Fun with Animals

Okay, everyone else is doing it, so who am I not to follow the crowd?

Yes, if everyone else jumped off a cliff, I'd soon resemble a Jackson Pollock on the rocks below.

And no, I haven't seen the movie or read the books, but that shouldn't stop me from playing. Meet my daemon (and if you don't know what a daemon is, check in with Cowbell; she's all about the daemons).



As of 2:30 pm Eastern Standard Time, the content of my soul takes the form of a jackal named Athenestia. The name won't change, but the form might (just like that Wonder Twin, whatshername), depending on whether or not your impression of me is different than my impression of myself. So go ahead, mess with the content of my soul -- but if you do, promise you'll leave a comment in the box so that I can trace the journey.

Have at it, folks. I'm looking forward to what I become over the course of the week.

(By the way, this right here is my 300th post. Go figure.)

From Atlantic to Pacific (Gee, the Traffic is Terrific)

So I made my own coffee this morning.

Admittedly, this isn't earth-shattering news, but it is indicative that this Sunday is and will be, in myriad and sundry ways, unusual from my typical Sunday. It's not that I'm adverse to making my own coffee; it's not a difficult task, and once begun, there's something about the routine of it that's oddly comforting. It's just that, on a typical Sunday, I walk the seven or eight blocks to my favorite independently owned coffee shop on the corner of 8th & D Streets, NE. The walk to and from, even in the cold or the wet, is another oddly comforting routine, one that involves getting out of the house, mingling with fellow human beings, and supporting an independently owned coffee shop, all of which are good and worthwhile things to do.

But this morning, there's too much work to do. First of all, I have to straighten up the house; honestly, you'd think that clutter procreates on every horizontal surface of my home -- every other week, I look up, and it's taken over, like mold. Secondly, I need to blog. The fact that I'm blogging now should not indicate that the housework is done, oh no -- that is not the way we roll. I don't usually make an effort to blog on Sundays, but today is different, as has already been noted. Thirdly, I have to pack. You may assume that packing has not yet commenced; that's okay, though -- it never takes as long as you think it will.

I'm packing because this evening, I'm boarding a plane and flying to Kansas City, where I will be greeted at the airport by the parental units, my sister, and a smattering of little children. My sister has four kids, but invariably one or two of them decline a trip to the airport and are forced to wait at home for my arrival. I'm always excited to see my family and they're always excited to see me -- the kids especially, but I think this is because whenever Uncle Red Seven shows up, another red guy with a big sack of gifts is sure to follow, within days of my arrival. That, and I'll grudgingly agree to play whatever videogames my nephews are obsessed with at the time, for as long as they like.



While I'm gone, the cleaning service will be here, which necessitates the removal of the aforementioned clutter. A cat-sitting service will also arrive every day, to feed the felines and clean out the litter boxes, plus twenty minutes or so of love and affection (and a good brushing, if they'll only sit still). Oh crap -- I might need to run to the grocery store for more kitty litter. Oh well, while I'm there I can get change for the cab.

So, I'd probably best wrap this up. But I'm glad I took the time to post a wee blog entry today, since I probably won't be blogging much until my return next Saturday (every three or four years, I break my five-days-or-less rule with the family, so this year you can expect me to be thrilled to be home upon my return).

I'm very excited to see my family of origin, but also happy that this Sunday is not a typical Sunday. Okay, gotta run. There's still more clutter to collect in the den, and I need to remember to put that final load of laundry into the dryer before I head out to the grocery store ...

Whether or not you celebrate, whether you're home or away, have a wonderful week, and I'll see you when I get back. (Psst, if you leave me a comment, I'll get it on my Crackberry, so y'know ... don't let my travel plans stop you from saying hello ... just sayin'.)

Cover Story, part deux

A few months back, I posted about Jodie Foster. Jodie is a lesbian. I know this. Everyone who wants to know already knows. But she wouldn't come out to the press or the public.

As I stated in that September post, I usually don't much care if actors or other public figures come out, so long as they don't pollute the culture with hate speech, abject stupidity, or somesuch. (Note to Tom Cruise: if you're gay, stay in -- we don't want you.) But I was annoyed about Jodie after she spoke lovingly and eloquently about her children to two news sources, but in those same interviews seemed to take umbrage at the thought that she was somewhat guarded about the "personal details" of her life, and all the while she was passing herself off as the Single Mom of the Year. Jodie, I know single moms. Single moms are friends of mine. You're not a single mom.

