Amy Winehouse, Andrea Bocelli, Annie Lennox, The Arcade Fire, Armand Van Helden, Billie Holiday, Black Eyed Peas, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley And The Wailers, Bob Sinclair, Bright Eyes, Britney Spears, Cascada, Christina Aguilera, Creedence Cleerwater Revival, Cyndi Lauper, Dangerous Muse, David Bowie, Deborah Cox, DJ Tiesto, Dropkick Murphys, Ella Fitzgerald, Elton John, Eric Prydz, The Eurythmics, Fischerspooner, Gipsy Kings, Green Day, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Hex Hector, Imogen Heap, Johnny Cash, Kelly Clarkson, Klaxons, Kylie Minogue, Madonna, Mark Ronson, Mariah Carey, Mika, Modest Mouse, Nelly Furtado, New Order, Patrick Wolf, Peter Rauhofer, Pink Floyd, The Pixies, Queen, The Ramones, The Rolling Stones, Rufus Wainwright, Scissor Sisters, The Sex Pistols, T-Rex, The Velvet Underground
Films I Like:
300, The Adventures of Priscilla Queen Of The Desert, Amarcord, A Streetcar Named Desire, Batman Begins, Brazil, Casino, Casino Royale, Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Cinema Paradiso, Edward Scissorhands, Fight Club, Gladiator, Godfather Trilogy, The Good The Bad And The Ugly, The Graduate, Harry Potter Series, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Indiana Jones Trilogy, James Bond Series, Kill Bill, La Dolce Vita, La Strada, Ladri Di Biciclette, Last Tango in Paris, Lawrence Of Arabia, The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy, The Manchurian Candidate, The Matrix Trilogy, Mean Girls, Network, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Office Space, Otto E Mezzo, Pirates Of The Caribbean Trilogy, Pulp Fiction, Raging Bull, Rashomon, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Scarface, The Seven Samurai, Silence Of The Lambs, Star Wars Saga, Transformers, The Usual Suspects, V For Vendetta, Velvet Goldmine
Literature I Like:
Angels In America, Animal Farm, The Art of War, Breakfast of Champions. The Catcher In The Rye, Cat's Cradle, The Chronicles Of Narnia, The Civil War, The Communist Manifesto, The Count Of Monte Cristo, The Crying of Lot 49, The Divine Comedy, Fight Club, The Gallic War, Harry Potter Series, The Iliad, Invisible Monsters, James Bond Series (Ian Fleming), Les Miserables, The Lord Of The Flies, The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy, The Masters Of Rome Series, Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Odyssey, The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Plutarch's Lives, The Prince, Rant, The Remains Of The Day, Simulacra And Simulation, The Sirens of Titan, The System Of Objects, Tales of the City, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, V., V For Vendetta, War And Peace, The Watchmen
TV Shows I Like:
American Dad, Battlestar Galactica, Big Love, Carnivale, The Colbert Report, The Daily Show, Deadwood, Desperate Housewives, Family Guy, Gossip Girl, Heroes, Lost, Project Runway, The Riches, Rome, Sex And The City, The Sopranos, South Park, So You Think You Can Dance, Ugly Betty, Weeds
A place for vicious vitriol and inspired insights.
Why Are There No Gay Supremacists? (1/21/09) [View | Hide]
This question both puzzles and fascinates me.
During their quest for full civil equality most minorities have, at one time or another, given birth to factions that believe their group to be special for some reason or another. These factions may either have taken the idea seriously, or merely used it as a tool to foster pride in a communal identity.
The African American community most prominently had the Black Panthers and the Nation of Islam; they had Malcolm X who, in stark contrast to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. told them to take their rights "by any means necessary." The contribution of Malcolm X and men like him has since been glossed over in favor of the nonviolent methods of Dr. King, but his contribution to the Civil Rights movement is undeniable.
If we could, to a limited extent, say that Harvey Milk was the gay rights equivalent of Dr. King (in so far as he's endured as a symbol of hope and nonviolence), where is our Malcolm X?
Why is it that the best we can conceive of as a community is tolerance? Other minority groups have at least had the ambition to dream of statehood. Where is the dream of a gay state? This was, to a limited extent, attempted by the exodus to San Francisco on the 70's and the dream of "going West," but was quickly abandoned after a few simple rights were granted.
Why can we not conceive of ourselves as able to contribute something more to this world than a sense of fashion? I'm not a religious man, but if I were I would have to believe that God put us here for a reason. Is that reason nothing better than to compete on Project Runway and sing showtunes?
Might we not instead be something more? Something better?
Before you all get your feathers ruffled, let me say that I'm not promoting extremism, or approving supremacist rehtoric in any form. Still, I can't help but be worried by the fact that we as a community seem incapable of it.
I have a number of thoughts as to why this may be the case, but I'm nowhere close to providing a coherent answer about the matter.
"The panic of coming upon a transvestite in the Bois de Boulogne. It is not the spectre of homosexuality, but the distortion of signs that spreads terror. Not the fact of mistaking one sex for another, which is close to vaudeville, but the game of signifying woman out of nothing, the signs of woman without woman. "Only the feminine can surrealize its effects in this way without bringing upon itself that ridicule which immediately threatens masculine values when they attempt the same. Besides, the masculine version of the transvestite has become passe; it was merealy an appendage of homosexuality." - Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories pp. 54
Baudrillard is right. The 70's saw the emergence of gay culture, which worshipped an idealized form of hypermasculinity. This practice was embodied in the archetypal masculine figures that dated back to the youth of contemporary culture: the policeman, the cowboy, the construction worker, etc. The exaggeration of masculine signs was brought to the extreme, and ultimately become a parody of itself in the form of the Village People. Why this masculine fetishism? Most likely a reaction to the characterization of homosexuals as effeminate; perhaps also a reaction to the fear that this is true.
The advent of the AIDS epidemic put an end to this carnal masculinity and forced the gay community to seek out a new cultural paradigm with which to define itself. As usual, they fell back on another stereotype: that of the refined, cultured homosexual. This has come to define the community from the late 80's through to the new millenium. The communal vision of aesthetic perfection shifted away from rugged masculinity towards a more classically-oriented ideal of youthful beauty (kouros). All signs of masculinity were eradicated in favor of this new pubescent, adrogynous ideal. This culminated with the metrosexual craze and the mainstreaming of gay culture.
