters has already made me cry).

And when I haven't been watching television, I've been playing ... Brickbreaker.

You might very well ask, "What the hell is Brickbreaker?!" And that would be an intelligent question, because no one intelligent has ever played Brickbreaker, not to mention obsessing over this stupid game the way I have.

Brickbreaker, for those who don't know (and why would you, really) is sort of a 21st-century, single-player take on Pong. When playing, you control a paddle that moves from left to right on the bottom of your screen. When the game starts, you push a button to launch the little ball into the open field above your paddle, and the little ball smashes bricks. There are a few bells and whistles, but that's basically it. For two weeks, I've been smashing bricks with a paddle and a little ball, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it. Well, except for a high score of 15,750 and the knowledge that I once reached Level 33. There are only 34 levels, people. There are no words for how f#%ked up this is.

The worst part is, the game is with me everywhere I go. You might very well ask why. Because, I'd answer, it's attached to my g$%dd!&ned phone! I've played this game at work when I should be working, in the kitchen when I should be cooking, and in my room when I really (really) should be sleeping. I've been tempted to play in the car. When I'm driving. But I haven't done that. Well, only once, but there was a three-car pile-up a mile ahead of us and we totally weren't moving. I only let myself play while my parking break was on, and I felt pretty good about it, until I thought to myself, "you stupid f#%king idiot, the car was running and you were playing that f#%king game?!" And that was a wake-up call. I didn't do that again. I was much more responsible the next night; I didn't play until I was safely home. Of course, I neglected my cats and forgot to get the mail because I was too busy smashing little electronic bricks with a little electronic ball by moving my little electronic paddle back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

You think that sounds stupid? Try this one on: since beginning this particular blog entry a half hour ago, I stopped and played for ten minutes. As soon as I started to describe the game, it was all I could think about and I wondered what would happen if I caught the gun bubble during Level 13 before the wall started to descend. And if you played this stupid game every day of your stupid life, you'd know exactly what that meant.

Wizards and Fairies

Alright, alright, already.

I'm back. What part of "a couple of weeks" did you people not understand??!!

Seriously, tho' ... thanks so much for all the melodramatic and vaguely threatening comments on the last post (I wish I could get 31 comments for a post I actually put some effort into, just sayin'), and a special thank you to all who sent me off-line e-mails inquiring about my health and well-being.

To quell any nasty rumors, I'm doing just fine. I have not, however, been enjoying a non-stop celebration of man-on-man sweaty sexiness since taking a short hiatus -- still, I found all of the innuendo to be flattering.

Contrary to popular belief, gay men do not have sex all the time. Exhibit A: Albus Dumbledore.

I alluded to this in my last entry, but for those who didn't know, J.K. Rowling was at Carnegie Hall last month, reading from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and answering questions from her fans about the characters she created. One young person asked her if Dumbledore finds "true love." To my mind, this is a pretty silly question for anyone who has read either of the final two volumes to ask, but whatever. J.K. Rowling is more forgiving than I. She paused, than said, "Dumbledore is gay."

The audience gasped, then applauded. Somehow, I don't think that would have been the reaction anywhere outside of New York or San Francisco, but there it is.

Rowling then went on to explain that Dumbledore's great love was rival wizard Gellert Grindelwald. They met as boys, and before Grindelwald was seduced by Dark Magic (shades of Darth Vader, anyone?) were childhood friends. After Grindelwald became a Dark Wizard and the forerunner of Harry's nemesis Voldemort, Dumbledore had to choose between his principles and the boy he loved. He fought Grindelwald, and killed him. "He was horribly, terribly let down," Rowling said. This love, she observed, was Dumbledore's "great tragedy."

And he lived for another seventy years, never had sex again, and died a tragic, lonely old man. The End. Wait -- did that sound ungrateful?

Because really, this is good news (he said, not very convincingly). Seriously, this is the most successful author of literature for children and young adults that human history has ever known, and the creator of characters beloved all over the world. Dumbledore is her primary hero's father figure and mentor, a wise and trusting man who embodies all that is good and noble in the Harry Potter universe. And ... he's gay. She said so herself.

On the other hand (and you knew there was another hand) ...

Couldn't Harry have had a gay schoolmate who grows up to fall in love with the Captain of the Quidditch Team and adopt magic orphans from their swanky loft overlooking Diagon Alley?

Well ... no. Of course this wasn't possible; Rowling couldn't inject obvious homosexuality (or the suggestion of butt sex outside the parameters of traditional heterosexual marriage) into a book for kids. Yes, it's 2007. On the other hand, it's only 2007.

But couldn't Professors Sprout (Herbology) and Hooch (the P.E. teacher, for cryin' out loud) have shared a residence on the Hogwarts campus, holding weekly salons on their front porch with the literati of the wizarding world a la Gertrude and Alice? I actually think that, or something like it, could have worked. It wouldn't have been as newsworthy as Albus Dumbledore being outed, I realize, but at least it would have presented Rowling's rabid fan base with an image of gay people as fulfilled, productive, happy, and loved.

Contrast that with the image of a young gay boy who falls in love with his best friend (no word on whether or not the friend loved him back, and we wouldn't want Grindelwald on our team anyway), is "terribly, horribly let down" when the friend is not only straight, but a psychotic terrorist, kills him, and never finds love again. His only companion for the rest of his long, long life is a pet bird that self-combusts every few years (I tried to work in a joke off the word "flaming" here, but it never quite came together ... still, if I had figured it out, it would have been damn funny). In the end, he gives his own life so that others may live. That's right, kids ... another gay suicide.

But you know what really disappoints me? The Harry Potter series was gayer before Dumbledore was outed.

When I first started reading these books in 2001, I was thrilled knowing that little boys and girls who would one day grow up to realize that they were gay were reading the story of a hero who felt different but didn't know why, literally lived in a closet, discovered that -- despite the protestations of "normal people" -- his difference was something to be celebrated and not ashamed of, and that once he met others who were also different, he felt whole and understood, and reveled in the freedom to be himself for the very first time. You see where I'm going with this, right? The Harry Potter books have always had this appeal to gay and lesbian readers; mostly, I think we wished that there had been a series like this when we were kids. It will literally thrill me to my bones in six or seven years when I hear a gay kid coming back from his first trip to a gay disco saying, "It was just like when Harry Potter found Hogwarts!" And some gay kid will say that, whether I'm around to hear it or not.

But now that one of the characters is literally homosexual, it takes some of the punch out of the symbolism that was always just underneath the Invisibility Cloak, as it were.

And that's my big gay rant for today. Don't forget to tip, and try the fish. And yeah, it's good to be back.