Archive for the 'People We Like' Category



20
Jan
09

44th and 1st

The inauguration, as witnessed through my friends’ Facebook status updates:

is anticipating noon

is having an inaugural pizza party

is thrilled, less than an hour to go before we come out of the darkness.

is wishing she was in D.C. right now!

is all about the transfer of power.

presidential pizza!

is thinking that both of her parents would have loved to see this moment.

is excited for change in Washington D.C., but it’s beginning to resemble a circus.

is a little choked up already.

thinks Bush is loaded. did he have a few bloody mary’s this morning?

wonders what’ll happen when they haul George W. out there.

The millions of waving flags are gorgeous.

Don’t worry…they will call him “Barack Hussein Obama” when they swear him in. No more of this “H” crap.

People of Earth…Miss Aretha Franklin!

agrees that Cheney being wheeled in looked like Mr. Potter.

is soooooo glad Cheney is gone!!!

What must Sarah Palin be doing now??

thinks Rick Warren could at least have gotten a decent haircut for the occasion.

Ladies and gentlemen … the Racial Inclusion Chamber Orchestra!

is a giant goosebump.

is STANDING!!

aw… hes stuttering :).

Unflappable Obama is a little flummoxed. As are we all. God bless.

has a new President!!!!

YAY!

HURRAY!

AWESOME!

is pretty damn proud to be an American today.

sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh The Prez is talking.

liked the shoutout to “data and statistics”.

is thinking we all need a little HOPE right about now.

wonders if Clinton taught Obama that thumb thing.

is wondering where Oprah is….

is proud that Obama did not omit his middle name when he took his oath.

is in awe of America

is moved

is ready

is happy happy happy!

It must be a difficult day for Hillary, but here she is…chosen to be tentpole for the “big tent.”

thinks we’re going to kick some ass now. America is BACK!

says now THAT is a president!

thinks the US turned this one out. Work.

Welcome home, Mr. President.

17
Dec
08

Now This is Change We Can Believe In

I wasn’t a big fan of the dress Michelle wore to her husband’s acceptance speech. But — big deal … I’m just thrilled the Obamas are going to be taking up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania.

Here’s hoping for something a little prettier at the inauguration! She should take a leaf out of RuPaul’s book! This is just gorgeous.

RuPaul as Barack and Michelle Obama

13
Dec
08

‘Tis the Season (4.5)

There are such long breaks between seasons of Battlestar Galactica that I’ve forgotten what the frak is happening in the series. That half-season tease last year was a rotten, dirty trick.

I remember something about finding Earth, though in considerably poorer shape than anyone had anticipated. But there’s still a great deal of speculation about who the missing cylons are. And I don’t remember many remain to be revealed. (Or have they been revealed? I don’t remember!) Is Roslin still dying? I’m finding it hard to recall who’s dead and who’s still alive. That air-lock sure got a lot of use last season.

Currently, I’m enthralled by a series of webisodes (oh, how I dislike that word) taking place after the last season 4 broadcast. It’s all so deliciously familiar: the spaceship sound effects, Tigh’s crusty Canadian voice.

Plus, apparently, Gaeta’s gay! I’ve been wondering why a show depicting a society sexually liberated enough to have men and women share the same bathrooms, has been so completely absent of gay characters. But I am a little suspicious. The last time they dragged out a gay character, it was during a lull between seasons. Remember Admiral Cain from Galactica Razor? And she ended up dead!

There was no hint of her love life during Season 3, but in a between-season TV movie, we find she had an affair with a Six!

And now a freshly amputated Gaeta has a revelation. Is it a cynical plea for attention? Are the homos not good enough for the regular seasons? We’ll just throw them an extracurricular bone here and there? We’ll see.

For now, I miss this damn show so much that I am perfectly willing to live through another tease. And it gives me plenty of time to pick through the site and catch the frak up. There’s an excellent eight-minute recap of the first three seasons.

I’m so hooked, I’ll even put this widget on my blog:

01
Dec
08

Shave and a Haircut

MR. VANDERGELDER: I’ve got special reasons for looking my best today. Is there something a little extra you can do? A little special?

JOE: What?

MR. VANDERGELDER: You know, do some of those things you do to the young fellas. Smarten me up a little bit. Face massage. A little perfume water.

JOE: [shocked] All I know is fifteen cents’ worth, like usual. And that includes everything that’s decent to do to a man!

Hello Dolly!, 1964

At my last haircut, my barber made me an offer I regret turning down. He swiveled me to face the mirror, and held a hand mirror to the back of my head to show me the neat shape he’d made at the base of my skull. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Nope. That’ll do it,” I said.