The full-body waxing that became popular during this period was more than just a fashion trend; It was a symbol of the male castration which had long since taken place. A new group emerged as the counterpoint to the Village People: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's "Fab Five." They defined the homosexuals of the new millenium as being friendly, helpful, nonthreatening. Another castration, this time self-inflicted.
However, it was also in this group, particularly with Carson Kressley ("People tell me I look like Ellen!"), that new problems began to manifest themselves. Youth-worship is far less sustainable than hypermasculinity, and its continued practice begins to reek of drag. Signs meant to invoke youth are transformed into the hideously feminine. This is the origin of "Tranny Eyebrows."
In this way, we are all transformed into transvestites. The confusion of gender signs is discomforting for most. The importance of drag as a staple of gay culture is negated: when everyone is a drag queen, no one is.
Sadly, my Master's thesis came to dominate my life for several months, distracting me from both my social life and the interesting little piece of work that is this blog. Now that that opus is finished and my degree completed (pending approval of my thesis), I'm free to regale you with tales of the inadequacy of the gay social scene and the inanity of the boys who populate it.
Have you missed me? I've missed you.
In the past few months we've seen the Obama frenzy reach catastrophic heights that mirror the most fervent religious zeal. Gay marraige bans have been enacted in several states, giving us all cause to rally once again, and realize our strength as a collective.
We've witnessed the simultaneous fall of Sarah Palin and the resurrection of Hillary Clinton.
Mr. Black has moved yet again.
The circle has been completed as Hot Mess returned to Porky's, while several unpromising new venues make their gay debut.
The structures of capitalism coninue to crumble, as our corporate masters give themselves obscene bonuses and cackle all the way to their banks.
Sean Penn portrayed a gay public figure we can be proud of, while Lance Bance continued to devolve into an assinine stereotype (see his new haircut).
We have witnessed the unchecked rise of the Self-Daters, and the continued pandemic of Tall Skinny White Boy Syndrome. Alexis syndrome is rampant, and legions of unemployed chorus boys have flooded the streets.
Oh my brothers and only friends, it is indeed time for the return of this blog. Who else provides the perspective.
Choke is another film based on the work of cult author Chuck Palahniuk. He's the guy responsible for the deliciously dark Fight Club which was adapted into an equally cultish film in 1999 starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. If you've seen the film or read the book, then you should have a pretty good idea of what to expect from Choke: a bizarre blend of shocking degeneracy, subversive social commentary and black, black humor. If you know me you know I like my comedy as black as can be.
This time around we're getting the story of Victor Mancini who, like the unnamed narrator of Fight Club, also attends weekly group sessions. While Fight Club's narrator fakes illnesses to achieve a cathartic release, Mancini has a very genuine sex addiction. The twelve steps aren't going well for Victor and more often then not he finds himself having random trysts with his fellow group members. By day Victor works a dead-end job in one of those obnoxious colonial village reenactments with his best friend Denny, a compulsive masturbator. As if Victor doesn't have enough issues, he also has a demented mother in a very expensive nursing home. In order to pay the bills, Victor needs to generate a little extra income. He does this by choking on food at expensive restaurants. The people who save him begin to feel responsible for him and frequently send him money after he complains about his various (fictional) financial woes and (fictional) health problems.
Yes, this movie is fucked up.
Things begin to change for Victor when he meets his mother's new doctor, Paige Marshall. Victor finds himself genuinely attracted to her, something he doesn't quite know how to deal with. Furthermore Paige is helping Victor to extract an important piece of information from his ailing mother: the identity of his real father. A mid-film plot twist reveals that Victor may be a half-clone of Jesus Christ himself, the second coming.
Seriously.
Content with being a lousy human being, Victor is horrified when his selfish deeds are revealed to be acts of great kindness and self-sacrifice when reinterpreted in the light of his possible heritage (Victor's choking scam genuinely helps his patrons, his offhand medical advice to strangers has saved lives, etc). Victor must then come to terms with the fact that he might just be a good person after all... perhaps even the best person there ever was.
Ok, so I understand that someone who is not familiar with Palahniuk's work might be turned off by what seems like a ludicrous plot, but the story operates on multiple levels. One the one hand you can view it simply for the comedy; the sex scenes are hilarious, as is every single moment spent in the colonial village while Victor and Denny infuriate their boss (played by director Clark Gregg) who takes historical reenactment far too seriously. Sam Rockwell is perfectly cast as Victor Mancini. As a matter of fact, I actually pictured him in the role when I read the book long before the film version was even announced. Similarly, Angelica Houston is almost regal as Victor's mother, a woman who, though frail now, was once strong and majestic in her own twisted, drug-fueled way. Freud would have a field day examining the complexities of their relationship. Beyond this, Choke deals with themes of redemption and salvation, various conceptions of love, self-determination of identity, and as always, the dark underside of society that most of us pretend does not exist. Ultimately though, Choke is one very twisted romantic comedy, and that's just the way I like it.
This indie film is only open in limited release, so it's not able to pull in huge Hollywood-style numbers. Nevertheless, you should go and see it. If you don't we may never see adaptations of some of Chuck's other work which most definitely deserves to be seen on the big screen. I'm thinking first and foremost about Invisible Monsters (a model gets her jaw shot off by a sniper and escapes from the hospital to join up with a tranny named Brandy Alexander and her traveling troupe of drag queens) and Survivor (the only survivor of a kool-aid death cult works a suicide hotline and ultimately becomes a celebrity self-help guru).
All of you should watch it, but you probably won't.
Luckily, I'm here to tell you why it's important and to provide a few YouTube highlights for your perusal.
The 1976 film, written by Paddy Chayefsky and directed by Sidney Lumet follows the story of one Howard Beale (a role that earned Peter Finch a posthumous Academy Award) and his progression from being a beloved news anchor to being a "mad prophet of the airways."
When Howard's ratings slip, he's informed by his producer and longtime friend Max Schumacher (another stellar performance from William Holden) that he is going to be let go. Despondent, feeling that he has nothing left to live for, Beale announces on-air that he is going to commit suicide. This mark's the beginning of Howard's mental decline which sees him continue to tell a live television audience that he "just ran out of bullshit" and ultimately deliver a series of long, passionate rants about subjects ranging from the state of society to the propagandist nature of television.
The film also follows the evolving relationship between Schumacher and Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway), an ambitious, up-and-coming producer that uses Beale's poor mental health as a method to gain ratings for the struggling UBS network.
