If anybody stumbles across this blog -- which, obviously, I'm not updating much anymore -- and you like it, add me as a friend on facebook! Just search for jammmick -- that's 3 m's ;) -- chris

Yum 8: Potato Salad

OK, my no-mayo, French/Bavarian-ish potato salad:

1) Boil red or yukon gold potatoes
2) Slice them into a mushy mess
3) Add some minced vidalia onion
4) Add some minced fresh herbs (I used basil and cilantro)
5) Add some thinly sliced cucumber
6) Drizzle with olive oil
7) Sprinkle with red wine vinegar
8) Add a dollop of dijon mustard
9) Add a slurp of maple syrup
10) Add some salt and pepper.

That's it.

Joking The Queer

One of my young gay friends -- a sensitive, sexy Latino college student -- is in love with a straight guy. Typical, no? Nature's biggest practical joke: let the queer fall for the breeder. It defines hopelessness. Here's why: Not long ago, G was walking to the straight guy's apartment -- they're best friends -- and, along the way, he picked one daffodil out of every yard he passed. By the time he got to S's apartment, he had a sweet bouquet, which he placed in a vase. Flowers, since the sun first shined on a field in spring, have represented one person's love for another person. S's reaction to the bouquet? "Nice job." He then turned. And walked away. 

The Low-Down On Low-Rise

OK, I'll say it: I hate low-rise jeans.

I hate them on guys. I hate them on girls. I even hate them on mannequins.

They're just so in-your-face. On girls, they look slutty. On guys, they look exhibitionist.

Now, let me stress: I'm not making value judgments on the wearers. I might be making a value judgment on the butt beneath the denim, but I'm not making a value judgment on the person. Some of my best friends wear low-rise jeans.

I just think they're totally un-sexy. First off, a woman's butt wasn't made to be contained in such a scant amount of fabric. They kind of spread and flop when so packaged. As for guys, their butts just look better when wrapped in slightly baggy denim. A little aura of mystery, as I've suggested before, is good.

Of course, people wear low-rise jeans in an effort to expose more skin. Girls show a few more inches of belly beneath the navel; guys show a lot more of their boxers and sometimes a hint of flesh here and there. But it just ain't worth the aesthetic cost.

On a related matter, I also sneer at girls who wear sweat pants or shorts with words emblazoned across their butts. The lack of subtlety is a total turn-off. (Well, I'm gay, so not a sexual turn-off because I was never turned on, but you know what I mean.) Needless to say, by putting words on their asses, they're trying to draw your eyes to their butts. Again, it's just too in-your-face. It's like the difference between bottled lemonade and freshly squeezed lemonade -- one slams your taste buds with sugar and citrus, the other tickles them with a hint of natural lemon. (Is that a bit strained?)

I guess the bottom line (heehee) is that I prefer a more natural sexuality. For instance, a lot of gay guys dress to show skin and then go out of their way to display it in front of cute guys. To me, it's far more enticing to see a guy who dresses less overtly sexy -- showing off his physique, showing a little skin inadvertently -- than one who activates Strip Mode when he sees a prospective mate.

Now, let me stress: There is a fine line here. For instance, guys who always wear their shirts tucked deep in their pants are just as much a turn-off. With them, there's no hope of seeing a bit of skin when they stretch or lean over or walk into a stiff wind. And I insist on guys unbuttoning the bottom button on their untucked shirts. Again, it's a matter of subtlety.

My Cool? Va-po-rized.

OK, get me a razor blade. I'm listening to Barbra Streisand's "People." I might as well tie a noose around my neck and kick a chair out from under my legs. Funny how music can squeeze the heart till it breaks.   The strangest thing about being in love with an unattainable guy is how the notion of sex with anyone else becomes unappealing. Case in point: A cute 27-year-old Nicaraguan -- named Alpha -- left a message on my cell phone last night asking if I wanted to "hang out" with him Saturday. Although we've never actually met, I've seen the guy. Trust me: He's A1 material. "Hang out," of course, is code for "sex."   Sadly, I have no interest in him, simply because I can't get my mind off of this other guy. It might be different if Alpha and I had already dated and liked each other.  For now, though, I'd rather jack off than have random sex.

So, I'm curious: How long will it take before other guys interest me? You know, what with the love thing. Which I still absofuckinlutely hate, by the way. I mean, it vaporizes your cool in an insta-second. You're bitchy, you're jealous, you're mopey. It's disgusting. I freakin hate myself right now. I'd chop off my dick if I wasn't so attached to it. 

OK, I wrote this (well actually it's parts of two posts) in 2006 on Livejournal. It took me until late 2008 to finally get back to normal. Tick-tock. Goodbye, life.

Love And A Bad Sports Metaphor

How tough is unrequited love? This tough: It takes you from cool to pathetic in a broken heartbeat. We all like to see ourselves as aloof from emotional turmoil. Sadly, that's not life. I don't care if you're the epitome of finger-snapping cool, aka Frank Sinatra, or the epitome of hip-hopping cool, aka P Diddy, you've got tears running down your face now and then. Love is like open-heart surgery, without anesthesia. It'll cut a hole in your chest, shred your defense systems and leave you howling in pain.

Pain so complete it overrides all other emotional circuits. Pain that makes you hollow, desperate. 

Ironic, isn't it, how hard love hurts? By definition, love is wonderful. But it's like a perfectly thrown pass. It might be the most beautiful thing in the world, but if there's nobody to receive it, it just crashes into the grass -- and the guy who threw it feels like shit.

There is, however, hope. Not so much that the object of your desire will suddenly embrace you, but that time will heal. And as you wait for that to happen, you can still daydream. Love, after all, is as irrational as it is painful, as capricious as it is essential.

Screwed ... Or Not?

I love being gay. I'd hate to be straight. 

Having said that, there is one thing about queerdom that bugs me -- namely, the expectation of sex whenever two guys date. 

I don't mean anticipation. I mean expectation. If you don't go to bed with a guy on the first date, he's flabbergasted. And if you're still just cuddling by Date 2, he's ready to throw his fishing line into another stream. Not that there's anything wrong with having sex 15 minutes after you've polished off dessert, but -- for the zillionth time -- I really want to develop some affection for the guy before jumping under the covers with him.

Obviously, Insta-Sex isn't an exclusively gay concept. Maybe it isn't even more prevalent in our community. Perhaps the notion of -- to use an archaic term -- courtship is dead everywhere.

The Big Tease

My fantasies have taken a disturbing turn.

I dreamed about chocolate cupcakes the other night. Chocolate on chocolate. With lots of rich, creamy frosting. 

Rarely do I eat baked goods, opting instead for fresh fruit -- especially cherries, watermelon and bananas. I do love sweets. I just don't like what they do to human bodies, so I avoid them. Which may be why I found myself fantasizing about cupcakes.
 
Not only do I dream about cupcakes. I also turn dreams into reality -- though I don't quite consummate the love.

A few weeks ago, for instance, I bought a half-dozen chocolate cupcakes from a Harrisonburg baker and brought them back to the office. Fortunately, I came to my senses and gave them to my staff -- five 20-somethings who gobbled them up confident that their metabolisms would scrape off the mega-calories belly-flopping into their bodies.