But all that is over. Jodie has now come out. Sort of. She thanked and acknowledged her partner (again, quite lovingly and eloquently) in an acceptance speech at the annual Women in Entertainment breakfast. This actually happened a few weeks ago, but it was such a subtle statement that it's taken a while for folks to get talking.



And now I'm annoyed at CNN. Seriously, did you watch that clip all the way to the end? If not, here's what you missed:

Clueless Anchor: It's very sad, though, isn't it?

Vacuous Commentator: It is, I mean ultimately, in an ideal world, somebody like Jodie Foster -- it doesn't matter whether she says she's gay or not, she wouldn't have to come out, and admit her homosexuality, because it's just part of her private life --

Clueless Anchor: Well, no one's going to come out and say that they're straight.

Vacuous Commentator: Exactly; nobody asks Julia Roberts to define her heterosexuality.

Clueless Anchor: It is acting, after all.

Vacuous Commentator: Absolutely, it is just acting.

O.M.F'ing.G., where does one begin?

First of all, I'd love to hear what Julia Roberts would have to say about all this. These two speak as if the moviegoing public has never expressed even the slightest interest in who she's dated, broken up with, married, or had kids with, that America would find such prurient interests vulgar or beneath us. It's just acting, after all.

But secondly and more irritatingly, this is a beautiful illustration about why one shouldn't speak of things that they fundamentally do not understand, especially on national television. These women speak of being gay as though it's necessarily a deep, dark secret and that coming out (to "admit her homosexuality," as Vacuous Commentator puts it) is necessarily a painful act that can only hurt.

I don't know about Jodie, but coming out was the best thing I ever did for myself, and I like my Big Gay Self a whole lot. I imagine that Jodie (once the chorus of "Finally! It's about time!" calms down) will someday feel the same. And if she had any doubt about whether or not her coming out was important or necessary, the news coverage surrounding the blessed event should be proof enough.

Friday Jukebox, 12.21.07

It's the last Friday Jukebox before Christmas, so I needed to pick something perennial, a real timeless classic ...



... so I chose Alvin and the Chipmunks. Well, obviously.

Have a wonderful holiday, folks. Whatever form your personal "hula hoop" takes, I hope you get it. Travel safe, enjoy the company of loved ones, steal a kiss from under the mistletoe if you're able, and think about how wonderful it will be to elect President Clinton, Obama, or Edwards to the White House in '08.

In the words of John Lennon, "A very merry Christmas, and a happy new year; let's hope it's a good one, without any fear."

Peace out.

The Hostility Scene

So I was listening to NPR last night on the drive home, and there was a story about the City Hall of Green Bay, Wisconsin -- and the controversy surrounding a nativity scene perched on its roof. The mayor of Green Bay, a Mr. Jim Schmitt, was interviewed; he cast the tie-breaking vote in the debate, electing to keep the nativity display right where it is. What's more, no other religious displays will be allowed at City Hall until guidelines can be drawn up.

When asked why he cast his vote to keep the nativity scene atop his City Hall, he responded, "Well, at City Hall, we have ... decorations around City Hall, we put up a few years ago, we have Santa Claus and reindeer, we have ... wreaths, we have lights. We had someone put up a nativity display; I think as long as we can do this as part of an overall display, you know, in a legal fashion, this is ... good for our community. This is a community that celebrates familes, and ... holidays, and so I cast the deciding vote to leave the nativity scene up as part of our holiday decoration here at City Hall." Wow, Mayor Schmitt. A nativity scene and Santa, reindeer, wreaths, and lights?! Incredible. That must be quite a diversity program you've got going on in Green Bay.

When it was pointed out to him that all of the decorations he mentioned were specifically aimed at celebrating Christmas, the good mayor opined, "Well, that's kind of what we're celebrating, that's ... the holiday that's coming up, and ... that would be true."

Oy gevalt.

Now, I don't live in Green Bay. I've never even visited. Whether or not they put a religious display on top of their City Hall has little consequence in my daily life. But the story fascinates me nonetheless. Today's edition of the Green Bay Press Gazette posted some notable quotables from folks on both sides of the debate. Here are some of my favorites ...