The mood of the film cleverly alternates between black humor and dire seriousness, while keeping up a very pointed social commentary throughout. It is never lost on the audience that despite Howard Beale's apparenty insanity, he is the most honest and (strangely enough) sane character in the film. His tragedy is that he borders on being a force for real social change, but ends up being a lone voice crying the wilderness, the only one who sees our world for what it really is.
The most important, and ultimately, the eeriest aspect of the film is how prescient it is of the way that the media has evolved in the decades since Network was released. One can only wonder what a modern-day Howard Beale would have to say about the internet, when he's already so critical of how television has turned us into mindless drones that, "dress like the tube, eat like the tube [and] raise [our] children like the tube." Furthermore, one of Beale's speeches directly anticipates the arrival of completely biased networks like Fox News that peddle "shit for truth" in the employ of large, global corporations.
Furthermore, the period that Network represents, the late 70's, is very reminiscent of our own; economic crisis, climate crisis, war, and a complete lack of faith in the government run rampant. Network takes a stand against the destruction of the spirit of the individual in the modern age, which Beale summarizes in his moving statement, "I'm a human being goddammit! My life has value!" a sharp contrast to the pro-Capitalist speech delivered by corporate CEO Mr. Jensen during the film's climax. The impressionable Beale changes his stance in favor of Jensen's philosophy of global capitalism, a decision that leads him to his demise.
Network reaffirms the worth of the human spirit in the wake of the soul-crushing nature of modern society, without taking a particular political stand. We can seize back our individual power, and we can change things for the better but first we've got to get mad. Howard Beale want's us to get up, go to our our windows, stick our heads out and yell, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!"It's one of the most famous, and disturbing, scenes in cinema.
Watch it. Learn a few things.
This city deserves a better class of homosexual.
Web Obsession: Nietzsche Family Circus (9/22/08) [View | Hide]
Ok, I'm a philosophy geek, so this is probably only fun for me, but here goes...
The Nietzsche Family Circus is a website with a very simple premise: they take a random image from the long-running (and unfunny) comic strip Family Circus, and combine it with a random quotation from unapologetic, revolutionary, chauvinistic philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche.
The results are sometimes hilarious, sometimes profound, sometimes senseless, but always interesting.
Here are a few of my favorites:
Rant: Why I am not a Rent boy. (9/17/08) [View | Hide]
So Rent has finally closed it's doors after what seems like a century.
Praise Jesus!
It's practically impossible to go through a karaoke night without hearing somebody sing something from Rent. Last night it was "Another Day." Last week it was "Out Tonight." The week before that it was "Seasons of Love." For the sake of fluidity, I won't even mention the three songs from Wicked I was subjected to, or the flabby queen that sang "Everything's Coming Up Roses."
Christ. I hate Rent.
Ok, maybe hate is too strong a word. I don't hate Rent, I just really don't get what the big deal is. It's a gay musical. So what? ALL musicals are gay. Why is this one so special?
Let me tell you about my first Rent experience. When the movie came out on DVD I decided to buy it. I figured hey, it's a staple gay musical, I'm sure I'll love it. I sat down with my boyfriend, my best friend and his boyfriend to watch it. We turned it off a little over half way through and decided to go to a house party instead. That DVD is now a doorstop.
Yes, yes, I know. I committed the horrible sin of watching the movie rather than seeing the stage production. I'm sure you'll try to convince me that it's SO much better on stage. I don't buy it. I have a considerable amount of imagination and I've tried to redeem Rent in my own eyes a great many times. I've listened to both the original broadway cast recording and the film soundtrack countless times (I'm listening to them right now actually). I've even watched several documentaries on the creation and development of the show. Believe me, I really want to be as die-hard about it as the rest of you are but I just can't, and I don't believe seeing it on stage will change that.
I know it was revolutionary and controversial, but that in itself doesn't make it good. The idea of adapting Puccini's La Boheme is interesting, but centering it around a bunch of East Village hippies with AIDS in the late 80's? It's just so fucking depressing. Why sit for three hours and watch people sing about how they're dying of a plague?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not averse to watching a story about the AIDS crisis. If you want to see something that's far more moving and does a much better job of encapsulating the experience of the gay community during that time then may I suggest Tony Kushner's Angels in America (which incidentally also won a Pulitzer and a Tony)? Kushner's original story is more thought provoking and has far more depth than Rent. Sorry, no musical numbers though.
Beyond that, Rent simply isn't all that entertaining. The characters are incessantly whiny and, with a few exceptions, the musical numbers are mediocre. Mark can't figure out what he wants to film. Roger can't write a song. Mimi's an emotionally fragile stripper. They can't afford their Rent. Aww. Poor babies! Y'know what? Neither can I, but you don't see me singing any songs about it, do you? There's character named Angel that dies and becomes a source of spiritual inspiration? How original. By the time "La Vie Boheme" ended I was hoping that the entire cast would choke on an AIDSburger.
Look, I liked "La Vie Boheme" and "One Song Glory." The recurring "No Day but Today" theme is lovely and moving (and, for those of you who are philosophically inclined, quite in keeping with the doctrine of eternal recurrence and amor fati, which I fully support). But please, "Out Tonight?" "Light My Candle?" "Over the Moon?" Absolutely not. Don't even get me started on "Seasons of Love." That song is catchy to be sure, but the concept behind it is absolutely ludicrous. I defy anyone to measure a year in terms of love. You could measure it in sex, that's for sure, but love? No sugar, you can't measure love. That's kind of the point of it.
It's OK to like Rent. It's even OK to love it, but lets all get a grip and stop treating it like it was a revelation. Stop chanting "no day but today" and "525,600 minutes" like they're some kind of mantras. Rent may be an important musical, but it's a mediocre one at best.
There's no wittier criticism I can give than that of a couple of my own heroes, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, so I'll leave you with that:
I mean, call me old-fashioned, but I just think that the name of the party should have something to do with the actual party itself, y'know?
You don't call a gay party "Titty Tuesday," for example. It just wouldn't make any sense.
Oh, and on that note, can we as a community stop trying to rhyme our parties with days of the week? Firstly, the overuse of alliteration is just terrible. Secondly, rhymed names belong only in grade school or in office parties alongside the ranks of such classics as "Taco Tuesday" and "Thirsty Thursday."
That being said, I really don't know what's so "Wet & Wild" about Wet & Wild Wednesdays at Porky's. There weren't any squirt guns or wet underwear contests or swimming pools or even a freakin' Slip 'N Slide for that matter. The name makes it sound like the remnant of some lame spring break party in Cancun. Oh yeah, there was some rumor of tranny jello wrestling, but I didn't see anything of the sort during my time there. Actually, the closest thing I saw to a tranny in that place was my old friend Mr. Tranny Eyebrows, who seems to pop up in my life with increasing frequency.