In New York last month, after drinking three glasses of wine with dinner, I stopped at a Greenwich Village bakery and bought four cupcakes -- two chocolate on chocolate, two chocolate on white. Again, despite my slightly buzzed state, logic trumped desire. When I finally got back to my hotel in Chelsea -- after walking from the Village and stopping at an 8th Avenue bar to watch the end of an NBA Finals game -- I tempered my appetite, licking the frosting off all four cupcakes, but eating only about half an inch of cake on two of them.

Kinda like foreplay.

This is from my Livejournal account, which I have abandoned for Blogger.com

Love and iPods

I was chatting with a young gay friend today who recently broke up with a longtime -- and quite insane -- boyfriend. Back in his near-native New York City after a disorienting few months of living with Crazy Boy in the sticks -- metro Providence, where my pal was aghast to discover that he had to drive a car to find food during his lunch break -- Mike has begun dating again. He thought he had found Mr. Right on the first pitch. The guy was his type (i.e., a Roger Clemensesque beefy physique) and showered him with attention -- initially. Today, Mike reported that the would-be BF has turned his life into an emotional yo-yo. 

After calling every day for a week, Beef Boy has all but ignored Mike's messages for the past several days. Mike, being gay, is in major fret mode. I counseled my fluttering pal to do one of two things: 1) be patient and let the relationship move at its own pace (in other words, give the guy room to breathe) or 2) launch a full-court press to woo the guy (you know, send him little gifts). That's when Mike informed me that he had given Beef Boy his spare iPod. I pondered that for a moment. True, it's not the most romantic of gifts. Not chocolate. Not caviar. Not a bottle of merlot. And, true, it wasn't a great sacrifice. He gave him his spare iPod, not his only iPod. Still, in the 2000s, nothin says lovin like an Mp3 player. I mean, pop in the earbuds and you can transport yourself a million miles away from the office or train or apartment. Only time, of course, will tell if the iPod will turn Mike into the Apple of Beef Boy's eyes. But, beyond pondering romance and gifts, Mike's situation reminded me how long and bumpy the road to love is for most of us. Mine has been a dead end so far -- and time isn't on my side -- but the chase is essential to my well-being. If I thought I'd never again find somebody to love -- as fucking painful as love is -- I don't think life would be worth living. So I'll keep tabs on Mike's romantic adventure, and if the iPod eventually does the trick, you'll find me in the Mp3 aisle at Circuit City. Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. 

This is from my Livejournal, 2006, as I continue to move posts to this site

Join The Holy Orgy

I was reading that 94 percent of American kids jack off. In addition to making me feel good about our nation, it got me to thinking of my own experience as a teen-ager. Let me say for the record that I was among the 94 percent who took matters into their own hands. Fortunately, I was never fed any bullshit warnings about the dire consequences of masturbating, so I simply enjoyed the moment. Or, more accurately, the moments. The many moments. 

Maybe it helped that "Hair" -- you know, the tribal rock musical -- was popular at the time. It scandalized America in numerous ways, including with the lyrics in "Sodomy": "Masturbation can be fun/Join the holy orgy/Kama Sutra." Needless to say, those wise words became my mantra as a 17-year-old. 

I did have one quirk. (Shocking, eh?) In high school -- as I fantasized about the cute guy on the basketball team or whoever caught my fancy that day -- I liked to jerk off to a certain Rolling Stones song. Much to my regret, I can't remember for sure which one. I think it was "Ruby Tuesday." I do recall with certainly, though, another musical theme: In college, I'd often listen to Cat Stevens' "Morning Has Broken" or "Moonshadow" in the immediate afterglow of my handiwork. As you might expect, those tunes still bring back pleasant memories.

Kama sutra.

Thoughts On A Wintertime Visit To NYC

1) I think the four biggest physical icons in New York are the Empire State Building, Times Square, the Stature of Liberty and the Washington Square Park arch (left). One represents money and power, another entertainment and commercialism (on steroids), another the hope of freedom, another an urban, Bohemian spirit. It was in that spirit that I was approached by a 50ish black guy as I sat on a bench talking on the phone in Washington Square Park. He drifted past once, muttering something. I kept talking. He circled back. "You want some weed?" he asked as I tried to concentrate on my telephone conversation. "No thanks," I replied politely. Then, after I "hung" up, another guy approached me and mumbled something. I assume it was another offer of drugs. I demurred and said, "Have a good week." (Why, I don't know.) He responded in kind. Two observations: First, both dealers were quite brazen and reasonably friendly. Second, I was happy both times that the guys were dealing, simply because I initially feared they were beggars, which would have required a mini-conversation and a few bucks. 

2) In an 8th Avenue diner at about 12:30 one morning, I sat munching on a grilled cheese sandwich when an older, good-looking black gentleman walked in and sat down at the next table. He smiled and said matter-of-factly, "You're so handsome." I giggled, said "thank you," and resumed munching. He continued to praise me. "Hot," I think, was among his observations. (As I said, he was older.) Even though I didn't want to encourage him, I also didn't want to diss him. So I chatted a little, asking where he was from (D.C.), what he did (actor) and how his cheeseburger was (OK). Then, he asked, "Are you a top or bottom." Three times. (If you're not gay and don't know what "top or bottom" means, maybe the Spanish version will help: "activo or pasivo." If that doesn't do the trick, think dicks and butts.) Each time, I rebuffed him, finally telling him I wasn't going to answer. I also gently deflected his hand from landing on my knee. I was a little embarrassed by the guy's question, but I wasn't disturbed by his advances. Sex is important. Love is important. Maybe he thought he had a chance at both in a lonely Chelsea diner.

3) The two companies that have absolutely cornered the market in NYC are Poland Springs bottled water and North Face coats. It seems like every third guy in Manhattan wears North Face gear. Even the first drug dealer in Washington Square Park did. If there's a business or culture writer in the house, it would make a good story.

4) January in Manhattan is a minimalist time. The air is squeezed drier than in summer, allowing only a few dusty snowflakes to drift from skinny clouds. Trees strip down to their skeletons, transforming themselves into finely lined etchings rather than thick oil paintings. Oddly, these traits accentuate the city's beauty. Don't get me wrong: I'd jettison winter in a heartbeat. Give me spring and fall, despite their melancholy.  And give me summer, give me summer over and over and over again. Winter? I like about a month's worth, just enough to see naked trees outlined against icy blue skies, just enough to make me long for the first blossoms. But I'm glad I saw the city in the dead of winter. Buildings seemed more stark, more muscular without makeup, without leaves and flowers to mask their spindly fire escapes and rough exteriors. In the thin January air, the Empire State Building looked sharper than ever. And there's another plus: Those trademark summer street odors were gone, leaving only the sweet aroma of onions and peppers caramelizing on vendors' grills.

5) I'm so fucking happy, so freaking proud that I'm gay. I went to dinner with a beautiful, charming young Trinidadian, a budding journalist, and couldn't have imagined a better life. Gay to de Bone.