Charlotte Goska said, "I'm a Christian but also an American. And as an American, I don't believe in having a religious display on public property. Any guidelines inevitably will exclude some group or another." Well said, Charlotte. I've never understood this notion that the absence of religion from the public sphere necessarily makes the environment inherently anti-religious. Despite Mayor Schmitt's promise that next year's display will include a menorah, there was no Hannukkah display this year. Using the logic of the religious right, this means that Green Bay is officially anti-Semetic. Add to that the fact that Hannukkah is actually a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar. I wonder if any displays will help the local Jews celebrate Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. Somehow, I doubt it.

Tony Saldana said, "What does the nativity scene and the City Council have in common? Both are missing wise men." Heh. Good one, Tony -- although, to be fair, it should be pointed out that six members of the city council voted for a secular display. Or perhaps they were all women?

Morgan Thompson said, "As a practicing Wiccan, I hope the police are sparing no effort to catch the person who vandalized our symbol. … I'm appalled at the mayor's comments about Wicca. If those statements were made against Christianity, we'd have rioting." See, and that's the point -- it's so easy to test a situation where one side is fighting for "equal rights" and the other side is shouting about "special rights." Just apply the criteria of one group to your own, and if you're appalled -- then you probably should be.

Marte Carlin said, "Favoritism of the religion of any one group is a source of disunity. Vote for a plan that promotes unity and harmony. Let's get back to being known as a city of peace and the next Super Bowl champions." Personally, I'd want to promote a plan to fund the arts, but I see where Marte is coming from. There are other causes to pursue, and the vote to keep the divisive display around just keeps the conversation going, when -- truth be told -- if it had come down, people might have griped and groused for a week or two before all would have been forgotten, particularly if their local houses of worship had their own large, totally appropriate nativity displays up for the rest of the month.

Tammy Crone (and no, I didn't make that up; that's totally her name) said, "Christmas is the day Jesus was born. I don't feel Jesus in the manger is a Christmas theme; it's what Christmas is all about. Everything has to be an issue. What's wrong with tradition? If this was 20 years ago, it never would have been an issue." Well, honey ... sometimes progress happens. And there's nothing inherently wrong with tradition; we'll still have barbecues next Memorial Day and fireworks next July 4 -- and that's fantastic because those traditions don't, by their very form and content, aim to please one segment of society at the expense of everyone else. And I'm sorry, Tammy; you'll have to explain to me one more time how Jesus in the manger isn't thematically linked to Christmas, because it sort of got past me the first time.

Lyle Wilquet said, "The nativity scene is not promoting religion; it's to celebrate a birthday." Um, okay. Let's put up a display honoring Mohammed's birthday next year. Something tells me you'd disapprove. Lyle goes on to say, "There's too many people like the Freedom From Religion Foundation that just want to create a secular society. I'll pray for them." Yeah, you do that, Lyle. And yes, a secular society is what we're after, but that doesn't mean a society that is not welcoming of people who follow a religious practice -- it just means that it welcomes people of all faith traditions, including those who choose not to believe.

Sean Ryan said, "With the general direction our local government is heading, it would be more efficient to consolidate all their motions to simply exiling all non-English-speaking, non-Christian minorities to live a minimum of 2,000 feet outside the city." I'm fairly sure that Sean was speaking in jest, and yet it's important for people to know that these seemingly symbolic debates are in fact suggestive of the kind of segregation that he's talking about. Rock on, Sean.

Because as Becky Katers says, "I'm opposed to the city getting into religious debates. That's not the purpose of city government, not what people are paying taxes for. … Roughly 15 percent of the population of Green Bay is non-Christian. That's about 30,000 people. You have to recognize there's diversity here." Um, exactly.

I realize that this particular post is bound to elicit strong responses on both sides, so let me state for the record: I don't hate Christmas, I don't hate Christians, I don't hate the Baby Jesus. I think that churches and private residences should be able to decorate for the holidays however they choose. However, I also believe that a City Hall ought to do what it can to serve all taxpaying members of its community, regardless of religious identity. Members of dominant groups have this weird habit of interpreting acts of inclusion for all as acts of oppression directly aimed at them. Taking the Baby Jesus and Virgin Mary off of the roof of a government building does not oppress Christians. If you want to look about the Madonna and Child, go to church or display them in your home.

And have a Merry Christmas -- if that's your thing.