He poked my chin suggestively. “A shave, maybe?”

I noticed earlier that day how scruffy I was looking. I was a little embarrassed, like my careless grooming was an affront to his professional sensibilities. I was curious about what it would be like to get a professional job, but it always seems like an extravagance. My mom always said she could never hire a maid, even if she could afford one, because she’d be too embarrassed to let a stranger into an untidy house. A haircut — sure I’ll pay someone to do that for me. I’d just make a mess of it by myself. But a shave I should be able to handle without help.

“Uh, no. No,” I said.

“Have you ever had a barber’s shave?”

“No. Actually, never,” I said.

“Oh, you should try it!”

But I was in a hurry. I didn’t have the time — even if he’d offered a freebie. And, I noted, he wasn’t offering.

I pretended to consider it. “Maybe next time,” I said.

“Definitely,” he said. It was emphatic. Like we had made an ice skating date or he had invited me over for stuffed cabbage. Like he was looking forward to it. “You should treat yourself every once in a while,” he continued. “And it’s very good for the skin. Opens up your pores.”

A man’s relationship with his barber is a solemn, sacred thing — intimate like a secret, as masculine as pissing your name in the snow. Sometimes it’s friendly, sometimes it’s just business. But it’s not merely a service. It’s a transaction of trust. It takes some letting go to sit back and allow another man to stroke a blade so close to a major artery. It makes that thin line between life and death much more appreciable.

But I admit to having a little bit of a crush on my barber, which can play tricks on the mind. My barber makes a living by laying his hands all over my scalp, my face, my chin and neck. My friends don’t even touch me so much.

Make no mistake, he’s straight. He opened a barber shop, he told me once, because he didn’t want the temptation of a ladies’ hair salon. And thank God, frankly. A gay barber would totally intimidate me, but to daydream about someone off limits is perfectly safe.

He’s not even what I would call handsome. But he has a dark, serious confidence that’s undeniably sexy. He’ll lean in and accidentally brush his chest against my ear. I can feel him breathing close. Sometimes I can catch an improper glimpse up his shirt sleeve at the hair under his arm. The thought of his hands on my chin, my eyes closed, my face steaming and tingling, his quick but gentle hand running that steady razor against my neck, is maybe a little too thrilling.

14
Nov
08

A Perfect "10" Historical Moment

Of the artifacts brought back from my husband’s recent trip to D.C., the thing that delights me the most is the Veterans Day National Ceremony program (the same one that lists, ironically, “the honorable George W. Bush”), that reads:

Mistress of Ceremonies, Ms. Bo Derek.

What else can one say?

30
Sep
08

Half-Pint Lives! Little House on the Prairie — The Musical!

Here’s something I wrote for someone else.

01
Sep
08

Don’t See This Movie

Testosterone would seem to have everything going for it. The director, David Moreton, did Edge of Seventeen, which is a cute little coming out movie. Stars include marginal but talented TV actor David Sutcliffe, a hot former soap star Antonio Sabato Jr., comic character actress Jennifer Coolidge, and Latino cinema grande dame Sonia Braga. Equal parts eye candy and substance. Just what we want in gay films.

Unfortunately it is an unmitigated mess. The plot is incoherent. The characters are inconsistent. Character development is so poor that I don’t believe any of their actions, or their reactions to major turns in the story. Jennifer Coolidge is the only good thing about the movie. She plays a brassy editor with a dirty mouth. Chalk up one point. But the rest of it? Sorry.

The protagonist, Dean, is a graphic novel writer. His hot boyfriend, Pablo, goes missing inexplicably one night. Dean, apparently feeling that his boyfriend is a piece of missing property he must retrieve, follows him two weeks later to Argentina. He finds out that Pablo is from a rich and powerful family. He befriends a woman, Sofia, who works in a cafe across the street from Pablo’s family’s house. With her brother, Marco, who was Pablo’s lover a few years prior, and who we learn is supposed to kill Dean for reasons yet unclear, they reluctantly agree to help him find Pablo.

Up to this point, the movie is merely plodding, awkwardly paced, and annoying. Dean goes from frustrated graphic novel writer to spurned lover to ugly American to unhinged stalker. At one point, he pulls a gun on a cop who is called to the scene when he begins harassing Pablo’s mother. We lose a little sympathy for him, but we are led to believe that certain facts will be revealed, and Pablo’s disappearance, Dean’s irrational behavior, and the strange connection to Sofia and Marco will all make sense in some big payoff scene at the end.

