"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.