From my Livejournal blog, January 2007

A Biology Lesson

Why are we we such saps when it comes to love? Because, someone said, we're biology. I think that's an apt summation. As embarrassing as it is to read some of the entries from 2006 and 2007 on my old Livejournal page, I realize I had absolutely no control over my feelings. That's kind of scary, but it's an unavoidable part of being a human being. At various times in life, you're going to become obsessed with another person. You'll do things that you would otherwise mock. You'll lose any semblance of cool. You'll cry your eyes out. You'll wonder what kind of fucking joke God -- if you believe in a god -- is playing on you. You'll look in the mirror and see a face transformed into a tear. You'll think of the guy all day, all night. You'll pray. You'll scream. You'll pout. You'll beg. You'll turn into a fuckin pussy. Is it worth it? Hell, yes.

Gay Flicks 5

8. Broken Sky 2006 
    MY TAKE: If you want to see the complexities of love condensed into 2 hours and 20 minutes of jaw-dropping cinematographic beauty, check out "Broken Sky." Along with "Angels In America" and "Trick" -- yes, "Trick" -- this is my favorite gay movie. It's unforgettable. Never before have I sat in front of a screen and been so stunned by the artful beauty of a film. You become a drop of blood in a pounding heart.
   PLOT: Set at the National Autonomous University of Mexico -- a dramatic campus with 144,000 undergraduate students alone -- the film luxuriates in its three chief characters, a trio of seriously lustful gay students longing for love. Its frank portrayal of gay sex -- frank but not pornographic -- would turn off many people. So would its pace and depth, both of which make "Brokeback Mountain" look like a romantic comedy. You could print the movie's dialogue on a gum wrapper. Everything is expressed through the actors' eyes and bodies, through the camera's mournful lens.
   FAVE SCENE: I can't pick one. Check out the video below.

   SEX QUOTIENT: Intense.

Gay Flicks 4

7. Adventures Of Felix 2000 
    MY TAKE: Sami Bouajila plays a cute, gay, HIV-positive Arab who lives in an English Channel town on the northwest coast of France. The film is a classic character study, weaving homophobia, racism and AIDS into a meandering 95 minutes. In a cool touch, it's set in spring, so the skies often are dramatic but the scenery dew-fresh, which fits the flick's tone.
   PLOT: Felix loses his job and decides to take a five-day trip -- via feet and thumb -- to the South of France, hoping to meet his father for the first time. En route, he finds a new "family" of sorts.

   FAVORITE SCENES: In the beginning of the film, the camera follows Felix as he rides his bicycle along the oceanfront in his English Channel hometown of Dieppe. It's the sort of scene that would probably be chopped in half or less by an American movie-maker. But it evokes wonderful feelings of youth and freedom. At the end of the film, Felix is reunited with his boyfriend after his journey to Marseilles. Their playful warmth is every gay guy's dream. 

    SEX QUOTIENT: Nothing overt, though there is full frontal nudity in one scene. But, hey, Sami's a beautiful human being. Enjoy.

    MORE: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/adventures_of_felix/

Gay Flicks 3

6. Slutty Summer 2005 
    MY TAKE: The critics hated this little flick. But I liked it, maybe because I didn't expect a cinematic masterpiece from a film shot on a shoestring budget in Manhattan. Yes, the acting is uneven. Some is bad, some is very good. But the story is cute, if cliche-ridden, and the actors even cuter. Luke (Jesse Archer), as the most stereotypical gay character, is totally endearing, if endlessly horny. And Tyler (Jamie Hatchett), as the BritBoy model, is astonishingly beautiful and sexy. What's not to like? Oh, and I love Tyler's quote when Markus (writer-director-actor Casper Andreas) asks him to define their relationship: "Well, I hesitate to call us fuck buddies," he said in his clipped British accent, "because i do enjoy talking to you."
   PLOT: Four pretty, young gay guys get jobs as waiters at a Chelsea restaurant and spend the summer looking for sex and love.
   FAVE SCENE: The gay Jewish dork, Peter, finds a boyfriend -- a cool black kid -- and the two of them walk hand-in-hand down a neighborhood sidewalk in Manhattan.
   SEX QUOTIENT: Not real explicit, but sexy.
  TRIVIA: Jamie Hatchett is a former Versace underwear model.
  MORE:  http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/slutty_summer/

Gay Flicks 2

4. Happy Together 1997
    MY TAKE: Wong Kar-Wai never fails to fascinate. His films are as much about art as they are about plot. None more so than "Happy Together," a study of two gay Hong Kong guys who move to Buenos Aires and soon drift apart. The breakup of their relationship is difficult to watch at times, but the underlying energy of the film keeps your eyes squarely on the screen. As playwright Hang Ong wrote on the DVD version: "It's also about the pop world of love, ships passing in the night, and the wonderfully lush moments..." Wong shows over and over again in his films, a critic suggested, that the world is one neon-lit fast-food joint, whether you're in Southeast Asia or South America.
    PLOT: Gay lovers move from Hong Kong to Buenos Aires and their relationship disintegrates.
    FAVE SCENE: I love the Taipei segment at the end of the film, simply because of the frenzied cinematography.
    SEX QUOTIENT: Nothing to write home about.
    TRIVIA: Nominated for the Golden Palm award at the 1997 Cannes Film Festival
    MORE: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/1083093-happy_together/

5. Just A Question Of Love 2000 
    MY TAKE: This flick grew on me. Made for French television, it intelligently chronicles a budding relationship between a beautiful 23-year-old student (Laurent) and a slightly older agricultural researcher (Cedric). Laurent is still largely closeted, which highly annoys Cedric. Nevertheless, the interaction between these new lovers seems uncommonly realistic, as do their relationships with their parents. The film also is just plain gorgeous -- from the characters to the settings.
    PLOT: The student and his teacher become lovers -- and the teacher prods the student to become more honest about his sexuality. Laurent's parents, small-town pharmacists, are hard sells, to say the least.
    FAVE SCENE: Cedric pulls up in his car outside Laurent's apartment, ostensibly to make sure he got home all right. In truth, he can't get the kid out of his mind. Laurent is equally as excited to see Cedric, and soon they are in bed.
    SEX QUOTIENT: Light. Some modest bed scenes, but remember this first aired on French TV.

This Guy Should've Won (Shut Up)

I've been bitter ever since Sanjaya lost a couple years ago. ')

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Black and White

Shawn, a 20ish black kid with a trendy cell-phone earpiece attached to his right ear, was telling a friend about a fight he got into on the subway.

By his account, rendered in animated fashion at Union Square in New York around midnight, he and his girlfriend got onto the train and had to stand because all the seats were taken. Suddenly, a big white dude bumped into him -- even though Shawn hadn't "stopped short," which apparently would have negated the guy's bump. 

So Shawn turned around and -- as I remember the story -- made some annoyed-but-non-threatening remark to the guy, who replied, "Fuck you."

Oops.

Shawn, wearing a suit and accompanied on the train by his white Czech Republic girlfriend, said he immediately went into "hood" mode." Out went the proper English. In came the ghetto talk. Which, as Shawn told the story, essentially terrorized the white dude, who -- fearing a faceful of fist -- began bear-hugging Shawn, lifting the lean, 5-11ish kid off the floor. 

