Life on the Web is essentially whatever you want it to be. You can be prettier, smarter, bolder, buffer, nicer, even sexier than in flesh-and-blood life. But to be worthwhile, you've got to be honest. So I'll try to keep my microchip world as real as the biological version.
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.)
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
The best kick-ass rock song nobody's ever heard: "Oh Yeah" by the Cliks. If there's such a thing as soulful androgyny, it's encapsulated in Lucas Silveira's voice. He's like knuckles tripping down your back, chilling and warming at the same time. Of course, he does have an advantage, range-wise: He used to be a she. But if you can get past the transgendered thing, "Oh Yeah" is rock at its grittiest best.
(And, yes, I realize that I'm pretty much talking into empty cyberspace until -- unless? -- my livejournal friends find me.)
Yes, he poops live. “He” is a college kid on blogtv, his site is called “EdwinsGeneration,” and for pure, spontaneous entertainment value, it blows away network television. It also opens an uncensored window into the often cringe-inducing world of teenage America, where “PC” definitely signifies nothing but a computer. Words that would be considered racial slurs in grownup society are as common as the underlying sexual tension that permeates Edwin’s site -- and all livecam sites, it seems. The n-word, in its various forms, is common here. Edwin, himself a 19-year-old Mexican-American who lives in Arizona, playfully calls his mixed-Asian girlfriend “Chink” and “Half-chink” (she is his gf, so he gets a pass). All of which raises a question: Are these kids bigoted, or are they postracial? Are they prejudiced, or are they subconsciously mocking racism? My instincts tell me that teenagers today live in such a polyglot world that colors mean nothing more than just that -- black, brown, white. Which, I hope, makes their seeming slurs innocent, if ignorant and immature.
One thing’s for sure, judging from EdwinsGeneration: Kids are absolutely obsessed with h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s. One of the ultimate putdowns -- and one seen continually -- is to call somebody or something “gay.” Also, not surprisingly, there is much speculation on whether particular viewers are queer. Why the obsession? Slipping back into pop psychologist mode, I think lots of the posters are still so young (I'm guessing many are middle school and high school students) that they’re intent on proving their heterosexuality by slamming gays whenever possible. Benignly slamming, I might add, but slamming nonetheless. Because, as the Supreme Court pointed out in Brown v. Board of Education (which banned segregated schools five decades ago), when you single out people as different, based simply on genetics, you marginalize them.
Edwin, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to give a shit about his viewers’ orientation. The boy’s a showman, first and foremost, and if his audience is mixed, that’s fine. The more people the better. He thrives on interaction with viewers, flirting with brilliance during his “live shows,” which simply consist of Edwin taking center stage and spraying his huge personality into cyberspace. When his mom burst into his room one evening to tell him to be less noisy -- yes, he lives at home -- Edwin responded by turning out the lights and whispering maniacally for the rest of the night. His energy level is off the charts. He and seven other blogtv guys organized a charity competition called “XmasInsomniax.” Not surprisingly -- given his metabolism -- Edwin won, staying awake (and on camera) for about 48 hours (I kicked in $20 twice, the second time because it was actually inspirational seeing him fighting off sleep to win). His share of the proceeds went to help the Invisible Children of Uganda (check out his excellent youtube video). Obviously, he’s a smart, cool kid. His personality is infectious, and -- except for the haters -- he treats his viewers (usually 20-40 at any given time) with respect and/or humor, rarely kicking or banning people. Plus -- and this is crucial, of course -- the camera licks him like a sweet lollipop.
