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.
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.
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.
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.
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):
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?)
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!
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.
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.
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.)
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 ...