As it turns out, we are misled.

I get that the filmmakers were going for an unconventional arc, revealing plot points strategically to build suspense and achieve a sort of allegiance with the protagonist. And this would be commendable if it could manage to pull itself together into a coherent story. There is enough to work with to make this a suspenseful, unconventional (i.e., not just soft-core porn) gay film. Instead we are left with a disastrous, nonsensical collection of scenes that will leave you wanting two hours of your life back.

It starts out promisingly, even artfully. But the moment we learn that Pablo has gone missing, not only does the protagonist come unglued, but the entire film goes to pieces. Again, thematically interesting — the state of the story mimics the state of mind of the protagonist — but only if you are able to make sense of it for the audience. Otherwise you are wasting our time.

We learn that Pablo has left two weeks after it happens. Dean runs into Pablo’s mother at an art gallery, and after manhandling her to get some answers, she reveals that Pablo has returned to Argentina (so why is she in L.A.?), but she refuses to say why.

Rather than helping Dean, Sofia and Marco delay and distract him (and us), promising to take him to Pablo, but instead taking him to places where they know he won’t be, e.g., their house, Pablo’s country home. Dean’s resolve to find Pablo — and win him back, get an explanation, shake his finger at him (it is anyone’s guess what he hopes to achieve) — grows exponentially.

Dean sleeps with Marco, in a classic fist-fight-leads-to-sex moment at Pablo’s country house. Then the next morning, for no reason apparent to the audience, Marco kills himself. Or, has someone else killed him? (And, importantly, do we care?) Sofia seems mildly disappointed that her brother is dead, and she half-heartedly blames Dean. But they don’t report the apparent suicide. (What happens to the body is anyone’s guess.)

Despite all this, she continues to hang around with Dean, who has now decided, after remembering a story Marco told him about his and Sofia’s ancestors, to cut off Pablo’s head. We are left to wonder what Pablo has done that is so terrible that he deserves death. Maybe something juicy to look forward to later on? (Nope. Wrong again.) Dean looks over the chainsaws but opts instead for a machete, which he carries around like a lunatic adventurer. He also picks up a sporty red cooler to store Pablo’s head. We finally lose any sympathy we may have had for Dean.

When he finds out that Pablo and Sofia are in phone contact with each other, Dean pulls a gun on her and accidentally shoots her in the hand, vowing not to miss next time. Under threat of death, Sofia arranges a time and place for Dean to meet Pablo, which turns out to be Pablo’s wedding 𔃉 to her.

Dean crashes the reception, which is remarkable, because every time he so much as showed up at Pablo’s house, his mother called the cops. He grabs a piece of cake, winks at Sofia from across the room, and kidnaps Pablo, who is getting it on with a waiter in another room.

This is our pay-off scene. So we can piece together why he left: Rich family needs to save face; gay heir marries some woman from a cafe across the street so the family is publicly proper, while he goes on sleeping with Argentine waiters and insane Americans.

Dean, who could barely communicate with a taxi driver three days ago, but who now displays a remarkable facility for Argentine highways, drives Pablo to his country house and — we are led to believe — hacks off his head.

Then, back in L.A., we see Dean’s editor showering him with accolades for writing another winner (which we must assume is based on the events we have just witnessed). Conveniently, the cooler arrives at his editor’s office via air mail while he is there. (Can’t get a severed head through customs, I guess.) He snaps it up, tosses it into his driver’s side seat where his dog playfully gnaws on the lid. And Dean drives off into the sunset.

So why was Pablo’s mom at an L.A. art gallery at the beginning of the movie while Pablo was in Argentina, apart for plot convenience? Why did Sofia toy with him instead of telling him the truth? Why was Marco trying to kill him? It was Sofia’s refusal to send Dean away that led to her brother being killed. And when she saw how crazy he was acting, and that he was literally out tom kill her future husband, why did she continue to help him? Why did she intervene when he pulled the gun on the cop earlier and convince him to let Dean go? (And what cop would have allowed it?)

None of these questions is answered. And by the end of the movie, I don’t even care.

No one has acted in a remotely plausible manner. No one has any discernible motivation, except Dean, but he is just crazy and, frankly, a little tedious. Basically, all that happens is he gets unceremoniously dumped and he can’t take the hint (It’s a pretty big hint. He moved back to Argentina.) So he goes to another country feeling entitled to interfere with other people’s lives just so he can … again — what is it exactly that Dean is looking to achieve?