Although he doesn't take on political or social issues, Edwin does share at least some DNA with Lenny Bruce, the iconic no-holds-barred comedian whose 1962 performance at Carnegie Hall in NYC was immortalized by critic Albert Goldman:
This was the moment that an obscure yet rapidly rising young comedian named Lenny Bruce chose to give one of the greatest performances of his career. ... The performance contained in this album is that of a child of the jazz age. Lenny worshipped the gods of Spontaneity, Candor and Free Association. He fancied himself an oral jazzman. His ideal was to walk out there like Charlie Parker, take that mike in his hand like a horn and blow, blow, blow everything that came into his head just as it came into his head with nothing censored, nothing translated, nothing mediated, until he was pure mind, pure head sending out brainwaves like radio waves into the heads of every man and woman seated in that vast hall. Sending, sending, sending, he would finally reach a point of clairvoyance where he was no longer a performer but rather a medium transmitting messages that just came to him from out there -- from recall, fantasy, prophecy. A point at which, like the practitioners of automatic writing, his tongue would outrun his mind and he would be saying things he didn't plan to say, things that surprised, delighted him, cracked him up -- as if he were a spectator at his own performance!
In a general sense, that's Edwin.
I first started watching EdwinsGeneration a few weeks ago, shortly after reading about the kid who committed suicide live on Justin TV. I’d never heard of either JTV or blogTV (though an on-line friend had acquainted me with Stickam). What I found was a cyber society of people sitting in front of their computers, or talking on the phone, or lying on their beds, or getting drunk, or sleeping, or dancing in their rooms, or jacking off, or getting high, or just talking about any topic (especially the mundane details of their lives) in front of whomever on the globe decides to visit. There’s a guy in Tokyo who takes his cam to work, to McDonald’s, to his kitchen. A college kid at the California Maritime Academy leaves his cam on in his dorm room, allowing people to listen to the smack talk among the cadets. And did I mention sexual tension? It’s HUGE. Shirtless blogging is popular, and guests are often trying to cyberly strip their hosts. Edwin isn’t the least bit shy, teasing guests with sex-charged banter, always with a huge smile, or running around in his undershorts.
And, again, he does poop live. And he pees live. And he showers live. All with the camera strategically placed to maintain a PG rating. Someday, I’m going to interview Edwin. Because, as you might have noticed, this phenomenon abso-fuckin-lutely fascinates me.
A fat 82 percent of Americans like the way Barack Obama is handling his transition to the presidency, according to a CNN poll. Surprising? Not at all. Since his election, Obama has turned into Middle America’s sexiest suitor. He’s made overtures to everybody from dog lovers to the military to big business -- while keeping his liberal base reasonably happy. Well, most of his liberal base.
The big exception: gay leaders. Many of them are upset that Obama chose Rick Warren to give the invocation at the inauguration. Warren, of course, opposes gay marriage -- a litmus test for some in our community.
As a run-of-the-mill rank-and-file gay guy, I’m OK with the invitation to Warren for three reasons.
First, Warren is not a hater. He doesn’t condemn gays as people, and he actually seems comfortable around us. He also made a point recently to say he doesn’t equate homosexuality with incest and pedophilia, as he seemed to indicate in an earlier interview. On the other hand, his mega-church in suburban L.A. will not accept sexually active gays as members. (Yeah, that’s smart: Tell gays never to have sex. That’ll make them well-adjusted human beings, don’t you think?) Still, overall, he’s friendly toward gays as people. It’s just the abstract that freaks him out.
Second, Warren does not oppose civil unions for gay people. I think churches have the right to forbid single-sex marriages, though they’re being bigoted and myopic in doing so. But the government doesn’t have a moral right to deny legal unions to any adults who seek them.
Third, we all should have learned many lessons from George Bush’s presidency. One is that, in a nation as diverse as ours, you cannot rule as an ideologue. You have to embrace folks of all shades, except for racists and other extremely hateful people. Otherwise, we become starkly polarized, and nothing gets done. Obama said from the beginning that he would try to erase Blue and Red from our maps. Inviting Warren reaches out to evangelical Christians who feel disenfranchised by liberal Democrats. Hopefully, by meshing all viewpoints, Obama can persuade everyone to be more accepting of others.
Is Rich Rodriguez's decision to abandon West Virginia for Michigan the most devastating betrayal in college football history? I think it is. Rodriguez, a native son, essentially dropped a nuclear bomb on his alma mater, shattering both a Top 10 program and the psyche of an entire state.
An exaggeration?
