Archive Page 23

02
Apr
08

Emphasis on the “Crack”

The best cheese-flavored cracker by far is Cheez-it. For having such a silly name, they sure are irresistible.

Goldfish crackers are fun, but only fun. You put them in lunch boxes. You push them with your spoon and make them swim through your tomato soup. Kids’ stuff. Plus, they’ve been ruined by the recent addition of little smiley faces.

Some swear by Better Cheddar, but I don’t think they can hold a candle to the salty, zippy goodness of Cheez-it, with an aftertaste in the back of the throat just slightly acidic enough to reinforce that you are not eating something good for you — and you do not care.

You always feel the temptation to put something on a big round cracker like Better Cheddar (because they’re not good enough on their own!), but a Cheez-it is perfect in its simple square singularity.

And I’m talking the original little glowing orange numbers, not that high-falutin’ “white cheddar” nonsense. The further we get from pretending this has anything to do with real cheese, the better.

You want to put something on a cracker? For my money, I will always choose a Triscuit. Those things are like sand-paper through your bowels, but they are so satisfying and grainy and salty and sturdy. Simplicity and utility. One feels virtuous with a plate full of Triscuits. Again, rosemary and olive oil flavoring? Get thee behind me. Original only, please. You want rosemary, go hack down some from your neighbor’s flower box yourself.

Of course for the truest experience in cracker addiction, go for a box of Chicken in a Biskit. They sure are weird. But, oh man, are they tasty!

11
Mar
08

What Has She Done To Deserve It?

Whose genius idea was it to get Iggy Pop to play Madonna … in front of Madonna? Is someone on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame board trying to punish her? It was possibly the weirdest music pairing I have ever seen. I imagine she thought much the same thing, sitting there at that table near the stage, gamely, awkwardly perhaps, smiling up at him.

I turned on the TV in the middle of his rendition of “Burning Up.” It was pretty punk, pretty kitchy, trashy and flat enough to be funny, and she looked like a nice, conservative, middle-aged lady having a good time. A blonde and ivory vision carved out of butter. Then he broke into “Ray of Light,” introducing it as a “beautiful song,” and wasted no time in performing it not at all beautifully. Her pal JT bobbed his head with the beat, but Madonna looked like a mannequin.

To his credit, Iggy seemed delighted to be playing with these songs, like a little boy wanting to please his mommy. He is plainly very fond of her. Madonna must have been aware of this as she greeted him graciously in the kitchen of the Waldorf-Astoria. “Very well done,” she said. “I liked the horns, actually.” What else could she say 𔃉 Go boil your head? She signed a guitar. Posed with a gaunt, glistening Iggy. And exited stage left.

I could stab myself in the eyes for forgetting to set the DVR to record the show. I wanted to hear her acceptance speech. But I’m sure VH1 will rerun it ad nauseam.

To be inducted into the Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame after releasing a dance album is a peculiar trick of American pop music. AfterEllen addressed the question today: Is Madonna, in fact, a rock’n’roller? The writer concluded, much as I do, that it doesn’t matter. It is her influence on everyone else and her status as an auteur that qualifies her. Can you imagine that? The woman who rolled around in a tarted-up wedding dress. Of course she should be inducted.

John Mellencamp was another highlight. His bit was after hers. I saw Mellencamp a few years ago in Minneapolis — a city in which Madonna never tours. Mellencamp strolled out on stage smoking a cigarette. He’s never been what I would call a good-looking man, but in those tight black jeans, those dulled and scuffed boots, that dangling, smoldering cigarette, that swagger of the hip, that slump of the shoulder, he is definitely what I would call sexy. He gave an authentic, simple, old-fashioned, unadorned rock ‘n’ roll performance that remains one of the single best shows I have ever seen.

At the ceremony, Billy Joel’s bizarre, crotchety I-don’t-give-a-fuck New Yorker introduction rambled and barely paid him any sort of tribute. It included a fair number of uninformed and disparaging remarks about farmers and Midwesterners — antithetical to the work Mellencamp was being honored for. He could have used the same speech to introduce Randy Newman; it was more about him, anyway. At least he got in some well deserved digs against VH1 and the music industry.

Mellencamp of course walked out on stage with a cigarette in his lips, stamping it out just before he took the mike. Thankfully he played his own set.

09
Mar
08

Discouraging Discourse

Apparently Geraldo Rivera has written a book. His Panic: Why Americans Fear Hispanics in the U.S.

Let’s ignore the implied sexism of the title; it’s not the worst part.

“His panic.”

Get it? Get it?

He was on NPR the other day talking about it. The conversation shifted from his personal experience — my dad came over on a banana boat, no one calls me Gerry, my mustache is a part of my cultural identity, that kind of thing — to a more general discussion about U.S. immigration policy.

“The hostility by some anti-immigrant activists against Hispanics is no different from that directed against earlier generations of Irish, Italian and Jewish immigrants,” he said.