Greeting Cards Have All Been Sent ...

So I just finished my first batch of Christmas cards.

There are two things I love about this time of year. The music, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and getting cards from all of my friends all over the country (and even a few from beyond American borders).

Returning the favor and actually sending out some cards of my own is always something that seems like a chore, something I have to do instead of something I want to do, and so I put it off and put it off until one day -- usually about a week before Christmas, when my mailbox is deluged ten or more cards, and I realize that I have work to do.

When that moment happens, I dedicate an evening to the writing of the cards -- each handwritten, with a short sentiment that says I'm thinking about you and that I hope you have a marvelous holiday season and a happy new year. No laser-printed letter that expresses all of my stunning accomplishments over the past year. I hate those things, and never give them more than a cursory read when I receive them from others, with the exception of the Christmas letter sent each year from my brother-in-law, wherein he mocks his entire family. I read that one twice, because hello -- it's hilarious.

So tonight was card night -- and when I get into it, I realize that I really enjoy it. First of all, I always buy great cards. I usually pick them up sometime around Thanksgiving, and I'm picky -- they're either really funny or really pretty (this was a pretty year), and I'm always sort of proud of my exceptional good taste. Hi, I'm a big ol' 'mo. I'm not such a great housekeeper, but my holiday cards are fabulous. Secondly, I like the act of writing a cleverly phrased but nonetheless sincere greeting to those I love. Or like. Or, let's face it ... tolerate. Still, it's the holidays, and I get into the whole spreading holiday cheer thing. Besides, most annoying people can't help it. Third, I have excellent penmanship. My mother can attest to this, and she's a teacher who doesn't dole out these kinds of compliments lightly. But mostly, I really enjoy the very satisfying feeling of walking to the corner mailbox and depositing twenty or so cards (nine or ten for my very best friends in all the world and the rest for other people who sent me a card already). Now I have to scout out e-cards for all the folks for whom I only have e-mail addresses.

I have no other profound insights on the ritual of the Christmas card, other than the fact that I enjoy it a lot more than I ever expect I will, and that I didn't have anything else to do because there's nothing on television because of the writer's strike (which I still fully support, by the way, because I used to be a writer but was never a Hollywood power executive and have no trouble believing that the latter are greedy scumbags who abuse the poor, undervalued scribes).

So ... have you sent your cards yet?

Happy Birthday to Me

When people hear that I'm a December baby, many feel sorry for me, thinking what a bummer it must be to celebrate my birthday so close to Christmas. But I've always liked it. My sister's birthday is the 27th of December, just ten days after mine, with Christmas in the middle, and so December was party month in the Red Seven household growing up. The month began with the opening of the first window of the Advent calendar (the kind with pictures, not the ones with chocolate that my nieces and nephews currently enjoy), and it just seemed like we celebrated all month long. I actually felt sorry for kids who weren't born in December and only had one reason to celebrate, whereas my family had a veritable smorasbord of reasons to be hap-hap-happy.



So yeah ... today's my birthday. Thirty-seven years on the planet as of 6 a.m. Pacific Standard Time, or thereabouts. Last night, the adoptive lesbian moms took me out for Chinese food and the most amazing drag show on earth; tonight, back in DC, I'm having dinner with 18 of my closest friends at a family-style Italian restaurant, because these folks are my family of choice.

I'll see the parental units and the rest of the family of origin next Sunday, and we'll celebrate both my birthday and my sister's big 4-0 on the 27th. Leave your birthday wishes in the comment box below, and don't feel bad for me. December babies have more fun.

Friday Jukebox, 12.14.07

When you're three sisters and your last name is Roche, and you want to form a singing group, "The Roches" seems an obvious choice. And yet ... unfortunate, somehow.

The first time I heard The Roches, it was this a cappella version of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. Done in the style of a "beautyshop triplet," as it were, and still managing to nail every sequence, I always thought it was brilliant. And fun, which isn't something you can normally say about Handel.

UPDATE: Found this at PostSecret. Loved it. The end.

Hey Jealousy

So, I have this friend.

Actually, I have lots of friends, but there's this one I want to discuss in particular. I don't think she reads this blog, but just in case, names will be changed to protect the innocent, and I pretty much told her everything I'll be saying about her here, so it'll be okay.