Unless you have ties to West Virginia -- my dad was born and raised there, and I'm a WVU grad -- it's hard to explain how much the Mountaineers' rise to national prominence meant to the state. Yes, major-college football is hypocritical, corrupting and even absurd. But it also unifies like no other sport. Go to any town or holler in West Virginia, and I'll bet you'll find people wearing blue-and-gold.
So what, you say? Every college has fans, often equally as passionate. True, but the difference is that Longhorn fans or Buckeye fans or Hokie fans or Nittany Lions fans or 99 percent of the world's fans live in places where they are inherently respected, where simply saying the name of their state doesn't prompt sneers or snickers.
West Virginia -- the state -- has always been the nation's stepchild, lacking in pedigree and respect. Out-of-state companies stripped it of its coal and timber for decades, leaving behind denuded hillsides and sludge-filled rivers. Today, West Virginia's people are portrayed as hicks, hillbillies or rednecks. Demographically, nobody wants the place -- its poor (50th in the nation in median household income), under-educated (50th in the nation in the percentage of college graduates) and old (3rd in the nation in the percentage of senior citizens). Worse yet, most of its people speak with country or mountain accents, no doubt provoking jokes -- ironically enough -- in places like Boston and Brooklyn.
Statistics, of course, never reveal the whole picture. Years ago, the federal government declared Pendleton County -- near where I live in Harrisonburg, Va. -- a poverty area. It came as news to the folks there. They felt no more poverty-stricken than Bill Gates. Yes, their incomes were low, but their back yards were groaning with garden-fresh vegetables and their housing costs were minuscule.
Is West Virginia sophisticated? No. But neither was much of America when America became a great nation. West Virginians are salt-of-the-earth people, friendly, helpful and country-smart. They also know what the rest of the nation thinks about them. That's why the WVU football team's ascension meant so much. For once, West Virginia had produced something that not only equaled the best in the nation, but something that was cutting-edge. You watched the Mountaineers and you saw the future of college football. And they looked damn sharp, to boot. WVU was actually become trendy.
For people who are used to being made fun of, who crave the respect of their countrymen, WVU's football team was an in-your-face retort to their critics.
"Pride" is such a cliche, but it fits this situation perfectly. Check out youtube videos of Mountaineer fans singing "Country Roads" en masse after every home football game or at the Sugar Bowl two years ago. It'll put a lump in your throat.
Which brings us back to Rich Rodriguez. By bolting West Virginia for Michigan, Rodriguez gave currency to the people who patted WVU on the head and said "nice little program -- but don't think you're more than you are." Here's what CBSsportsline.com columnist Dennis Dodd wrote after Rodriguez left: "West Virginia is still West Virginia, an amazingly overachieving program tucked away in the Allegheny Mountains. A charming little program that channels the coal industry in that both work damn hard to produce something good for the state."
That's light years from the rhetoric columnists and broadcasters were spouting three weeks ago when WVU was about to play for the national championship. Such has been the regression in image for the program because a home-grown coach decided the Mountaineers weren't good enough for him.
And that's what hurts West Virginians about this whole affair. It's not like when John Beilein left for Michigan after five seasons as basketball coach. Nobody expected him to stay at WVU; he wasn't a native. But Rodriguez was born and raised 35 minutes from Morgantown, he played football at WVU, he married a West Virginia cheerleader. A year ago, he promised to be at WVU "a long, long time" after turning down Alabama. To keep him from leaving for the Crimson Tide, the university gave him a 70 percent pay raise (he became the 17th highest-paid coach in college football at age 43 after just six seasons as a Division I coach), bumped his assistants' salaries, built an academic center and began work on new locker rooms. There was no doubt among fans that his love for West Virginia was as great as theirs and that he would remain at WVU for years.
Then came the loss to Pitt, setting in motion a chain of events that led to Rodriguez's betrayal -- or, from another viewpoint, career move.
Looking at it objectively, Michigan is Michigan. Next to Notre Dame, it might be the most spine-tingling job in college football. Even though WVU has a better chance of winning a national championship in the next couple of years than the Wolverines, even though Rodriguez made more money at West Virginia than Lloyd Carr did at Michigan, even though the old royalty is being shoved aside by the nouveau riche. Also, there's the kid-in-the-candy-store factor: Rodriguez had to be intrigued by how his dynamite offense would work with world-class recruits at every position rather than world-class recruits at only a few positions.