Obviously, Shawn had a choice: blow off the guy or start whaling on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he said, he spied what appeared to be a security officer approaching -- making the decision easy.

"He was white, I was black. And black guys always get the blame," he said.

So ... BOOM! Shawn's fists were flying.

When the security guy broke things up, Shawn said an old white woman -- as is their wont, he noted -- blamed it all on the black kid.

"You know she wanted to say 'nigger,'" Shawn said.

Shawn's white girlfriend, though, stuck up for him, and -- as I remember -- all ended well.

The story was one of many Shawn told in an hour-and-a-half monologue to his friends, first to a pretty white girl with a European accent, then to a studious-but-strong-looking black guy (whose reaction to the subway tale was, "Shawn, that was a long story.")

A sampling of his subjects: 1) how mainstream American culture sucked because white Americans were basically "watered-down Europeans," 2) how people in Union Square would look at a big electronic readout with rapidly changing mega-digits and speculate that it was the national debt or the number of people Bush had killed, when in fact it was a clock to the nth degree (which he said he figured out after about a week of studying it), 3) how kids in the hood used to make fun of the way he dressed, calling it "homo" (he was wearing a gray T-shirt tucked into tight blue jeans; a snug, untucked checkered button-down shirt; a silver-chain loop on his belt; and red-and-white sneakers untied), 4) how his style of dress is now catching on in the hood, where baggy is out; and how some white dudes just can't pull off the look (noting guys he'd seen in bars with their balls clearly outlined and their "hairy asses" showing when they leaned over), and 5) how everyone his age still raves about "KIDS," a 1995 flick about New York City teens' addiction to drugs and sex (he thought the lifestyle it chronicled was lame).

The guy was obviously bright and culturally and politically aware. At first, I thought he was gay, because he mentioned gay things and said he hung out in Chelsea, but by the end, I wasn't sure. In fact, how much of his monologue was real and how much was shtick is anybody's guess. He was, however, way better than a comedy club on a weekday night. And, once in a while, he drew me into the conversation. When he and his friends left the steps of Union Square at around 12:30 a.m., he reached over, shook my hand and said, "My name's Shawn. It's been good talking to you." Cool, I thought. Even cooler would be seeing him again. Fat chance, right?

Wrong.

About an hour later, I saw Shawn standing outside a brightly lit cafe at the corner of 23rd and 8th in Chelsea, lecturing a bleeding white kid. Soon, an NYPD car flashed to the scene, along with the rescue squad. Uh-oh, I thought, there goes Shawn. But the black-white thing, in this case, didn't hold. I have no idea why the white kid -- whom I first saw literally stumbling past the open-air Venus diner a couple feet in front of my grilled cheese and french fries at about 1:15 a.m. -- was bleeding, but he was the only one taken away by the cops or medics.

I thought about race -- and Shawn -- again Thursday in lower Harlem. I had wandered up 114th Street, a narrow road with teenagers playing basketball on the hot pavement and other black guys hanging out on the stoops of the skinny sidewalk. In a scene out of an NYC cops flick, about 20 police cars -- mostly cruisers, but also a handful of unmarked detective cars (along with one three-wheeled meter-maidish vehicle) -- screeched onto 114th, lights flashing, sirens squealing. Cops sprayed out like shot-gun pellets. Two panting officers raced to the scene on foot. Speculation on the street was that they were looking for someone connected with the shooting of two policemen earlier in the week. It took only five minutes or so for the cops to determine it was a false alarm, and away they went just as quickly as they had arrived.

What was notable, though, was how many of the black guys scattered when the police approached. Many of the cops -- the vast majority, maybe -- were black or Latino, but that didn't matter. Inner-city blacks and big-city cops don't mix. 

That's no surprise, considering the stunning number of young black men behind bars in America.

Using information from the U.S. Justice Department's annual report on inmates, the World Socialist Web Site presented stark statistics on life for black men in America:

"More than a quarter of U.S. inmates in mid-2002—a total of 596,400—were black males between the ages of 20 and 39. This means 12 percent of black men in their 20s and early 30s—more than one in ten—are in jail or prison. The report calculates that over the course of a lifetime, 28 percent of all black men will have spent some time behind bars."

The numbers haven't changed much, according to more recent federal studies. In 2005, the Justice Department reported, 12 percent of black men in their late 20s were in prison or jail -- compared to only 3.9 percent of Hispanics and 1.7 percent of whites.

It's even worse for the poorly educated -- and one study estimates that New York City has a 61 percent high school dropout rate.

Reported the New York Times: "In 1995, 16 percent of black men in their 20's who did not attend college were in jail or prison; by 2004, 21 percent were incarcerated. By their mid-30's, 6 in 10 black men who had dropped out of school had spent time in prison."

I have no idea how many black guys are wrongly convicted of crimes. Most, I assume, deserve to be in jail. Most, I also assume, grew up in environments that helped seal their fates -- meaning no father at home, lousy schools, gangs on the streets, a numbness to ever-present violence, an acceptance of drugs. Listen to rap songs. Those guys are like reporters from the ghetto. Life isn't easy. 

Race itself, however, plays zero role in why somebody commits a crime. Put white or brown kids in the same circumstances and they'd turn out the same way. That doesn't mean racial profiling doesn't lead to more blacks being jailed. It just means that race isn't the root cause. 

Profiling, of course, demeans and marginalizes people. It doesn't make a kid think, "Wow. Isn't that policeman nice, mom?" And it takes places everywhere. Here in Harrisonburg, a college town in the Shenandoah Valley, the city's star high school athlete -- and later a Division I-AA football All-American -- once told me that when he walked to the 7-Eleven, cops would stop and ask what he was doing. That would never happen to a white kid here.

Police, no doubt, would cast a wary eye on Shawn -- or is it Sean (and do I use "Shawn" because it sounds blacker?) -- before they would on a white guy. It's not fair, but Shawn clearly has accepted it -- meaning the system has beaten down even this exceptionally bright, articulate and knowledgeable kid from the hood.

No wonder he decided to pound that white dude on the train.

Yum 7: A Stir Fry, Sort Of

It's blood orange season, so I'm squeezing those scarlet drops into all kinds of dishes, including something resembling a stir-fry. I say "resembling" because I don't use a wok and I like to cook the vegetables longer than you would in a regular stir-fry. Anyway, this is it:

THE SAUCE

1) Squeeze three to six oranges (depending on juiciness and size) into a bowl. Today, I used four blood oranges and two cara-cara oranges.

2) Squeeze another type of citrus in the bowl. A lime or lemon is good.

3) Add a few slurps of low-sodium soy sauce.

4) Add a generous slurp of maple syrup.

5) Add a minced smallish garlic clove.

THE FRY

1) Lightly coat a skillet with oil. I use olive oil, but -- obviously -- a more traditional stir-fry grease would be fine.

2) Saute some sliced leeks, several minced garlic cloves and a third of a jalapeno.