Are you stalking me Mr. Tranny Eyebrows?
...It's okay if you are. I'm just asking.
So, minor complaints aside, let me say this: if there is some kind of gay god (and not the horrendous Matthew Lush kind) I would like to thank him for bringing Porky's back to us. I never thought I would miss that place as much as I have. Going back there again after this very long summer is like going home... if your home is a sticky dump covered in fluorescent paint and quasi-obscene grafitti.
Now, I might sound like I'm being sarcastic and that I'm hating on Porky's, but I assure you that that is most definitely not the case. Porky's is so refreshingly honest that I can't help but love it. Porky's is like that friend of yours that's a total slut, but is completely open about it. Sure he's trashy, but at least he's not trying to pretend he's all virginal, y'know? It demonstrates a kind of self-knowledge that is lacking in most other places.
Here's a little paraphrase of some Marcus Aurelius by way of Hannibal Lecter: First Principles, gentlemen. Of each particular thing ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?
What is the nature of a gay party?
It is trash. It is a hole in the wall. It is a dive bar. It is trannies and drag queens and slutty public nudity and liquor spilling left and right. It has always been this way since we stepped out of our closets and emerged into the light.
Anyway, enough with my preaching, let's get back to the party at hand. Basically, it's our beloved old Hot Mess... but on a Wednesday night. Same crowd, same queens, same quasi-celebrities. It's nothing new, but I think Porky's falls into the "if it ain't broke don't fix it" category. Now that the original is back, it's really time for that HK Lounge fiasco to bite the dust.
Bottomless Pit's priceless reaction to the shower of confetti. Photo courtesy of Urban Sprawl
Even the hour-long open bar is back. Praise be to the gay god for that too. One noticeable improvement is that their current bar staff was unusually capable. In the old Hot Mess days they had a few of the gay bar regulars who simply weren't skilled enough as bartenders to handle the mass of people clamoring for their free drinks. This was not a problem on Wednesday night. These guys were hot, friendly, mixed a mean drink and kept the flow at the bar going. I hope they keep them around in the future and that they weren't a one-time, opening-night thing... especially that blonde, California-looking guy that served me my vodka tonics all night. He was fun. Cross your fingers kiddies.
What else? Oh yeah Erica Tour Aviance was there, but you'll hear more about her when I talk about Mr. Black (coming soon!). Ben Andrews was there too, but he wasn't naked so who cares, right?
Something I really don't understand: "hosted by the infamous Jason Preston!"
Really?
Now, I know nothing of this man's skills as a party planner or promoter, assuming that he has any, but I really wonder if he's in any way necessary for the success of this party. I mean, I'm sure His Unholiness is probably bound to Porky's by magic that is far beyond my understanding, but geez, ditch the stiff already. For example, do you thing that the following exchange ever takes place?
Gay 1: Let's go to Porky's tonight! Gay 2: Ehh, I'd much rather go to Vlada Gay 1: But Porky's party is hosted by Jason Preston! Gay 2: OMFG! Jason Preston!!! We're totally going there instead!
Yeah, I didn't think so either.
Anyway, the point is that Porky's is back, and not a moment too soon. It's nice to finally have a Wednesday night alternative to Hell's Kitchen. One can only run the Therapy-Vlada-Posh circuit so many times before it gets real old.
As I conclude yet another blog review, Porky's website informs me that Tuesdays at Porky's are in fact "Taco Tuesdays."
Sigh.
Why am I not surprised?
This city deserves a better class of homosexual
Web Obsession: YourNextGift.com (9/7/08) [View | Hide]
YourNextGift.com is a nifty little blog that is regularly updated with all sorts of interesting (and often pointless) products. They seem to have a bit of an obsession with things with LED's in them, but other than that it's pretty interesting. Any apartment could probably benefit from a couple of the clever novelty items that the site features but try not to overdo it, shall we? I have this vision of some douchebag's apartment full of LEDs and clever little japanese products.
That would definitely have to be the Villain Chair (below), available for purchase on DrunkStuff.com. If anyone is wondering what they should get me for Christmas you need look no further... although I could probably use a fluffy, white Persian cat to go with it. Thank you all in advance.
R.I.P. Kevin Pravia, UPDATE 4 (9/5/08) [View | Hide]
In previous posts I have stated my conviction that the fault in this crime rests squarely with the murderer alone.
I must amend that slightly now. You see, in a sense, that is still true; the fault for the action is all his. Yet in my passion and anger I did not think dialectically. I did not examine things from different perspectives and I was blind to the larger picture at hand. Having had time to think, I believe I now have a better perspective on the issue.
So how did this happen? Who is to blame?
To quote Cassius by way of Edward R. Murrow: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves."
It is our fault for allowing ourselves to live in a world where we turn the tables on the victims and blame them for their innocence. Innocence should not be derided, it should be respected and celebrated. We should mourn the loss of it.
It is our fault for allowing ourselves to live in a world where the extent of our alienation is such that we must turn to drugs and alcohol simply to cope with the pressures of daily life.
It is our fault for allowing ourselves to live in a world where the extent of our alienation from one another is such that when a tragedy likes this strikes, the most emotion that some among us can muster is to say "he should have known better."
It is our fault for allowing ourselves to live in a world where the dangerously ill are not properly medicated or confined, and where misplaced hatred and the desire to accumulate meaningless trinkets can lead one young man to murder another.
It is our fault for allowing ourselves to live in a world where the newspapers tell us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes as if that's the way it's supposed to be.
If I'm starting to sound dangerously like Peter Finch's portrayal of Howard Beale from Sidney Lumet's Network it is because I mean to (my review of this most important piece of cinema is forthcoming). I'm about to sound a lot more like him.
So what do we do about this world that we live in?
I have a few ideas of my own, but who cares what I think?
All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You have to get mad, and you have to understand that this is not the way it should be and not the way it must be. To once again paraphrase Edward R. Murrow, we need not live in fear of one another. Once you accept and understand this, then we can begin to change things. We shouldn't have to live like this.
If any good can come from Kevin's death then perhaps it's that some of us have been shocked into realizing this truth.
These recent days have been very dark and so I thought that in the midst of it all I should present you with something positive.
The first trailer for Gus Van Sant's Milk has been released. It is, of course, the story of Harvey Milk, popularly known as the Mayor of Castro Street.