And let's not forget WVU's reactionary administration. Rather than being pro-active and giving coaches lucrative new contracts on its own after mega-successful seasons -- like Beilein's NCAA runs and Rodriguez's No. 1 ranking this year -- West Virginia waits until richer schools swoop in with offers. That's no way to make a coach feel loved. On the other hand, WVU isn't in the Big Ten or SEC, meaning it isn't wealthy. Fiscally, I'm sure it does the right thing. But in this case, nobody was more valuable to the state's morale than Rodriguez. Even if it meant boosting the taxpayer portion of his salary significantly, I think West Virginia should have made him a $3 million coach on Dec. 2, the day after the Pitt loss. (And, yes, I know how corrupting that is to the university, but if you're going to play with the big boys, you have to act like a big boy.)
There is a chance, of course, that WVU could land on its feet. Rodriguez was a brilliant coach, but so perhaps is a Jimbo Fisher. And, regardless of who gets the job, the Mountaineers will be a national-title contender again next year, which might generate enough fairy dust to keep the program humming. More likely, I think, a program that was poised to be a perennial Top 10 occupant will sink back into the pack after the next couple of seasons.
Regardless, West Virginians won't forgive Rodriguez. If there's one thing people in the Mountain State know, it's a blood feud. And this is one.
I think this is one of the most brilliant moments in television history. It was on the "Andy Griffith Show," circa 1960. Here's the setup: Ben, the Scrooge-like character in Mayberry, wants a mild-mannered family man jailed on Christmas eve for making moonshine, seeing how Ben sells liquor legally at his own store. The family man explains he was just making some holiday cheer, and Andy -- of course -- is reluctant to lock him up over Christmas. But Ben insists, so Andy decides to bring the guy's family -- and his own -- to the sheriff's office for Christmas Eve. Ben climbs on a stool outside and peers into the jail, secretly longing to join in the spirit of the holiday. He even tries to get himself arrested, to no avail ... And then this scene ...
Please, dear God, don't let me wet the bed again. Please, dear God, don't let me be soft. Please, dear God, don't let me be gay.
If you think you've seen all the coming-of-age films you need to see, you're wrong -- unless you've already watched "C.R.A.Z.Y.," a twist-your-heart-until-it-bleeds French-language flick that floored critics with its passion and wisdom.
Set in Quebec from 1960-1981, "C.R.A.Z.Y." injects you into the membrane of a tight working-class family whose five sons include a drug addict with a temper, an egghead, a jock and a fattie. But the movie revolves around Zac, who spends his adolescence suppressing his homosexuality out of deference to his conservative father. Played with astonishing skill by the stunning Marc-Andre Grondin, Zac represents every kid who has to endure an assault by his parents on his orientation. In this case, Zac -- with a few detours -- finally accepts and embraces his sexuality.
"C.R.A.Z.Y." -- the title is an acronym of the five sons' first names -- doesn't paint black-and-white pictures. Every major character -- except for perhaps the saintly mother -- is complex. The lunch-pail father, for instance, is a sympathetic figure, a loving parent who simply can't cope with the notion of a gay son until tragedy shakes him out of his bigotry.
While the film's theme is a gay coming-of-age story, "C.R.A.Z.Y." also is a powerful tribute to family and spirituality, subplots that will bring you to tears. At the same time, the humor is razor-sharp and the music -- Patsy's Cline's "Crazy" in a recurring theme -- makes the flick wholly entertaining.
Every straight person with a brain should see this film. How good is it? Rottentomatoes.com's analysis of reviews gave it a 100 percent positive rating.
And, finally, from a gay guy's point of view, Marc-Andre Grondin is as close to perfection as human beings come. Watch him lip-sync to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" (you know, "Ground control to Major Tom...") and you'll fall in love instantly.