Many of the most fervent anti-immigrant activists are themselves the children or grandchildren of immigrants. The style changes, the accents change, the geographical antecedents change, but it’s the same. You can track headline for headline the response to the Irish wave of immigration in the mid-19th century to the reaction of the Minutemen and similar radical anti-immigration groups today.

I can track with him so far. I probably wouldn’t argue with much of what he says in the book. But he took a turn in the interview that really disappointed me.

The anchor asked him something like What would you say to the people who argue that their views about immigration are mostly colored by the legality of citizenship and border security?

Geraldo responded in a tone of confident superiority: “Are you really concerned about ‘border security,’ or are you concerned about the changing demographic face of the United States? For example, if it’s terrorism that you’re concerned about and you want this fence built between the United States and Mexico, why don’t you want the same fence built between the United States and Canada?”

For Geraldo to jump directly to the bugaboo of terrorism struck me as a total dodge, and it really bugged me. Especially considering that Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff himself has stated publicly that he’s more worried about the terrorist threat from the Canadian side than the Mexican side.

Besides that, given the context, I understood the question of “border security” to be more about illegal immigration than terrorism.

He continued: “It’s not crime. It’s not terror. It is demographics that is the true fear. If we wanted secure borders, what about the entire Atlantic and Pacific coasts?”

That’s fine. Xenophobia and the institutional bullying of immigrants is certainly a problem. But also, certainly, is the growing pool of undocumented workers in this country. His evasion of the illegal immigration question does his argument a disservice. This — not terrorism — is the entire reason his book is relevant, and I think Geraldo missed a golden opportunity to contribute something meaningful to the national discussion. But he passed it up in favor of an intellectually dishonest soapbox. Perhaps more disappointing is that the anchor did not press him to answer the question. Apparently, a strongly worded statement about terrorism gets you a free pass.

29
Feb
08

One Track Mind

The pet owner is bundled up against the winter elements. His dog, because this is New York City, is teeny-tiny and dressed in an outfit that costs as much as the man’s. The dog scampers along in front, keeping pace, pretending there is no leash connecting them. And then he stops to inspect the base of a retaining wall. The owner passes him and pauses, giving the lead a gentle tug. Come on. Time to go in, boy. The man shifts on his feet and shivers.

The animal stands there with his ass in the air, clearly shivering. He’s one of those little guys that shivers on a warm day. A bitter wind whistles under his tail and across his exposed belly. His single-mindedness and determination is almost inspirational. I’m coming, I’m coming. I just really have to smell this because it’s so … interesting, and I … Oh, wait, what’s this? Oh, now that… that smells awful. Isn’t that awful?

20
Feb
08

Not So Sporting

From the BBC: Northern Ireland’s only gay rugby team is promoting a form of sporting apartheid, Sports Minister Edwin Poots has claimed.

Mr Poots said he could not understand the motivation behind the founding of the Belfast-based Ulster Titans.

“I just cannot fathom why people see the necessity to develop an apartheid in sport,” he said.

However, one of the team’s founders, Declan Lavery, said everyone was welcome to join the club. “When the club was set up it welcomed members regardless of their age, creed, religion, sexual orientation or whatever, and that’s how it continues,” Mr Lavery said.

However, Mr Poots said: “It would be unacceptable to produce an all-black rugby team or an all-white team or an all-Chinese team.

“To me it’s equally unacceptable to produce an all-homosexual rugby team and I find it remarkable that people who talk so much about inclusivity and about having an equal role in society would then go down the route of exclusion.”

This is just willful idiocy.

The facts are plain:

  1. The team was founded by gay men.
  2. Everyone is welcome to join whether they’re gay or not.
  3. It is not a gays-only team. There is no exclusion.

Yet his response is to call this apartheid. Is he even listening? Maybe he’d rather have the pootfers just keep their traps shut.

To call this “apartheid” is not only an insult to all the gay men who joined that team because they felt unwelcome elsewhere, but also to all people who really do experience exclusion. It’s precisely this kind of hostility that leads to the formation of gay-friendly sports teams in the first place.

06
Feb
08

“Let me see, kid… Republican, Democrat or gay?”

Just before my husband voted yesterday, one of the ancient poll workers was chatting him up.

“McMillan!” he said, looking at his last name. “Ah… like McMillan and Wife.”

“I can’t believe he turned out to be a homosexual,” said a woman.

Another woman spoke up. “It seems like everyone is. There’s 10 million of ’em.”

“It’s terrible,” said another. And everyone at the table murmured and shook their heads.

Truly, you never know where one will end up. Maybe even right in front of you. Trying to vote. Doing his civic duty. Well, way to go, old folks! You’ve just committed voter intimidation.

But what’s Jeff going to do — yell at an old man? His calling the election board to report the situation was probably more effective. And by that, unfortunately, I mean “probably not effective at all.”

Is the board really going to screen for anti-gay bias? They should. Would it be acceptable for one of them to spout off their views on a racial or ethnic minority? About women’s rights? Never. Especially on a Primary day, when every citizen can cast an equal vote.