My friend, Melinda (not her real name, but as soon as I started thinking of fake names to use, I got this image of Barbra Streisand in On a Clear Day You Can See Forever under hypnosis and intoning very Britishly, "My naaaaame ... is Meliiiindaaaa." Hi, I'm a big 'mo.) recently ended a relationship that had just hit the six year mark. And when I say recently, I mean in the fall sometime. September? October? Something like that. Her boyfriend, Cheating Scumbag, also not his real name, is a scumbag who cheated on her. Which, of course, is obvious.

Melinda was very upset about the demise of her six year relationship. She vacillated between sad and angry and sad and angry with the occasional pit stop in bitter and desperate (but not too much; mostly it was just sad and angry and sad and angry). It was a bad breakup, as breakups go. Then one day, about a month ago, maybe more, she called in a much better mood. She was about to go on a date. "Good for you," I said. And she was excited. He seemed like a really nice guy, and she wanted to be romanced again.

We'll call the new guy Romeo, because ... well, you'll see.

Yesterday, I got another call from Melinda. She was in an especially good mood, and it didn't take long to find out why. Romeo was going to approach her father that evening, to ask for his daughter's hand in marriage. The ring has already been purchased. Melinda is fairly certain that Romeo will be presenting said ring on Christmas morning on bended knee.

I tried my best to be supportive. Melinda's other close friend (let's call her Negative Nancy) thinks she's making a terrible mistake and doesn't even want to meet Romeo. I, on the other hand, am anxious to meet Romeo because I'm fairly certain that he'll be marrying a close friend of mine and meeting him seems like the thing to do. I don't think that Melinda is making a terrible mistake. Melinda's not a stupid woman. If she knows (and she says she knows for sure and for certain) that Romeo is the right person, the man she's been waiting thirty-five years to meet, then I have little reason to doubt her. If Romeo turns out to be a different person than he seems to be, she's old enough and smart enough to weather that disappointment as well. I figure I can choose to trust her if I want to, and why shouldn't I? Choosing to distrust her, to claim to know better, does no one any good, because she'd still do what she wants to do, only she'd do it without me, and it would be difficult and painful for both of us.



The thing is, it's difficult for me to be truly happy for her because ... I'm jealous. So jealous I could scream. I want a Romeo to plop down from the heavens, sweep me off my feet, say he's mine forever, make sweet love to me in the moonlight, and plan our honeymoon. I want that. Me, me, me. It's my f#%king turn. And that's where I think I actually have a lot in common with Negative Nancy right now. The only difference is, I know exactly how shallow and petty and resentful I can be; I know enough to swallow the bile for long enough to say, "That's great, Melinda. I'm really happy for you. I can't wait to meet Romeo. You deserve it. Bye now."

And there we are. I'm a horrible friend. Sure, I say all the right things, but I'm not really happy for anyone. And yet, I think I'm different from Negative Nancy in one respect. I think Nancy is hoping for Romeo to turn out to be rotten and for Melinda's heart to be broken again, and I really don't. I hope Melinda is really happy. And she does deserve it.

(And so do I. Dammit.)

Move Over, Roger Ebert

It was a pretty quiet, especially considering where we are in the calendar, mid-way through what we call the "holiday season."

I was invited to my former boss's house for a party on Saturday evening, so it wasn't what I'd call a desolate weekend; all the same, there wasn't much else on the calendar for Friday night or all day Sunday. So, I did as I am wont to do. I watched movies.

And I saw two movies this weekend that could not have been more different from each other. First up, Julie Christie in first-time director Sarah Polley's Away from Her. Formerly known as an actor and sometime singer, Polley is a brilliant director, and way too young to be able to comprehend aging, ageism, and lifelong relationships the way she clearly does. What everyone has been saying about this movie, and what I can validate, is that this story -- a man watches his wife lose her mind to Alzheimer's Disease -- should have been melodramatic and awful, more at home in the Hallmark Hall of Fame than your local art-house theatre. But because of ... something -- Polley's direction, her brilliant script, her brilliant cast, or more likely a combination of all three -- it transcends every possible cliche. Far from being depressing and unsavory, it does the near impossible, and becomes something delicate, surprising, and lovely.