SIDENOTE: I downloaded "C.R.A.Z.Y." from netflicks and watched it on my computer. The downloadable movie selection is limited, but the platform was satisfactory. It wasn't high-def, but the netflix media player was large enough and sharp enough to make the experience enjoyable.
The two pictures show Zac's progression from his kid-next-door phase to his Ziggy Stardust phase. The first part of the movie actually deals with his childhood years and is skillfully played by a boy actor.
Some of you might remember what a hard-on I got for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Well, my new musical lust is Vampire Weekend, a bunch of recent Columbia grads who just signed with a label (meaning, it seems, that only two of their songs are available for download now). The music's been described as preppy with a strong dose of Africa. Yeah, these are white kids. But they're good. Call it alt or rock or whatever, but basically it's pop in its purest, best form. Sort of like the Beatles -- in genre, not sound.
We had our first few snowflakes yesterday. Not a fan. I used to get butterflies in my belly at the first sight of snow. No more. Snow before Thanksgiving was a treat; snow before Christmas was mandatory. Now? Now, I want warmth and life year-round. Maybe it's age. Maybe I don't want to be denied the pleasures of spring and summer and early fall. Or maybe I just don't want slush in my shoes.
So, a friend who has a well-read blog wants to interview me about being a gay sports editor. Not a bad idea, except I've never publicly revealed that I'm gay. A lot of people know, but it's never been a topic of conversation at the paper. That raises a question: Am I a "gay" sports editor if I haven't told my readership or bosses that I'm gay? I see myself as a journalist who happens to be a vegetarian, who happens to be way left politically, who happens to have a German-born mother, who happens to have a West Virginia-born father, who happens to be gay. Nevertheless, I can see how it might intrigue people. Here are some of the questions I'd ask myself if I were blogging on the topic:
1)What's it like going into locker rooms full of naked men? It's gross. Locker rooms are as sexy as used jock straps. Especially in football, they're smelly and full of hairy-assed guys OD-ing on testosterone. Beyond that, when you're writing a story, you're concentrating on journalism -- not on human anatomy. Sadly, many college football and basketball locker rooms are now closed to the media (largely because of the increase in the number of women sports writers). I say "sadly" because you get the best gut reactions in the locker room. Typically, athletes are brought into formal interview rooms, killing almost any chance of a spontaneous -- read: honest -- comment. On the other hand, I don't miss the awkwardness of fully-dressed middle-aged men interviewing naked 20somethings as they dress or pad to the showers. Having said all of that, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've seen guys in locker rooms whom I found sexy. It's just that you don't get a chubby over them because you're working and it would be highly inappropriate to shift into sex mode.
2)Does being gay influence how you cover sports? I'm not sure it's so much being gay as being metrosexual. If you have a sense of style -- and many gay guys are more into that than straight folks -- it influences the topics you write about, the descriptions you include in stories, the questions you ask during feature interviews. I like to write about guys' tattoos -- they often tell a story that strips away the subject's veneer -- and I often include some description of the guy's body (the "sinewy tailback," "the skinny-as-a-net-cord point guard," the "zero-body fat cornerback") that you might not find in a non-metrosexual (or non-gay) sports writer's stories.
3)As an editor, does being gay influence your story and picture choice? Sometimes. For example, I used a shirtless picture of David Beckham with a story on his appeal as a pitchman in the United States, simply because I found the photo sexy. A straight and non-metrosexual sports editor might not connect the dots like that. Usually, though, the types of stories and pictures I use won't be any different than what you'd find in any other fairly sophisticated sports section.
4)Do you think parents would worry if you revealed you were gay and covered their kids? Some would. I don't cover high school sports, so that would never be a direct issue. But it would be an indirect issue, with less enlightened parents questioning whether a gay man should be involved to any extent with teenagers. Attitudes like that, of course, reflect willful ignorance and rank prejudice. Ask yourself this: Does anyone question it when straight men cover girls' sports? Of course not. But, our neighborhood homophobes might argue, those men don't have access to girls' locker rooms! True, but I don't think many reporters go into boys' locker rooms, either. So it should be a non-issue.