3) Add sliced sweet bell pepper (red, yellow or orange), sliced baby portobello mushrooms, broccoli, cauliflower, a few grape tomatoes, sliced zucchini. (Or, really, whatever you like.)

4) Add salt, black pepper, a little ground coriander, maybe some cilantro. 

5) After it's softened some, add the sauce.

6) Cook another 10 minutes or so.

THE CARBS

1) Brown rice or ...

2) Couscous or ...

3) Bread.

MORE PROTEIN

1) A medium-hard cheese like gouda or jarlsberg, chunked.

Yum.

More Mood Than Shiver

I'm not a big horror flick guy, but I love foreign films, so I watched "Shiver" (or "Eskalofrio" in Spain) the other day. The plot is pretty predictable -- light-sensitive kid moves to the mountains, people die, he becomes a suspect, turns out the monster's a psycho girl -- but the atmosphere is indeed terrifying. The movie appears to be set in a remote region of northern Spain called Asturias, a wet place of steep canyons and dark forests. The director, Isidro Ortiz, captures the insular dread of the setting perfectly. By the end of the flick, he also achieves his goal of making the dark a sanctuary. "I've tried in 'Eskalofrio' to build a horror thriller where the monsters are the heroes and where you must flee from the light to take refuge in the darkness," he wrote. "A back to front tale." That in itself is creepy.

Perceptive Bitch

So I'm having dinner with a young Mentos guy. (What's Mentos? Please.) And the young waitress -- who, inexplicably, apparently has the hots for me -- brings separate checks to our table. "The top is yours," she tells me. "The bottom is yours," she tells Gabe. Hmmm. Was she upset? Anyway, as Gabe said, how dare she presume? 

(OK. Mentos. That's what I call cool, hip, multicultural, well-traveled guys. You know, like the EuroKid commercials for the Freshmaker. ;)

Dumb and Dumber

The absolute worst thing in the world: dining alone in a crowded restaurant on Valentine's Day. Yes, it's dumb, but nothing screams "PATHETIC" louder. So, of course, I ate alone in my home tonight, thank you. Hmm. Dumb and dumber?

So, So, Soooo Gay

Although I apparently am the only homosexual in America who didn't watch "Sex and the City" when it initially aired on HBO, I'm making amends. Not long ago, I buzzed through the first season on DVD. Drooling, I then bought the complete series -- for only $99, I might add -- and am officially hooked.

As everyone knows, this is a "gay" show in drag. Yes, it's about four women's sexual adventures in NYC, but queers can totally relate to the plots and emotions. Maybe it's the promiscuity. I mean, we all know men are horny as shit 24/7. So are these girls. That alone makes it relate-able. Then there's the fashion, the sassy wit, the shopping, the ... OK, so I'm getting a wee bit stereotypical. And, of course, the TV series was created by a gay dude.

Anyway, the show's writing is hit and miss. But -- and here's where the "omg, i'm so gay" comes into play -- I watched an episode yesterday and wept like a 6-year-old girl. It's when a devastated Aiden comes to Charlotte's wedding and breaks up with Carrie, who had earlier told him she had slept with Mr. Big. So everyone's crying, including me. Then, as a still-tearful Carrie poses with her three pals in a wedding picture, she says: "It's hard to find people who will love you no matter what. I was lucky enough to find three of them."  Lost it. Why, I really don't know. But sometimes, as cynical as I am, sappy romance knocks me flat.

A Reminder

It's important to remember -- even belatedly. Last October was the 10th year since Matthew Shepard's murder. Savagely beaten and tied to a fence in the Wyoming prairie -- the only places on his face free of blood were where his tears had fallen -- the 21-year-old gay college student was discovered the next day by a cyclist who thought he was a scarecrow. Shepard died five days later. Most evidence suggests the two young killers were fueled by drugs and homophobia.

But, trite as it sounds, his death did not go unnoticed. Shepard became a symbol in the battle to protect gay people from hate crimes. Those crimes still exist, but -- a decade later -- a majority of Americans appear to accept gays. They might not want them to marry. They might not want to get too close to them. But they don't want to exterminate them. The subsequent humanization of this innocent kid was one small step along the way.

Just Take The Freakin Subway

The only thing about Taxgate that bothers me is this: What made Tom Daschle feel he needed -- and perhaps deserved -- a car and driver at his command ... 24/7 ... as a private citizen? It's just another deliciously nasty little snapshot of this greedy era. Daschle apparently felt he was just too important to do what 95 percent of people do: either drive themselves or take the subway, the bus or even a cab. Instead -- and I'm guessing here -- he felt his time was so important, his station in life so lofty, his service to the nation already so generous that he was entitled to a round-the-clock chauffeur. It actually wouldn't bug me so much if Daschle had been spending his own $100,000-plus a year for the livery. But to accept it as a gift? From a rich guy trying to rub shoulders with "powerful" people? That's pathetic.

(The picture: THAT'S what Daschle should have been driving -- a 100 mpg car that was quite popular on Capitol Hill, at least for photo ops.)

A Serious Party

So, I stayed home tonight, cooked dinner (soft-shell tacos with freshly made salsa) and clicked the evening away on the Net. As you might know, I'm fascinated with Justin TV, so -- in the background as I did other things -- I watched a very young, very cute Marine get drunk. He was with two buddies (down from six the night before) in a penthouse at Myrtle Beach ($16 a day each for seven guys), downing beer and booze most of the night. A few minutes ago -- he's now talking to buddies at another party that HE'S watching on the Web -- Stephen told a friend that he'll be spending the next month on the boat he's attached to. Then he'll be stateside for two weeks, presumably at his base in Jacksonville, N.C., before going back to sea for a while. After some time off, he said, his unit will be "deployed" in May. He didn't say where it was being sent, but I'm guessing Iraq or Afghanistan. When I heard him say that, the partying suddenly didn't seem so frivolous. It seemed more like a defensive mechanism, a last chance for normalcy. I wanted to hug him. And thank him.

"I Fuck Guys, But I'm Not Gay"

I was chatting with somebody on gay.com the other day when he informed me he wasn't "gay," he simply slept with men. Sort of like the Roy Cohn character in "Angels In America" -- the true-life right-wing, anti-communist lawyer who died of AIDS in 1986, apparently insisting to the end that he wasn't queer. Now, let's be clear: These guys don't claim to be bisexual. They just claim not to be "gay." Why? I'm guessing because they buy into all the silly -- and often sordid -- stereotypes, ranging from the extreme (limp-wristed, flamboyant perverts) to the more benign (guys more adept at making creme brulee than changing a tire). In truth, gays span the spectrum: some are indeed flamboyant, others are as "mainstream" as a Peyton Manning spiral, others are beautifully metrosexual. But what makes them "gay" isn't that they get hoarse at Madonna concerts or that they wear tight, low-rise jeans or that they scheduled their lives around "Sex and the City." It's that they have sex with men. Simple as that.