I won't give much away, but in one of the very first scenes, the husband and wife are cleaning up from dinner. The husband is washing dishes as his wife dries. He hands her a frying pan. She smiles, dries it off, and places it in the freezer. She leaves to start the evening fire. He waits for her to leave, removes the frying pan from the freezer, places it in the cupboard where it belongs, and resumes his domestic task. Not a word is spoken, but it's clear where her journey will soon lead, and how afraid he is of what is to come, enough that he does what needs to be done and immediately puts it out of his mind, preferring memory and denial to reality and the mess that comes with it.

Julie Christie will probably be nominated for an Oscar for this role, and without having seen Nicole Kidman in Margot at the Wedding or Laura Linney in The Savages, my bet is she'll win it. But equally deserving, if not more so, is Gordon Pinset as a husband who, powerless to stop this unseen thing attacking his wife, eventually finds the courage to love her as she needs to be loved rather than as he would prefer to love her. And I'll go on record right now as saying that if Sarah Polley isn't nominated and doesn't win for Best Adapted Screenplay, there is no justice in this world.

My second film of the weekend was American Gangster, starring Denzel Washington as a real-life Harlem drug lord and Russell Crowe as the New Jersey cop who brought him to justice. Before seeing the movie, I called my mom, who advised, "Oh that's a wonderful movie. Awfully violent, I suppose, but very good." And there you have it.

I saw Gangster with my friend, the Country Gurl. And, like all good movies, the after-movie discussion was as good as the film itself. During the movie, I found it difficult to like Denzel's character. First of all, let's dispense with the obvious: he was a drug lord responsible for the deaths of many an addict in the neighborhood he supposedly loved -- and the movie does not shy away from the terrible effects of heroin addiction; it's right there in widescreen. But ... and this is confession time: I have difficulty liking Denzel in any movie he does. I don't know if it's absolutely true, but there have been many rumors about Mr. Washington and homophobia, including coaching Will Smith not to kiss another male actor in the film version of Six Degrees of Separation -- so every time I see Denzel, that's there for me. I'd like to get past it, but it's stuck in my craw, as it were.

Country Gurl had a very different and more ambivilent take: she knew, obviously, that Frank Lucas, as played by Denzel, was a bad guy. Drug lord, worked against his own people, yadda yadda. At the same time, she found herself admiring his business savvy and, for the lack of a better word, his courage. Here was a poor black kid from North Carolina who worked as a driver and stooge who, in the 1970's, outsmarted the mob and skirted the corrupt cops from the DEA in a way that no crime boss before him had ever been able to do. "I have this weird sense of pride," she said to me on the way from the theatre to the post-cinema coffee shop. And while I couldn't quite connect to that (still simmering in my Denzel-hates-the-gays stew), it was an interesting learning moment for me, watching her struggle with what she knew (bad guy) and what she felt (you show 'em, Frankie). And that's you know you've seen a good flick; just sayin'.

So ... seen any good movies lately?

Friday Jukebox, 12.7.07

Ba rum pum pum pum ...



Bing Crosby was an asshat. Terrible husband, terrible father. I get it. He's also the personification of the classic American Christmas carol. And "The Little Drummer Boy" has always been a favorite. Many of my friends count it among their least favorite Christmas songs, but I've always liked it. It has a pleasant, simple little melody, but I love the lyric, very anti-commercialism, which is sort of what Americans need to hear more this time of year.

And pairing Bing with Bowie was inspired. A little subversive, and yet they sound really good together. And the "Peace of Earth" descant -- something else that people need to hear a lot more often, for reasons far too obvious to list here.

Book Report: Water for Elephants

Usually, when I visit the adoptive lesbian moms at the beach, I bring along a book -- something to read during the occasional quiet moment, or to ease the passage between awake and sleep each night.

Unfortunately, during my recent Thanksgiving trip, which will forever be known for its deliciously slow pace and bounteous quiet moments, I'd forgotten the book I was reading. And maybe I left it at home on purpose; even though I think the author is a literary genius, for some reason this particular book wasn't drawing me in. My unconscious mind might have very well set me up to be a hundred miles from home and without a book to read.

"I forgot to pack my book," I said to one of the moms as we were walking around downtown Rehoboth, and just happened to be strolling toward my favorite independently owned bookstore in town.

"I know just the thing," she said in reply as we made a sharp right turn through the front doors.

Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen, is a really fast read. I actually finished it more than a week ago and had sort of forgotten that I blog about books I've read after I've read them -- that's because I spent so long trying to finish that book by that literary genius that never really hooked me.