For those of you who don't know who he is: shame on you.
Milk was one of this country's greatest gay-rights activists until his assassination in 1978 and remains an inspiration for us all. Without his efforts, many of us would not be able to live the way we do today. I often speak of the figurative "better" homosexuals that we should become, and Harvey Milk is a shining example of what I mean.
The team of Gus Van Sant, Dustin Lance Black and Sean Penn look to have done an excellent job. One could strongly argue that seeing this film is the duty, the responsibility of every young gay man.
Here is the trailer:
I'll be at the theater on opening day. Will you?
Finally, a few quotes from the real Harvey Milk that I find somewhat comforting in the wake of the senseless death of yet another gay teenager:
"If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door." -Posthumously, from a recording made in the event of his assassination.
"Two days after I was elected I got a phone call and the voice was quite young. It was from Altoona, Pennsylvania. And the person said "Thanks". And you've got to elect gay people, so that thousand upon thousands like that child know that there is hope for a better world; there is hope for a better tomorrow. Without hope, not only gays, but those who are blacks, the Asians, the disabled, the seniors, the us's: without hope the us's give up. I know that you can't live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living. And you, and you, and you, and you have got to give them hope."
"We must destroy the myths once and for all. We must continue to speak out and most importantly every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your family, you must tell your relatives, you must tell your friends, you must tell your neighbors, you must tell the people you work with, you must tell the people in the stores you shop in, and once they realize that we are indeed their children and that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all. And once you do you will feel so much better."
I have in the past criticized certain elements of the gay rights movement. I do this because I believe that if we settle for the granting of a few simple rights, if we're satisfied to become like everyone else, then we will cease to be a force for change. However, if we do not, if we remain a force for revolutionary activity, then we have the capacity to make the world better, not just for ourselves, but for all minorities and oppressed groups everywhere.
UPDATE: If anyone would like to watch the Academy Award winning documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, which covers Milk's life and achievements as well as the circumstances of his assassination, they can see it at my NEW YouTube account here: The Times of Harvey Milk
R.I.P. Kevin Pravia. UPDATE 3 (9/3/08) [View | Hide]
I'mtired of hearing the killer's story. It's obviously a pack of lies. The police say that they doubt there were drugs involved and none were found at the scene. It seems highly unlikely that someone that drunk would go looking for drugs at 6am anyway. Let's remember that we're talking about an honors student and not a junkie, for Christ's sake.
So I hate to do this, but I'm going to play amateur detective here for a minute and see if I can't come up with a story that makes a little more sense.
Kevin walks through the park early Saturday morning and is stopped by his killer. The scum tells him whatever Kevin wants to here. Maybe he tells him he wants to hook up with him and that he has some weed or some such thing. Whatever. Lacking better judgment at the time, Kevin invites him over to his apartment.
Once inside, the killer catches Kevin off-guard and punches him in the face, knocking him out. Then he kills him. Why would he punch someone that was already passed-out drunk? It doesn't make sense. Neither does his supposed robbery motive. He could have robbed him in the park and no one would have been the wiser. He could have robbed him while he slept and left him alive. Kevin was undoubtedly blackout drunk and would never have been able to identify the robber. He could have actually robbed the place, rather than take a few trifling items.
This screams hate crime to me. It's the only explanation that makes sense.
Of course, I could be completely wrong and this crime makes no sense at all. The world is like that sometimes. Perhaps this is just my attempt to make sense of something that is, despite my mind's cry for logic, utterly senseless.
I've been wondering why I've embarked on this mini-media crusade and I've come up with two answers. Firstly, it's therapeutic to vent my anger at this situation in a way that may have some positive result. Secondly, Kevin's friends and family, those who knew him best, have more than enough to deal with right now, so those of us who were acquainted with him in a less familiar way should contribute in any way that we can to lighten the burden on those who have been even more affected by this tragedy than we. This is one way that we can do that.
Finally, you may wonder why I have not mentioned the murderers name here. I refuse to give that waste of life any more of the fame or recognition that he undoubtedly craves. The media may already be splashing his name and smiling face all over the place, but I will not contribute to it. As far as I'm concerned he can be thrown in a heap with every other piece of cold-blooded, murdering scum in the history of civilization.
R.I.P. Kevin Pravia, UPDATE 2 (9/3/08) [View | Hide]
(Originally posted on September 2, 2008)
The story that this suspect told the police doesn't quite add up, and I'm sure that more details about how poor Kevin found himself in this situation will be forthcoming. I find it particularly suspicious that Kevin's cell phone and laptop were stolen and yet nothing else in the apartment was touched. Could it be because there was information on those devices that could have led the police to the murderer? Perhaps. Furthermore, I fail to understand how Kevin, after getting in a cab, ended up at Union Square (a rather lengthy distance away from his apartment), rather than at home. Unless, of course, he was meeting someone?
Many people are tempted to blame all of this on alcohol. True, if Kevin hadn't been drunk this probably would not have happened to him. But let's be realistic here. Alcohol is a part of our culture and a part of our lives. Considering the pressure college students are under these days, the harsh and unforgiving nature of this city, the harsh and unforgiving nature of the gay community, and the dismal times that we live in, alcohol is an almost necessary coping mechanism for the alienation that many of us experience.
The tendency in some media outlets has been to shift the blame to the victim. They're telling us that Kevin "partied hard," he "dated lots of men," and was "promiscuous." Really? Is there any one of those epithets that couldn't be applied to practically every member of our community? Furthermore couldn't they also be applied to the vast majority of young college students in this city, gay or straight? They're sensationalizing this tragedy in order to come up with an explanation that makes sense to their small minds.
We cannot allow this. The fault lies purely with the murderer. If his story is true then it seems that he must have told Kevin whatever he wanted to hear in order to get into his apartment. He then proceeded to murder him in cold blood while he slept.
It's painful to write this.
Kevin was passed out; the murderer could have taken what he wanted and then left. Instead he made a conscious decision to take the life of a sleeping, defenseless, 19 year-old boy. He then sat back and watched a horror movie while Kevin's lifeless body lay on the bed. There is no excuse for this and no way that any decent person could think of blaming the victim. What's the worst that Kevin could have done, made a drunken pass at him? The horror!
This poor excuse for a human being lists "the devil" as his hero on Myspace. When asked by reporters why he did it he shouted, "because I wanted to! You got a problem with that?"