06
Feb
08

Unbearable

When a gay man reaches a certain age — say thirty-something — he may begin to wonder what category he falls into. It’s all about categories in this gay world. What you look like: twink, chicken, bear, cub, otter, wolf. What you do: gym bunny, muscle daddy, leather daddy. Who you do: top, bottom, chubby chaser, chicken hawk, rice queen.

We revel in these labels. We build identities and bars and communities and Web sites and publishing companies around them.

BearSome of us revel in not fitting into one of these categories.

Until we do.

I have never felt like I fit a label. Never was a twink. Not headed toward anything in particular, so I thought. Maybe I could be a cub if I could grow a beard worth a damn. But today I was startled to learn that there are at least two people I work with who think I am a bear. Or at least bearish.

It was further revealed that one of them (I don’t know who; I didn’t ask) said so as a compliment, i.e., my apparent bearishness is an attractive quality. And this did lessen the shock. I’ll take anything label if it means someone thinks I’m cute.

A quick flip through any bear magazine should disabuse anyone of these notions of bearhood. I am as pink and hairless as a newborn kangaroo. But, taken with another word someone else at work applied to me — cuddly — I have little choice but to conclude that I just need to lose weight. No euphemism for “fat” — even if it means someone thinks I’m cute — can leave me feeling very good about myself.

06
Feb
08

Song Poison: My Heart Will Go On

pan fluteSometimes it’s just torture.

My neighborhood grocery store is under new management, and they now play adult contemporary pop songs on the speaker system. I was serenaded by Vegas showgirl Celine Dion the other night, whose “My Heart Will Go On” seems to be making a comeback.

I heard it again several times in both its instrumental and lyrical form a couple of nights later while watching Titanic, of course the song’s reason for existence. (There are other reasons to dislike the film. This is just one.)

We watched Brokeback Mountain immediately following. I must have been hell-bent on feeling miserable that night. Though it was fun to rewind and replay, over and over, the part where frozen, lifeless Leo slips from the piece of wood into the North Atlantic.

The final straw came the very next morning, when I heard — but maddeningly did not see — a subway busker playing the song on some kind of pan flute. This unhappy coincidence guaranteed it sticking in my head on infinite loop for days.

I once saw Victoria Jackson do a stand-up routine in glorious Lansing, Michigan in which she re-enacted the penultimate scene from Titanic the movie.

Rose! Rose, if you shift your fat ass, I can fit on this piece of wood, too!

She also sang a fantastic parody of a Jewel single“These ghoulish fangs are tearing meat apart…”. Luckily, Jewel is rarely as adhesive as Ms. Dion.

01
Feb
08

Open Doors

An optimist would say that when one door closes, another one opens up.

A New Yorker might say, rather, that when one door closes, I’ll just, um … stay outside, I guess.

Despite there being a row of unlocked, fully functional doors — say, at a subway station or a library — they will stream through the single door that happens to be open. Spending any time in public spaces with New Yorkers, one will undoubtedly recognize this peculiar behavior repeated over and over. Rather than boldly striking out and pulling open a second, third — dare I say it — fourth door, they rely on someone else holding the door for them. Telemarketers are less direct in their opportunism.

And just as certainly, when I throw caution to the wind and open my own door, a stream of commuters falls into line behind me.

Flocks of geese are less stringent in their formation. Hives of bees are less singular in their purpose. Oceanbound bales of hatchling turtles are less predictable.

And how many times, when I am leaving a building and someone else is arriving, will that person slide past me to enter as I open the door to leave — often with the effect of actually obstructing my exit? What is more rude: To assume I have opened the door for them, or to refuse to say thank you.

29
Jan
08

Feed Me. Now. OK… Now. (No, really. Now!)

The fat one is ruled by that weird little beeping box. It’s perfectly ridiculous. Any sensible cat knows when she is hungry from the emptiness inside. But this one waits until that box bleeps every morning before rising to feed me. Despite the plainly stated reminders I gently whisper from across the room in my softly melodious voice.

Sometimes he’ll get my hopes up when he stirs. But as I dash toward the door, fervently calling out my thanks over my shoulder, I am often met with a pillow he has sent sailing across the room instead of the reverberating thuds of his footsteps.

The thin one doesn’t even move, unless it’s to pack his pillow more tightly around his head.

It’s enough to drive a self-respecting housecat to hunt. Right. Hunt what, exactly? Dust bunnies? In this dismal prison I have been reduced to such desperate acts as shredding whole rolls of toilet paper, or climbing atop dressers and tables and nudging artfully selected items to the floor.

To add insult to injury, they are also giving me less food these days. If they are not careful, I could lose weight, and we can’t have that. I mean, would they dare? Is it possible? In this place they have removed all exercise from my otherwise active and vigorous lifestyle. Sometimes I need to gallop from one wall to another just to produce a heart beat, just to prove I still can. Now I need to take 20 naps a day instead of my customary 18. I am all but forced to sit at the window, looking out into open air — where is the grass, by the way? the trees? — at those pesky, those dirty, those delicious pigeons.

If they don’t begin to treat me better, I think I will kill a mouse or a large insect and leave it on their bed.

I could do it, too.




the untallied hours