5)Why don't you tell your readership that you're gay? Because I don't see any point in stamping a rainbow tattoo on my forehead. My sexuality, just like my race and gender, should be irrelevant as a journalist.
6)But aren't you doing a disservice to fellow gays?Wouldn't you be a good role model for young gay sports writers? Touche. But you have to be reasonable, and I live in a conservative area that would see any disclosure of my sexuality as in-your-face rather than refreshingly honest. Maybe I'm rationalizing, but I don't think my most private traits should have any bearing on my job as a journalist. On the other hand, if I were in NYC or San Fran or Miami, would I be more vocal about my sexual orientation? Almost certainly. Hmm, I'm not liking this answer.
7)Do you think your staff has a right to know? My writers speculate among themselves endlessly, or so I've been told by guys who come to learn about my sexuality. And if they can't figure out that I am indeed gay, they should find another line of work. But I don't see how announcing to each one that I'm gay would be relevant to my job as their editor/supervisor. On the other hand, I never lie when asked. Plus, if I socialize with a staffer or former staffer, I tell him, simply because at that point he has a right to ditch me if he's not comfortable drinking a glass of wine (how gay is that?) or downing a few brews (trying to be macho) with me.
8)Have you known any gay athletes who would make good stories? Not many, but at least two come to mind. One is a high school basketball player who I think is too young to approach about that. The other was a college soccer player whom I asked for an interview (but was eventually rejected). Ethically, I wouldn't be able to write a column about a gay athlete without disclosing that I too am gay. I don't think that would be necessary in a feature story.
9)If you could date one sexy, mega-star athlete, who would it be? Tony Parker. He's cute and his accent would be a HUGE plus. ;) But T.O. is sexy as shit, as is A.I., Vince Carter, A-Rod, Jeter, Beckham, Dwyane Wade, Gilbert Arenas, Carmelo, Tiki ... and the list would take up the Internet. ;)
10)Which genre of athlete has the best and worst bodies? Shooting guards and small forwards in the NBA are at the top of the pecking order. They're leanly muscular and in peak condition because of all the running. Tennis players and sprinters are tied for No. 2. Obviously, NFL linemen are at the bottom of the list, though -- surprisingly -- NFL quarterbacks aren't much better (too lumpy). Most gays, I suspect, would say swimmers are No. 1, but that's because of my community's fixation on white guys with totally smooth bodies. I find them pretty but not particulary sexy.
Saturday night -- or, more accurately, in the wee hours of Sunday morning -- I got an IM from Gabe. He had just gotten home from partying and wanted me to come over to his apartment for some "fun."
Intriguing, no? I mean, Gabe is a handsome 20-year-old student at James Madison University. And -- down, boy! -- he's a Latino. From L.A. no less. Well, L.A. via the D.C. suburbs. But still.
Did I mention he's also smart? Gabe's on a full scholarship at JMU to study international relations.
So let's recap: Good-looking. Latino. Smart. Young.
No-brainer, right? You would think so. But for the second or third time this semester, I rebuffed Gabe's attempt to hook up. In fact, we've never met face-to-face. I've asked him probably half-a-dozen times to meet me for dinner, but he keeps putting me off. We know each other through -- what else? -- gay.com. I was in a D.C. area chat room last summer and Gabe popped up to say hi. We had a cool chat, and he appeared eager to meet. "I can't believe you live in Harrisonburg," he said. A friendship was budding. Or so I hoped.
Why, then, hasn't it happened? Two reasons, I think. From Gabe's end (no pun intended), he usually contacts me when he's a little drunk and wants to "hang out" at his apartment at 2 or 3 a.m., which I assume means he wants to have sex. (In fairness, though, he did ask in September whether he could do a brief internship at my office.) From my end, I want to get to know the kid's heart and soul and mind, not his dick or butt. Don't get me wrong. Sex with a 20-year-old Latino would be sweet, but there's a hitch: I'm three decades older than Gabe, and slam-bam-thank-you-ma'ams with college guys violate my behavioral code.