Our James Dean

Jack Baxter should be arrested for theft. I've never seen a young actor in a gay film steal the camera like Baxter did in "Tan Lines," a coming-of-age story set in a beach town near Sydney, Australia. He plays a 16-year-old named Midget, who is described on the movie's Web site as "surfer, teenager, partier, pervert." A better description might be a gay James Dean. Like Dean, Baxter oozes cocky cool -- even though Midget sleeps in the same bed as his dirt-poor, apparently alcoholic mother -- and exudes youthful sexuality. The story isn't complex: surfer boy discovers he's gay when a cute hunk moves back to town. The boys fall in lust -- and maybe even in love -- but Midget can't quite come out to his cool-but-insular buddies. For a gay audience, this flick has it all: a believable script, sexy bodies and lovingly shot sex. But I think non-homophobic straight guys would like it, too, simply because the story touches all humans, queer or not. Baxter, by the way, was recruited from the streets, making his performance even more remarkable. His charisma splashes all over the camera, and I think his non-acting background gives the movie rare authenticity.

A "G" and an "X"

Two movies I saw recently:

• If I were to be a monk, I'd choose Buddhism in a heartbeat. I mean, come on: pretty saffron robes, reincarnation, cute guys, lots of vegetarian food. It would be nirvana. So, naturally, I enjoyed a little film from Bhutan called "The Cup." It's premise is simple: the interaction of the modern world with the ancient. Set in a monastery in India (though actually shot in Bhutan), the movie focuses on young monks intent on securing a TV for the World Cup. As with many foreign flicks, "The Cup" seeps into your mind -- rather than splashing off it like a Hollywood-style movie.  You almost feel as though you've actually checked into the monastery. Not a bad way to spend 93 minutes.
• I'm a bit reluctant to mention the second movie because it deals with such a kinky subject: sadomasochism. I never understood the appeal of this fetish. Now, I do. Let me clarify: I have zero interest in performing S&M. To me, is seems "weird." I hate to use that word because it appears judgmental, but in this case it does reflect my intellectual and emotional reaction. Even so, "Punish Me" is so brilliantly acted and so fresh in its material (at least for me) that it's stuck in my mind. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the kid seeking sexual punishment -- played by Kostja Ullman -- redefines teen-age beauty. But it's more than that. The 50-year-old woman whipping the boy is equally compelling. Her transformation from proper parole officer to libidious sex maniac is as sharply etched as a birch tree against a gray German sky. And make no mistake: This is a very, very German film -- full of frank, stark images and emotions. Filmed in sometimes-grainy black-and-white, it gives no pretense of romance. More like art-house porn. But porn that teaches you about a murky subculture.

Boys Will B-Boys

I just watched "Planet B-Boy," a can't-take-your-eyes-off-the-screen documentary about breakdancing that -- odd as it might sound -- makes you proud to be a homosapien. It's about the 2005 "Battle of the Year," an annual, low-budget mecca of breakdancing held annually in Braunschweig, Germany.  The movie follows five teams as they prepare for the 19-nation showdown: the defending champion Koreans, a second Korean team (because the champs make it automatically), the Americans, the French and the Japanese. They splatter themselves on stage in routines that blend in-your-face athleticism with amazing choreography. Here's a snippet (I've imbedded it below, but click the "snippet" hyperlink to watch it in high quality):

My Name Is Chris ... And I (God Help Me) Love Wal-Mart

As a liberal, I shouldn't admit this, but I absolutely love Wal-Mart. I love all the products, all the low prices, all the shoppers, all the surprisingly cheerful workers. I even love its sooooo unfairly maligned produce.

It's actually a destination resort. Every time I go, I feel like I'm visiting America. As Calvin Coolidge said 80 years ago, the business of America is business. And nothing epitomizes American captitalism like Walmart. It's sort of a smiley-face virus, destroying potential enemies and conquering whatever body it inhabits. 

Yet, I love it. I love the way it democratizes a town. In Harrisonburg, everyone --from college students to Hispanic immigrants to Valley Christians to professors to mountain folk -- shops at the super Wal-Marts. I love its honest, ultra-confident capitalism. LOOK AT THE SELECTION! LOOK AT THE PRICES! AND, EVEN AS WE SMILE, LET'S MAKE ONE THING CLEAR: IF YOU'VE GOT A PROBLEM WITH US, FUCK YOU. WE'LL WIN!

Yes, I know all the bad things: how it destroys ma-and-pop stores (which are often overpriced and/or understocked, by the way), how it underpays its workers, how it forces suppliers to make things cheaply (thereby depressing wages and, diabolically, creating a ready-made market for its products), how it offers subpar medical benefits.

But it really does seem willing to address many of those criticisms, and it hires lots of people who, frankly, would have trouble getting a job anywhere else. This, too, is clutch: Wal-Mart's workers treat everybody who walks into the store equally. Doesn't matter if you're the university president or the poultry-plant worker, you're going to get a smile and a thank-you and maybe even a smiley-face sticker for your kid.

The merchandise, of course, spans the gamut. Some is junk, some is cool. I've used Virgin Mobile phones for a few years now, simply because they were on a display near the cash registers and I threw one into my cart. I have dishes from Wal-Mart that I've used nearly every day for years. You just need to pick and choose. As for groceries, you can get everything from blood oranges to fresh horseradish root -- often of better quality than at the snottier supermarkets. 

And let me stress, I know snooty. I love farmers' markets and Whole Foods and gourmet shops. In fact, when I first started shopping at Wal-Mart several years ago, I noticed my credit/debit card had been frozen. I called the bank. They told me they had put a security hold on it. Why? "Have you been shopping at Wal-Mart?" they asked. Turns out Wal-Mart was so out of sync with my profile that they thought somebody might have stolen my card.

(Oh, and did I mention how cool it would be to be one of those Mad Max cart boys?)

This Amazes Me

Olny sxey poelpe can.

cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

if you can raed tihs rpsoet it

A Bit Of Fiction To Make A Point

So why can't Zach and Javy accept a civil union? Why do they need to be "married"?

Zach is a 24-year-old graphic artist, Javy a 25-year-old waiter going to night school at the Fashion Institute of Technology. They met two years ago at Javy's restaurant, a vegetarian joint in the East Village. It wasn't exactly love at first sight. More like lust at first sight. The gaydar shrieked, Zach excused himself from the table to slip Javy his telephone number, they hooked up. Soon, they were committed. Well, as committed as young gay guys in New York can be. For a while, both did the odd blow jobs. Now, they're monogamous. They want to live out their lives together.

They even have talked about marriage, something alien to previous gay generations. Marriage was for straight people. It was bourgeois, an arrangement designed to propagate mankind. Without children, what was the point? Or so we thought.

Then a generation of gay kids grew up in an era of relative acceptance. Zach came out as a high school senior in Virginia. Javy never really "came out" in L.A.; he just lived his life as a gay kid, no questions asked. Neither ever had an iota of shame or doubt about being gay, so they never had an iota of shame or doubt about the notion of marrying another man.

Suddenly, though, they felt the contempt of America, they felt their nation spitting in their face.

At first glance, civil unions seem like a nice compromise. Under a civil union, gay couples have all the legal rights of straight couples. Those range from financial benefits to hospital visitation. Not a bad way to solve a divisive issue, right?