I've often wondered whether or not I believe in the concept of evil. If it exists, then certainly this is a pure example of it. I've also struggled with the concept of capital punishment. I don't believe in it... yet this so strongly tempts me to switch sides in that debate.
I'm really hoping that the gay community of New York comes together over this and that the gay media steps up in Kevin's defense. The fact that other media have already begun to blame this senseless crime on a gay lifestyle indicates only that they will continue to do so as this story develops further. We can not allow this. We must stand up in our own defense, and in the memory of a young man who was simply in the wrong place in the wrong time.
If anybody out there is following this I suggest that you report any media coverage that you find defamatory to GLAAD immediately. Hopefully we'll get their attention. Furthermore I suggest that you make your opinions known to gay media such as The Advocate and Queerty, who have already begun to cover this story. Finally, if anyone is reading message boards that feature anti-gay, or just plain insensitive remarks I suggest you report them and/or speak up in defense. Please, no hate speech. Logic and love are the route to defeating ignorance, not more hate.
Searching for "Kevin Pravia" on any of these sites should yield the latest results.
Don't let the memory of this boy be tarnished for the sake of a story.
R.I.P. Kevin Pravia, UPDATE 1 (9/3/08) [View | Hide]
(Originally posted on September 1, 2008)
Police reportedly arrested a 22yr old Queens man early this morning. He confessed to the murder shortly after. Man Confesses to Pace Student's Death
I hope this waste of skin, blood and bones gets what's coming to him. Never before have I wished harm upon a human being in the way that I do right now.
I think a lot of us are afraid to say this, but I'll go ahead and do it anyway. I think one of the scariest things about this is how it could have just as easily happened to me or one of my other friends.
How many times have I gotten drunk and either stumbled back home or stumbled into a cab? How many times have I watched friends do the same? How many times has a drunk friend disappeared and I haven't heard from them until morning? How many times have I blacked out and been fortunate enough to wake up safe in my bed? How many people do I know that habitually go home with strange men, or invite strange men over to their apartments?
I was hoping to return to this blog with a triumphantly witty rant about something or other but now I'll have to briefly postpone that in light of a very serious tragedy that has taken place this past weekend which I feel I must address in some form.
Kevin Pravia was found dead in his Chelsea apartment on Sunday. While details are somewhat hazy as I write this, it sounds like his roommate came home to find him on his bed with plastic stuffed in his mouth and an electrical cord wrapped around his neck. An autopsy has not yet been conducted and police have said they haven't ruled out homicide or suicide.
I didn't know Kevin very well. As a matter of fact, I hardly knew him at all. He and I talked online off and on for nearly a year but never got around to meeting until just last week. It was a Friday night and I had invited a bunch of people over to my new apartment for some drinks before we headed out to party. Kevin came, along with a friend of his. He was rather shy and quiet, but very nice. Those of you reading this that were in attendance may remember the young, shaggy-haired boy with clear blue eyes and bright smile. Kevin left early because he was hesitant to try out his new ID at the swanky and intimidating Chelsea bars.
He was 19 years old. Nineteen. He was happy to be back in the big city after spending the summer at home in Massachusetts. He was just as happy to be living in Chelsea, the center of all things gay; eager to go out and have fun with his friends and meet some cute guys. He was a good kid.
Now this poor boy, five years younger than I, is dead.
It seems very unlikely to me that this was a suicide or an accidental death and so the only option that remains is murder. I'm not going to speculate here about how Kevin got into a situation where this could happen to him, but I will say this: be careful out there. We in the gay community are often so wrapped up in our own trite fabulousness that we forget that this is not a safe world that we live in. Tragically, Kevin is now a testament to the fact that something senseless and terrible can happen to a genuinely good person. As a community, we should not stand for this. We can only hope that whoever is responsible for this is brought to "justice." The thought that this happened in the heart of a "gay neighborhood" only a few blocks from where I now live is especially chilling for me.
I've known people that have died, but I've never been remotely familiar with anyone that has been murdered before, which is part of the reason why I think I'm so affected by this. Thoughts of "if I had only known" are running through my head and I find it strange to think that I was speaking with him as recently as Friday. I barely knew Kevin and I wish I could have protected him from this. I can't even begin to imagine how those who knew him best must feel right now.
I'm not a religious person, as many of you can probably guess. The philosophies that I hold dear dismiss any notion of a utopian afterlife, so I find it difficult to have faith in the idea of heaven. For me this makes the death of someone so young all that much more tragic. Still, I have no more proof of my ideas than any religion does of theirs, so I may very well be wrong. Today I find myself hoping that that's the case. I hope I'm wrong and that there is a heaven and that Kevin is now there. He was a good person and good people deserve better than this world.
Okay, here's another rant that will likely make everyone hate me and agree that I, much like the Tin Man, have no heart. I'm telling you, by the time this blog turns a year old I'll have an angry mob with torches and pitchforks outside my building... or at least an angry mob with hairdryers and razor-sharp combs.
Anyway, here goes...
I hate the term "cuddle."
I hate it with a passion. I want it to disappear from our communal lexicon entirely. Every time someone says it I want to shove bamboo slivers under their fingernails.
Yeah. It's that bad.
Why? Because it relegates life to an episode of the fucking Care Bears. Whenever I hear it I look around in fear that someone's going to shoot hearts, rainbows or clouds at me from the pictures on their chests. I'm fairly certain that that's the only thing that can hurt me. People who use this word on a regular basis also use disgusting terms of endearment like "schmoofy" or "muffin" and other such assorted drivel. You know the kind of people I'm talking about; they're the ones that think baby talk is acceptable in public ("I wub you berry berry much!").
A portrait of the author?
It's just so... gooey, and... mushy, and... lovey-dovey.
Blech.
"Let's cuddle! I wanna cuddle! Don't you just love to cuddle?!"
No. Actually, I'd rather get shot right between the eyes at point blank range than listen to your inane cuddle rant. Here, give me the gun. I'll do it myself.
Okay, let me explain. I don't hate the actions involved with this so-called "cuddling," I just hate the word. It conjures up images of the sappiest, lamest, most obnoxiously nice people I've ever known. Here's a short anecdote. During college I started going out with this guy that was pretty smoking hot. He was tall, dark and Italian, worked out every damn day, had that whole lean-but-muscular, swimmer's build going on. Oh, and for some reason he was into me (go figure). Here's the problem: all he ever wanted to do was cuddle. Cuddle, cuddle, cuddle. After four weeks of dating, we hadn't had any form of sex. Just cuddling. This wasn't just regular cuddling either; this was like, marathon cuddling.