Then, to make matters even worse, infuriatingly, the final scene of the movie shows Sofia and Marco at their house sitting on the porch smoking. So Marco is alive. Great. Whatever. This at least explains why there was no funeral, which we now realize made no at all sense earlier. It also explains why Sofia was so untroubled by his death. (It wasn’t bad acting. It’s just that he really wasn’t dead!) But what possible purpose was there in faking his death?

The director is throwing us plot twists for the sake of plot twists, apparently to distract us from the train wreck of the rest of the movie and to create some sort of illusion that there is something deeper and more interesting at play that we can puzzle out with enough review and careful thought. Watch the movie again, he seems to say, now that you know the wacky ending and see if you can figure out what’s really happening. No thank you. It may have worked for a truly cinematically interesting movie like Memento, but I’d rather attend a sing-along screening of Mamma Mia than sit through this again.

25
Aug
08

Golden Boy

This is old news, but I’m just getting to it now. Cute-as-a-bug’s-ear Australian diver Matthew Mitcham won gold on Saturday. I don’t think he was favored to win, and any one of the top scorers might have gotten it. On his own merits as a diver, this is impressive. According to 365gay.com, Mitcham earned the highest-scoring dive in the history of the Olympics — big news for diving and for Australia. And a break in China’s winning streak. But one of the main reasons this is so important is that he was the only out gay male athlete in Beijing.

I was in a bubble all weekend, at a rugby tournament in New Jersey on Saturday, and on the Jersey Shore with some rugby buddies all day Sunday. When rugby is happening, the world stops, doesn’t it? And if I had access to TV at the time, you know I’d have been all over those yummy divers. So I think I can forgive myself for missing the historic moment.

Someone went to the trouble of capturing all of his dives, the medal ceremony, and the following celebrations in one long clip. His final medal-winning dive comes in at around 6:16, but don’t miss the other amazing work that comes before.

Following the dive, you can see him raise his arms and looks across the crowd and sees the scores coming in. I think you can see the moment when he realizes he’s won a medal, when he brings his hands to his face and begins to cry.

At the medal ceremony, it’s fun to see him so excited next to the stoic Russian. And it’s sort of thrilling to see him leap up into the stands and climb up to kiss his mom and his partner and greet his other supporters after, like a good boy, asking permission from his doll-like usher.

21
Aug
08

Paper Trial

Everyone at work who stops by my office lately is making a grand pastime out of teasing my office mate for the state of his half of the room. They used to do it when he wasn’t there, but lately they have taken to mocking him to his face. As a result, I have been shamed into cleaning up after myself at work.

A colleague recently stopped by on the way to her office and asked if it bothered me how messy he is.

“Not really,” I said, regarding the loose stacks of paper on my desk. “I’m not much better.”

“Yeah, but he takes it to a whole new level,” she said.

I turned to look at his half of the room. “Though I am intrigued by his stacking of papers,” I continued.

“It’s not so much “stacked,'” she noted. And I had to agree, they were more or less a pile, like leaves in autumn. There was a hint of organization, or intent, but the result seemed more accidental. I had spent the better part of the previous day, unavoidably, rolling over his papers with my chair.

“And,” she continued, “I really love the whole …,” she paused searching for the best word, gesturing like a conjurer toward a stack of IN boxes and OUT boxes, each with at least half a dozen loose leaf sheets hanging over the edge by at least three inches. “Waterfall effect,” she concluded.

“Yeah. It’s very kinetic, isn’t it?” I said.

She backed out the doorway and laughed as she continued to her door.

I have always thought that, as long as you know where things are, you should not be considered disorganized. Untidy, maybe, but not disorganized. But I realize that there is another side to it. The trick at work, which is almost more important, is to get your colleagues to believe you are organized. It is all in the appearance of tidiness. Without it, you will not inspire confidence.

“What if there’s a fire? And poor Eric slips on your pile of papers and bangs his head and dies?” a co-worker asked him recently. “Do you want that on you conscience?”

I would have to jump behind his desk first, the opposite direction from the door, in order to slip. But it is a good point. We all have our own styles and systems. And it is clearly a temporary situation. I can appreciate his method, but I prefer not to leave myself in a situation where I am tripping over my inbox. I prefer to leave it in piles on my desk, where it can slide and topple onto me, putting me instead at risk of suffocation from burial.

04
Aug
08

What French Fries Can Reveal

While he shakes his ketchup out of the bottle into a neat puddle on the side of his plate, I always drizzle it Jackson Pollock-like across my own nest of French fries. It reminds me that no matter how long I have known him, and no matter what lies ahead of us, sometimes we two are strangers.




the untallied hours