That doesn't mean having sex with Gabe would be immoral. If we got to know each other and the "moment" occurred, sex would be perfectly fine. (I've slept with my share of 20somethings.) And I have no problem with other older guys boinking 20-year-olds just for the carnal pleasure. (Or, if you're Bill Clinton, getting a blow-job, albeit with a chunky woman, rather than a cute guy, but you get my point.)
So here I sit, rebuffing Gabe -- and wondering if I'm a fool for complicating a simple, good act: s-e-x. And don't even ask me about Allen, another JMU student I've rejected. Shoot me, please.
Check out this young artist from ... well, from all over. He graduated from NYU and now lives in L.A. His name is Ian Kim. I love the pop flavor of his work.
At times while reading John Weir's very funny, very sad "What I Did Wrong," you might find yourself flashing back to Al Pacino in "Angels In America." In this case, the guy dying of AIDS is much younger and much less political, but equally bitchy as life seeps out of him. It's a memorable portrait in a book full of memorable people and moments.
Set in New York, "What I Did Wrong" deals with a 42-year-old Queens College professor's relationship with three people: Zack, his dead sort-of boyfriend; Justin, one of his students; and Richie, his best friend from high school. To simplify, Zack represents reality (AIDS, death), Justin hope (a potential lover half the prof's age)and Richie a combination of innocence, normality and inertia (the straight guy who ends up not far from home, physically or psychologically, in Long Island).
Don't run your fingers across the pages of this book. Weir's writing is so sharp it'll make you bleed.
In perhaps the most priceless quote ever uttered -- well, supposedly uttered -- by a Middle Eastern leader, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad denied the existence of gays in his nation.
"In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country. We don't have that in our country," Ahmadinejad told a hooting Columbia University audience in response to a question about the persecution of gays in Iran. "In Iran we do not have this phenomenon. I do not know who has told you we have it."
As happy as I am to be a phenomenon, I must say I doubt that Ahmadinejad actually said that. Yes, I know, it was on TV. I watched it. But Ahmadinejad was speaking in Farsi, and I'm thinking the translator blew it. My best guess is that he was speaking about the persecution of gays, not the existence of gays. Otherwise, he is indeed a complete dope.
Of course, either way, he was lying. Like many a Muslim nation, Iran treats gays despicably.
First, let me stress that I love farmers markets. I love local vegetables. I love local maple syrup. I love local jams and jellies. Whenever possible, I like to eat and cook food grown fresh locally.
Having said that, I think localvores are crazy.
In case you don't know, a localvore is somebody who insists that all of your food should be produced within your extended community -- defined, apparently, however you choose. Some might say a 100-mile radius; others might say an entire state. The reasons for the movement are threefold: 1) environmental (it uses too much oil and other resources to transport food thousands of miles), 2) health (locally produced food is more likely to be organic or at least less drastically sprayed) and 3) lifestyle (local food tastes better because it's picked when it's ripe).
All good reasons.
But to suggest that we should restrict ourselves to those foods represents a pitchfork mentality. Not only would dismantling the national (and international) food system eliminate a huge number of jobs, but it almost certainly would jack up prices and lead to shortages of quality foods for working-class people. In other words, I doubt if there are enough tomatoes or apples being grown in Virginia to feed the people.
Beyond that, quality is important. Personally, I don't want a local cantaloupe or watermelon. Compared to the Deep South variety, they're insipid. As much as I enjoy local apples, I also like varieties from the West Coast. Ditto cherries. Not to mention bananas and every citrus fruit on the earth. The list goes on and on, from avocados to jalapenos. And, yes, I do enjoy Spanish clementines in December.
I also am not willing to give up fresh tomatoes or mesclun mixes in winter. So why not grow them locally in greenhouses? As a Wikipedia article suggests, some believe it is more environmentally taxing to do that than to ship tomatoes from southern climates to northern climes.
I think the logical solution is to eat locally as much as you can. For instance, it makes no sense to buy a cardboard supermarket tomato in summer when the farmers markets are groaning with great-tasting local tomatoes. But if you want a Rainier cherry, for God's sake, buy them.