All.
Fucking.
Night.
Let's just say my stint with Tall, Dark and Italian didn't last very long or end very well.
"Cuddling" is a demonstration of affection between two individuals; it's one of those "tender-moment" things. In order for it to make any sense there must be some form of connection or relationship between the two individuals involved. If there's nothing there then it's just... odd. I had just met Tall, Dark and Italian and all he wanted to do was cuddle. We barely knew each other, why was he acting like we'd been dating for months?
What I mean to say is that "cuddling" should be natural, organic. It's not an activity that you propose to someone as if you were asking them to play a game of Scrabble. IT IS NOT A RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY! "Cuddling" is more intimate even than sex because it implies emotional involvement and leads to the development or evolution of such emotions. This is why it functions best as a post-coital activity or else in a bona fide relationship.
This brings me to my next point...
This has happened to all of you, I'm sure. Sometimes it's someone you know, other times it's a random, online guy; regardless, he'll say something along the lines of, "you should come over and cuddle with me!"
I call bullshit when I see it and this, my dear readers, is bullshit.
Look buddy, don't piss on me and tell me it's raining, ok? You want sex. I know it, you know it, your grandmother knows it. Let's just drop the act and lay it all out in the open. Stop trying to soften the blow and just tell me what it is you really want. Who knows? It might even increase your chances of getting it. See, what these jackasses are trying to do by using the cuddle manoever is to avoid being labeled a slut. Here's their rationale: they want you to come over and cuddle. Cuddling inevitably leads to sex. Then when it's over they can say something like (cue exaggerated tone of innocence and surprise), "wow, I really didn't expect that to happen! I just thought we were going to cuddle! I normally don't do stuff like that, I swear!" Yeah fucking right.
Every once in a while there's that one that actually does want to cuddle, and only cuddle. Here's what I have to say to him: pull yourself together, man. You're embarrassing us both. Look, I'm sorry that you don't have a boyfriend and that your parents obviously didn't show you enough affection when you were a child, but there's no need to take it out on the rest of us with your constant need to reaffirm your self-worth through light petting. If you seriously need something to show you constant love and devotion so that you don't have to confront your feelings of loneliness and self-doubt then you might want to consider investing in a cat... or maybe three or four cats. Telling me you want to cuddle when we don't even know each other is only going to make me question your mental stability.
No. Friends can not cuddle. There are some exceptions. If you have previously dated? then it's acceptable. If one party has feelings for the other party? It's... complicated, but acceptable. If you have one of those fucked up, seriously complicated, quasi-friendly, quasi-romantic relationships that seem to be so prevalent amongst our people in this day and age? Yeah, I guess it's acceptable, but you should probably reevaluate that whole situation.
My final plea: let's let our relationships evolve how they may and stop treating "cuddling" like it's some kind of pastime. Doing so commidifies what is, and should always be, a deeply personal moment between two people. So lets drop this odious word and just get on with our lives.
...But when it comes time to get down and cuddly, here are a few tips that you might find useful:
Does anybody remember Roald Dahl's book The Witches?
They made it into a fun little childrens movie in 1990 starring the incomparable Angelica Houston.
In it, a young boy living with his grandmother at a seaside resort is shocked to discover that it is the venue for the annual convention of England's witches. They all gather together in a grand ballroom to discuss their plans for vanquishing children for the next year, under the guise of the "Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children."
The poor boy is trapped in the ballroom while searching for his two pet mice when the witches, disguised as proper and sophisticated women, remove their clever disguises. Wigs come off to reveal their bald scalps, and gloves are removed, yielding long, bony fingers ending in razor-sharp talons.
Beige is kind of like that... except they never take off their disguises.
All of the worst gays you've ever encountered in this city gather under one roof to discuss their plans for being terrible over the course of the next week. That's right, they're so evil that a yearly meeting simply will not suffice.
The regulars are all there. Every single self-important, bitchy gay that you've ever encountered.
Remember that mannorexic sales associate from Barney's who snidely suggested that you try a larger size? He's there. Or the snotty brunch host that pretends to be sad when he tells you there's no tables available all day? He's there too. That overly-manicured asshole at the gym that thinks he can take your spot at the bench press because his pecs are bigger than yours? Yup. The go-go boy that walks around the club with his nose in the air as if wearing nothing more than a pair of aussiebum underwear makes him important? Definitely. The reality TV whore that thinks he's the Duke of Gaydom because he was a stereotypical cunt on national television? You bet. The former pop star who's convinced himself that he's our messiah after he was forced out of the closet by an overweight blogger? Hell yes.
They're all there. The tall and the small, the rich and the ones that seem rich because they're chest-deep in credit card debt.
Oh. Sometimes Michael Lucas is there. I like to think he takes the Angelica Houston role as Grand High Witch. Just imagine what he looks like without all of that botox! Hell, the two of them even have the same accent!
Oh my brothers and only friends! You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy! Whereas the Hells Kitchen Horror (The Ritz) at least has some redeeming qualities, representing a kind of subtle, seductive evil, Beige is unapologetically malevolent. Few non-witches who are aware of this evil can enter without fear. There are others, unaware of the true nature of the Cult of Beige, who seek to be included in their number. The most they can do is look on in horrified awe at what transpires before them.
There is yet another group that haunts this locale: the corporate types. Yes, the bankers, lawyers, executives and suits of all ages are there too. When combined with the Cult of Beige, I like to refer to them as the "Terrible-Industrial Complex." With their respective powers combined their boring repetitiveness knows no bounds!
Why boring and repetitive?
Well... nothing actually happens at Beige.
There's no shows, no events, no drag queens, no games, no dancing. Nothing at all. If you listen closely you'll hear that there's hardly any conversation and people aren't even really hitting on each other. Everyone just kind of... stands around and basks in their own fabulousness. If that is an activity that you regularly enjoy, then you will like Beige and probably shouldn't be reading my blog for any reason other than to tell me that I'm terrible.
They can't even make up for this with alcohol, since their prices are practically in the Hiro-range. It's a real shame, since the patio is quite nice and, with another crowd, Beige could actually be a pretty fun Tuesday night destination.
Solution?