It's about a kid who almost graduates from an Ivy League school with a degree in veterinary sciences, and who ends up, quite accidentally, on a train inhabited by circus performers and workers. He takes a menial job shoveling manure and other unpleasant tasks, but when his medical skills become known, he is quickly elevated to a much higher post, and assumes care for "the menagerie," a collection of animals including giraffes, lions, panthers, horses, and the like. It's also about the 93-year-old man that the circus kid eventually grows up to be. Occasionally, we'll break from the circus narrative to spend a moment of ennui in the horrible, clinical nursing home. These passages are sweet, and the give the reader a chance to catch his/her breath while reminding him/her, by comparison, how exciting a life in the circus really is.

The novel starts out with a prologue. No characters are introduced to you, and you're in the middle of a chaotic scene. Something has gone wrong. The band is playing "Stars and Stripes Forever," which is a secret code to all who work the circus that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong. The animals are stampeding, and our narrator is searching for someone named Marlena. When she is found, our narrator is witness to a murder. And then we move on to Chapter 1.

Whether or not the novel works has a lot to do with this prologue, actually. While reading the novel, I suspected that the author would eventually return me to this chaotic scene, and she did. And I assumed that when we got there the second time, it would make a lot more sense, and it did. What I didn't expect was that there would be a delightful surprise there, a tiny bit of information that wasn't included in the initial passage that changes ... well, everything. And if I say more, I'll give it away, so I won't.

Nonetheless, the prologue isn't perfect. When I read the very first paragraphs of the novel, which is written entirely in the first person, I assumed that the narrator was a woman. He's not, but the author is -- an assumption without merit, I suppose, but novelists who write in the first person usually voice characters much like themselves: same race, same gender, usually the same sexual orientation. When a man writes from a woman's perspective and does it well (She's Come Undone and Memoirs of a Geisha come to mind), it's considered a mild form of genius, but for all the praise I've heard about Gruen's novel, no one has singled out her ability to write in the male voice -- and they really should. Yes, I suppose that women have to know a lot more about men to get on in the world than vice versa, but Gruen's insight is uncanny, including moments when the narrator describes the shame of being a twenty-year-old virgin, his humiliating first sexual experience, his much more satisfying second sexual experience, and how he, at age 93, still regards his penis as something almost separate from himself. It's all sort of amazing.

Anyway, back to the prologue, which I appreciated because it sent the reader straight into the action, saving the exposition until later when the reader is already in a state of entrancement, but lost some of its edge when, halfway into the novel, I had sort of forgotten about. Thinking back, I wish I had taken a moment at about the hundred-page mark to re-read the prologue. At that point, having already met the beautiful and talented Marlena, I would have been just frantic to know exactly what the hell happened there.

And the other thing that strikes me about this book, what strikes me about a lot of books, is the title. Titles are very curious things. They can either be crucial to the book's meaning or something strictly designed to sell copies. I doubt that "Water for Elephants" was dreamt up for commercial reasons; without the recommendation of the adoptive lesbian mom, I'm not sure it would have ever captured my interest. But after reading the book itself, I think it's a brilliant choice. We first hear the phrase "water for elephants" in one of the nursing home scenes. A new arrival to the clinic brags of his experience working the circus as a young man. "I used to carry water for the elephants," he says, and our narrator immediately knows him for a liar. Apparently a lot of young men of that era claimed to be water carriers for the elephants, but no such job ever existed, and those who claimed to do that job were deceivers. Our narrator gets quite worked up over the liar in his midst, until a kind nurse reminds him that, even if it's not true, the old man believes that he carried water for elephants. Therefore, he might not be a liar, even if his story isn't true. And so the title evokes all kinds of meaning, about the power of memory (this is, after all, a tale told by a 93-year-0ld man about his 20-year-old life), and the way we remember things the way we wish they were rather than as they actually happened. And it also speaks to the power of illusion, which is what a circus is really all about anyway.

I heartily recommend this novel; it's a great read, with lively characters (I never even talked about Kinko, Uncle Al, or Old Camel) and an instantly recognizable backdrop that never ceases to surprise. It's gritty and sexy. While it might not have been as artful as Wasserstein's Elements of Style or moving as Kent Haruf's Plainsong, it's easily the most fun I've read this whole year.