Uh-uh. For Zach and Javy, it only confirms their pariah status in society. You know, separate but equal. Remember, the separate-but-equal doctrine kept blacks out of white schools, out of white toilets, away from white water fountains. Of course, things were never equal. White schools were palaces compared to black schools. More insidiously, the laws marginalized blacks, demeaned them, psychologically cemented their status as underlings.

The U.S. Supreme Court declared separate-but-equal unconstitutional five decades ago. Among the reasons for the decision: that black children developed a sense of inferiority because they were separated from the ruling-class white children.

Zach and Javy know they're not inferior to straights. They know it in their heads. They know it in their hearts. They know it in their souls. But gay kids also grow up knowing that society views them as undesirable. Forbidding them to marry accentuates that point. It hurts and hardens gay kids, kids whose basic desires are no different than any other guys: the latest Kanye West album, tickets to the Jay Z concert, a new video game, pizza 24/7, gallons of Slurpees. Then they mature -- and they want love, security and acceptance.

Which brings us back to civil unions. They might be better than nothing, but only marginally because the federal government doesn't recognize them. Clearly, they're not the morally right choice.

Few, if anybody, would argue that churches should be required to marry gays if they choose not to do so. They're private entities. But the government -- the representative of all the people -- has an obligation to allow gays to marry. To shirk that obligation condemns 4 percent of Americans to second-class status.

The Zachs and Javys of America -- people who want to formalize their love and commitment -- deserve better.

Here Kitty, Kitty

My favorite T-shirt is black with a catty message: "So Many Right Wing Christians. So Few Lions." I don't wear it in public, simply because it would offend most people. But I love the sentiment. 

I guess the bottom line is I don't understand fundamentalists. And, in truth, I don't respect them. I don't respect them because they form their beliefs on blind faith. Logic? Forget it. If the Bible says it happened, it happened. If the Bible suggests it's bad, it's bad. Want proof? The Bible says ... And that's where they lose me. Quoting scripture in a argument about religion is like quoting Bush in an argument about Iraq. If I'm doubting the premise, quoting the source won't convince me.

Needless to stay, many churches are wonderful institutions. They glue together communities, perform valuable charitable work worldwide and are a source of comfort to millions of people. Others, just as obviously, are evil. They preach intolerance, reinforce prejudices and demonize gays -- which is where I come in. 

Being  gay, it's hard for me to look fondly on religion. Even most mainstream churches believe that gay sex is an abomination. Most say they love all people, including sinners like gays. But most also marginalize gay people by treating them -- however benignly -- as deviants. Again, many churches do important charitable work. But why should I embrace them?

If there is a god, I can't imagine he created me and my gay friends by mistake or as a diabolical joke. If there is a god, I know he would consider me as much a part of him as Mother Teresa or Billy Graham. He wouldn't ask me to repent, which would come as news to people like the senior editor who said I was going to hell for having sex out of wedlock unless I confessed my sins or to places like Eastern Mennonite University that expel or fire gay people for having sex out of wedlock -- not because they're gay, EMU insists, but because they're not married. The catch 22? EMU opposes gay marriage. So if you're gay and never have sex, you're A-OK. 

What bullshit.

Screwed Or Not?

I love being gay. I'd hate to be straight. 

Having said that, there is one thing about queerdom that bugs me -- namely, the expectation of sex whenever two guys date. 

I don't mean anticipation. I mean expectation. If you don't go to bed with a guy on the first date, he's flabbergasted. And if you're still just cuddling by Date 2, he's ready to throw his fishing line into another stream. Not that there's anything wrong with having sex 15 minutes after you've polished off dessert, but -- for the zillionth time -- I really want to develop some affection for the guy before jumping under the covers with him.

Obviously, Insta-Sex isn't an exclusively gay concept. Maybe it isn't even more prevalent in our community. Perhaps the notion of -- to use an archaic term -- courtship is dead everywhere.

What do you think? (That question is for both gays and straights.)

Never Say Goodbye

Eric Higashiguchi pulled up in front of my office in his rental car. "Man, this is cool," I thought. "A gay.com friend come to life!"

I'd "met" Eric several months earlier on-line. We'd talked for hours and hours on the phone when he was a law clerk for a federal judge in El Paso. Later, Eric moved back to California -- he was a Hawaiian but got his degree from Cal-Berkeley -- after landing a job at a Los Angeles law firm. Business took him to Washington, so one afternoon he drove two hours to Harrisonburg just to have dinner with me.

Eric emerged from his car and shook my hand. He was a nice-looking guy in his early 30s, the product of a Japanese father and Puerto Rican mother, but -- more importantly -- he was sweet. A wee bit shy. Intelligent. A fun conversationalist. On the phone, we talked about everything, but food was always Topic A. Nutella was a particular passion. So, it was appropriate that our two-hour window that evening -- I had to go back to work -- revolved around dinner. We went to a home-style Indian restaurant here and had a neat conversation. He clearly liked me. I thought he was cool, too.

Most special, we never talked about sex. Not in on-line chats. Not on the phone. Not in person. We laid the foundation for a friendship rather than a hookup. That's not always easy to do with gay.com guys. Distance, though, takes its toll. As he adjusted to life in L.A. -- and later moved back to San Franciso -- and as I got involved with other guys closer to home, Eric and I lost touch. We'd see each other on-line every few weeks, but we didn't talk on the phone, and our friendship became more a memory than a reality.

Still, every so often, I'd think I should call Eric and see how he was doing. I knew he was lonely, I knew he was having trouble finding somebody to love.

Today, at work, I got a call from a stranger in California. He asked if I knew Eric. He then told me he had bad news. Eric was dead. He'd taken his own life a month ago. Friends had found his cell phone and were calling everybody on his contacts list. 

Did being gay contribute to Eric's death? It's so much harder for us to find committed mates, to find true relationships. He was sweet but not sexy, just the sort of guy the girl next door wants. But maybe not the kind young gay guys seek out. 

I wish I'd called Eric. I wish I'd known how deeply he hurt. His memorial service is this weekend. I can't be there. But I'll be thinking of him, and I'll be thinking of this simple fact: Never let a friendship lapse, never neglect a friend, never say goodbye.

(I first wrote this in July 2006 in another blog, but I think it's worth repeating.)

Yum 6: Too Freakin Healthy

Nailed the kale soupish thing:

Saute half an onion, a jalapeno pepper and several big garlic cloves in olive oil. Add kale and continue sauteing for a while. Then add a sweet bell pepper, 15-20 or so sliced grape tomatoes, kale, cilantro. Add salt, lots of freshly ground black pepper, a little cumin, a little coriander, a sprinkle of dried Italian herbs, a generous slurp of maple syrup (crucial!), the juice of one orange, a half-can of black beans (or cannellini) and vegetable broth to make it soupy. Simmer for 20-30 minutes. Top with slices of cheddar cheese (or parm-reg if you're using cannellini), eat with dense multi-grain bread. 