How I Hate Going Out in the Storm

Well, color me flummoxed: It snowed.

(photo courtesy of McCullagh.org)

When I get up in the morning after a season's very first snow and look out my window to see the tops of roofs, trees, and automobiles freshly coated with clean, pillowy whiteness, I usually feel a rush of childlike joy combined with a sense of inner peace to go with the quiet that typically comes with snowfall.

This morning, I just thought, "Oh, crap. I suppose it'll take me two hours to get to work today."

And it would have, if I'd driven to work. Instead, I decided to be a spoiled brat and work from home. I was planning on driving in, but when I realized that all of today's meetings had either been cancelled or had morphed into conference calls, there really wasn't any reason to put myself through the fresh hell of a difficult Washington commute.

I even made time for a walk through the snow to my favorite locally owned and independent coffee shop, where I purchased a large steaming cup of joe that kept me nice and warm the whole way back to the house.

Still, I'm a little perplexed at my reaction first thing this morning. I'm not supposed to get bitchy about this stuff until mid-January, at least. It might just be a long winter.

Another (yawn) Sex Scandal

After Mark Foley, David Vitter, and Larry Craig, you'd think that another sex scandal involving a U.S. Senator would be old hat (UPDATE: "Old hat" is a colloquialism referring to something that has been done numerous times before, not to be confused with Auld Hat, which means sparkly and fabulous, among other things).

Except that the latest one involves ... (wait for it!) ... a Democratic Senator. Although ... not really.

The story, in brief, is that an aide to Sen. Maria Cantwell (D-WA, that's her on the right), her "scheduler" according to the Associated Press, is in federal custody after arranging to meet a 13-year old boy for a sexual tryst. Of course, he was never really talking to a 13-year old, but an adult pretending to be a 13-year old ... and thus, the arrest. As soon as Cantwell's office found out about the arrest, the aide was fired. On the spot. No free pass, no "let's see how this all plays out in the press." Just ... fired. Terminated. Unemployed. Done.

And that's it. Frankly, it's all pretty boring.

And it's boring because this is not about a Senator, but about someone who keeps a senator's schedule, so it's not really a reflection on the character of someone who was elected through a democratic process to legislate on our behalf.

Still, I can see why this story has legs. If I ran a major news outlet and had reported on the scandals involving Senators Foley, Vitter, and Craig (not to mention Rev. Haggard, Mayor Giuliani, Rep. Schrock, or Mayor West), I'd be chomping at the bit to report on some sort of sex scandal on the Democratic side of the Senate floor. If nothing else, I'd want to assure my readers, listeners, or viewers that I am not affected by "liberal bias" and am perfectly willing to report on any politician's piccadelloes, be they red or blue.

The problem with this story is that it's not about a politician, but about an aide (and a fairly junior aide with little to no input on his boss's decision-making, from the sounds of things). And even so, by firing him immediately and issuing a statement through her chief of staff that she "has zero tolerance for crimes against children," Sen. Cantwell comes out of this smelling like a rose. Compare her actions with the way that former Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert sat on information about Mark Foley's sexual improprieties with underage aides for a year or more.

Then, think about the numerous and varied ways that Cantwell has supported the GLBT community (she received a score of 89% in HRC's most recent Congressional Scorecard), and a story emerges about the stark difference between law-abiding GLBT citizens and pedophiles who commit criminal acts.

While bopping around the internets finding the links for this particular post, I ran across some web chatter from those who believe that Cantwell was too hasty in her firing of her aide, that she somehow violated the principle of "innocent until proven guilty." I couldn't disagree more with that sentiment; the fact is, this guy used a government-owned computer to discuss sex acts with a non-government employee and arrange a sexual tryst with said individual, which I'm pretty sure is against Senate policy regardless of the age of the non-government employee in question. Anyone working directly for a U.S. Senator has surely been briefed on how such conduct can be used by an overactive, scandal-hungry news media. The guy deserves to be fired for being insanely stupid, even if it turns out that, by some miracle, he's found not guilty of the charges he now faces.

Nope ... the conservative movement can try to spin this story all they want, and a media grasping for any hint of credibility that it can find can give it all the airtime it can, and it remains pretty clear to any rational purveyor of these facts which political party deserves to hold its head high in the realm of criminal sexual conduct, and which one ought to be hanging its collective head in shame.