Race To Judgment

Race. It's totally loco to even try to talk about it. So, of course, I'm going to talk about it. Anyone who thinks race is irrelevant might want to check out what's been going on in D.C. this week with Roland Burris, a has-been politician appointed by the apparently uber-sleazy Illinois governor -- you know, the guy who looks like the mayor of Budapest, circa 1977 -- to fill Barack Obama's seat in the Senate. Last week, Burris was DOA. No way would the Senate seat him, the Dems said. Not after the man who appointed him -- Rod Blagojevich -- stood accused of trying to auction off the seat. Then came this conversation (sort of): "Psst. Harry! Senator Reid! He's b-l-a-c-k." "What the fuck?!?! Why wasn't I informed!?!?" A party that gets 90-plus percent of the African-American vote suddenly was blocking the appointment of a rarity -- a non-white person in the U.S. Senate. Not good. So, of course, the Democrats have all but changed their mind and appear prepared to welcome Burris to the Capitol.

Three thoughts: 1) Hell yes, the Senate needs more blacks, more Latinos, more women, more gays, more Asians, more multi-racial people. America is turning into a brown nation -- a most excellent development -- and Congress needs to better reflect our new hue. 2) Having said that, I also have to be honest: The only reason Burris is about to be seated is because he's black. The Congressional Black Caucus -- showing the sort of myopic approach that I hoped would fade with Obama's election -- voted unanimously to seat Blag The Terrible's appointee. No way in hell would the Caucus have issued a similar plea for a white or brown man in these circumstances. And Senate leaders, according to the always on-target Dana Milbank in the Washington Post, were on the defensive Wednesday about Burris' race, a sure indication it was foremost on their minds. 3) Finally, the Democrats -- stunningly stupid in their handling of the matter -- had no real choice but to accept Burris. It was becoming an unnecessary distraction, a distraction neither Congress nor Obama could afford as they try to solve seemingly intractable problems. "Unnecessary" because Burris is, on paper, fit to serve in the Senate. Even if his judgment stinks: Burris, after all, was complicit in Blag's cynical maneuver to force the Democratic leadership to accept his appointment, knowing -- unless he's ignorant -- that he would create both a major distraction when the nation should be focusing on real problems and a major embarrassment for Obama on the eve of the president-elect's inauguration. Still, he's apparently an intelligent and accomplished man.

Regardless, race irrelevant? Hardly.

Yum 5: Whore's Pasta

I know everybody (can there be an "everybody" if nobody's reading your stuff?) wants to know this. My super-simple, quick, go-to dinner, the one I make more than any other, especially in the wee small hour of the morning (GREAT Sinatra song, kiddies), is pasta puttanesca (loosely translated from the Italian: the whore's pasta). A total kitchen dummy could make it. Here it is:

1) Pour some decent olive oil into a skillet.

2) Dice up a head of garlic -- note I said "head," not just a clove -- and toss it in the skillet.

3) Sprinkle in a sizable dose of red pepper flakes. 

4) Saute at fairly high heat for a couple of minutes.

5) Add sliced sweet bell pepper (red, yellow or orange) and chopped (and, if you want, seeded) grape or sweet cherry-esque tomatoes. 

6) Throw in a spoonful or two of jarred capers (pungent little bitches).

7) Chop up maybe a dozen pitted kalamata olives; throw them into the skillet. If you choose, squeeze in some fresh lemon juice (totally optional).

8) Toss in some pine nuts.

9) Sprinkle with salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper.

10) Let everything saute at medium to high heat until it kind of sticks to the skillet. It should be pasty rather than liquidy.

11) While that's going on, boil water and cook linguine or angel hair. When that's done, toss it into the skillet and mix everything together.

12) Pour it into a bowl or onto a plate; top with parmigiano-reggiano or, if you prefer, cheaper parmesan cheese.

That's it. Serve it with a big salad. (On a flat, square plate, I take a mound of spring mix and surround it with things like avocado, carrots, a few grape tomatoes, apple/blood orange/pear/peach and whole almonds.) Pop open some red wine if you dare. 

Norwegian Punk

I really can hardly watch Hollywood movies anymore. They're like chewing gum -- a nice burst of flavor, then nothing but wasted motion. You might remember the one-liners and special effects, but I doubt if "Batman" or "Indiana Jones" stretch your mind. Which is why I far prefer foreign flicks, where directors often try to strip a character naked and expose him to the world. 

That's what 34-year-old Joachim Trier does in "Reprise," a 2006 Norwegian film that I watched via Netflix's on-demand option (finally available for Macs). It tells the story of two young writers, Erik and Phillip, whose lives dramatically diverge as each gets published. Erik accepts his success with relative ease, while Phillip has a mental breakdown (the best portrayal of madness I've seen since the absolutely harrowing "Requiem for a Dream"). Backed on occasion by a punk soundtrack (who knew Scandinavians did anything but "Barbie Girl"?), the movie bumps with energy. I have no clue, but critics compared "Reprise" to France's New Wave films of the 1950s. It definitely smells European, from the brooding backdrops in Oslo to the skinny actors who portray the protagonists.

In essence, "Reprise" is about young people staring into what seems -- at 20 or 25 -- a never-ending life and a never-ending world. The characters talk in Norwegian (don't let the subtitles spook you), but they speak universally -- about the desire for respect, for fame, for success, for love, for security, for friendship and, as New York Times critic Dennis Lim put it, the "near-universal longing of young people" to be somewhere else. 

Patriotic Or Not?

I've been trying to figure out if Obama's election has made me more patriotic. During the Bush years, I certainly never felt any love for the American government. In fact, I hated it. I hated the arrogant executive branch, I hated the pushover legislative branch, I hated the ideological court system. One of my favorite songs was Rufus Wainwright's "Going to a Town":

Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?

Tell me, enough of thinking everything that you've done is good

I really need to know, after soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood

I'm so tired of America

I really need to know

I may just never see you again, or might as well

You took advantage of a world that loved you well

I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down

I'm so tired of you, America

I hate standing for the national anthem at sports events. I hate the pomp and circumstance of what Nicholas von Hoffman once called "Imperial Disneyland," aka Washington, D.C. 

But here's the dichotomy: On my youtube favorites, I have the cast of "American Idol" singing "God Bless the USA" around the time of the Iraq invasion, never mind that the war was immoral and stupid. I have Liza Minnelli, escorted by NYC cops and firefighters, singing "New York, New York" at the first baseball game at Shea Stadium after 9/11. I cry every time I see footage of the attack on the World Trade Center. I cried when Obama was elected president. I choke up when I see young soldiers and sailors willingly putting themselves in harm's way. I think anybody who attacks America -- such as Al Qaeda -- must be destroyed, no questions asked. Yet I understand their hatred for America.

So am I patriotic? It's such a tough question. I love the ever-increasing diversity of America. I love the ideal of America. I love the heart of America. I wouldn't choose to be anything but an American. But I feel just as much pain for an "enemy" solider -- usually, just a kid in blue jeans, t-shirt and sneakers -- killed by Americans as I do for an American soldier killed by the "enemy." I don't believe Americans are better than people anywhere else in the world, and I think when power is in the wrong hands (read: Bush), the United States is the greatest source for evil in the world.

As I said, it's a complex question. I'm certain Red America wouldn't consider me patriotic. Which, actually, might make the whole question moot.