KILL THE WITCHES! *insert other Monty Python jokes here*
Actually, since we can't be rid of them, we might as well teach ourselves to recognize them. In Dahl's book, he lists seven signs that help to identify witches. They are as follows:
1. Slightly larger, shell-shaped nostrils. 2. Blue tinge to tongue and teeth (as their saliva is naturally blue). 3. Pupils that seem to change colour and have fire and ice dancing inside. 4. Always wears gloves to cover claw-like fingernails 5. Wear a wig to hide baldness and can be seen scratching hair due to wig-rash. 6. Wears pointy shoes and limps slightly because witches have no toes and square feet. 7. Always a woman.
I'd like to revise this list slightly in order to fit the situation at hand.
1. Eerily perfect nose and bone structure. 2. Pink tinge to tongue and teeth (too many cosmos). 3. Eyes that seem to be dancing because they're constantly rolling. 4. Beautifully manicured nails that hide naturally claw-like fingers 5. Strange, asymmentrical haircut. Looks like wig. Can be seen scratching crotch due to crabs. 6. Wears pointy shoes and limps slightly because... well... take a guess. 7. Looks like a woman (see also: The Arches)
Do yourself a favor and avoid this place like the plague. They probably won't turn you into a frog, but there's a good chance they'll make you feel like one. Which is worse?
This new term has emerged as a result of a long discussion between Mr. Urban Sprawl and myself, while surveying the crowd at Garden Ono. Enjoy:
"McDonald's Arches," also known as "Golden Arches" refers to the advanced stages of tranny eyebrows. This is the point at which waxed/plucked eyebrows have reached the most extreme level of thinness and height, such that they come to resemble the infamous symbol of the world's most successful fast-food chain. Those who possess the arches become androgynous parodies of what a stereotypical gay man looks like, thus serving to enforce such stereotypes for years to come. They also create a constant expression of surprise that is often uncomfortable juxtaposed against the fine lines of aging or unusual facial hair. Note: this expression of surprise may serve to represent how the individual appears upon being anally penetrated. If this is the case, then the Arches may serve as some obscure part of the gay mating ritual. Further research is necessary.
The Arches are typically found on the streets of Chelsea, or in venues such as Splash, Beige or Garden Ono (to list but a few). Also, while the two are not intrinsically related, those who suffer from Alexis Syndrome also exhibit signs of the Arches.
Beware of the Arches, for they signify a disturbingly destorted self-image on the part of the individual that possesses them. This pathology may be evidence of many other psychological issues (perhaps even mania) within said person.
Note: These eyebrows are acceptable if you are indeed a tranny, or opting for some kind of gender-bending look.
So I made my way over to the grand opening of DTOX on Tuesday night.
I'll go anywhere for two full hours of a Grey Goose open bar.
Little did I realize that I'd already been there back when it used to be Icebar (or something like that). As a matter of fact, it was one of the first places I went to when I first moved to the city. Small world.
Ok, so I kinda liked it. Take that with a grain of salt though, because I had about six or seven vodka tonics on the house. That's a lot of incentive to give my approval.
The space is nice. Very open, accessible, well decorated, but not overly swanky like the HK bars. It's pretty dark in there, club-style, which means that everyone looks slightly better than they normally would.
Did I mention that this bar/lounge is wedged between Urge and The Cock? It's a pretty good alternative to those disease-ridden venues, and they're always close by if you feel like getting yourself some gonorrhea later on in the evening.
There's really only two problems I had with DTOX. One was incidental, and the other is easily corrected.
Firstly, I got in line for some drinks at about 11:45. Due to the number of tall, blond Chelsea boys around me, it took a fair amount of time for me to be served. By the time the bartender finally brought me my drinks it was 12AM on the dot. He tried to charge me for them. Technically he was right since open bar had ended but... geez.... really? They just opened, they're trying to make a good impression, and they're gonna screw me out two vodka tonics? Poor form DTOX, poor form. I told him to keep the damn things. What would they do with them besides throw them away?
Anyway, that was just a little annoyance. The real problem was the fact that half of the place was cordoneded off as a VIP area.
I hate VIP areas.
No, it's not because I'm not a VIP.
I'm fully accepting of my Z-list status. It lets me see things from the bottom up, rather than the top down. No pun intended.
VIP sections destroy the spirit of communitas that pervades a bar or club. It creates an artificial seperation based on some vague notion of social status. This is alienation at work. The greatest joy, or feeling of elation that we feel in a bar or a club stems from the sense of equality or community that is created there. Normal societal pressures disappear within that environment and we are allowed to enjoy each other's presence as human beings, rather than in structured social relationships. This is a liminoid experience. Creating a section for "important" people negates this experience and reintroduces the hierarchical element of modern society back into the environment.
Basically it sucks and is a total asshole-type thing to do. Especially when you look into the area and see how the "VIP's" aren't particularly impressive.
Hopefully the VIP section was a one-time thing for DTOX's grand opening and will subsequently disappear. If it does, I'd definitely enjoy going back (provided they have drink specials or some events there).
Ooooh, this is gonna ruffle some feathers, isn't it? I'd better be running scared now.
Ha. You all think you're doing us such a favor, don't you?'
You campaign tirelessly, trying so hard to get us all this "right" that you speak of.
You don't realize that little by little you're driving the nail into our communal coffin. It's difficult to find a place to start here because there's so many things wrong with this, but I'll give it a try:
It all begins with your misplaced trust in rights. "Ohhhh! Rights! Marc, don't challenge our rights," I hear you say. Yes, you think your rights are sacred and inviolable, don't you? What makes you think that because something is written down on a piece of paper it becomes true? Writing things down doesn't make them real. If it did I'd totally be chilling with Tyler Durden right now. No, "rights" are illusions that we create in order to make ourselves feel more secure about living amongst people that are different from us. They're a social comfort blanket that lulls us into a false sense of security. Oh, don't get me wrong, they can go a hell of a long way towards helping us out, but they're by no means the stalwart and infallible protectors we'd like to think they are.
I'm paraphrasing now, but one of my mentors once told me this: when slavery ends, the real discrimination begins.
Why is that? It's because once any minority gains legal equality it becomes that much easier for the dominant majority to discriminate against them. When any group is recognized as being unequal then no secondary thought is given to how they are treated. Once legal equality is granted? Well, there are loopholes everywhere, y'know? When you complain about your unfair treatment they can point to the law to shut you up. "Look," they say, "we can't possibly discriminate against you because you are equal to us before the law!" Oh, technically they're right, but try asking any other minority group about how they're treated and see what kind of answer you get. Granting equality is the most malevolent act that the hegemonic culture can undertake. Within the context of their laws do we deserve this right to be married? Yes. Should we want it? No.
Beware what will happen to us if we get our marriages!
I know what you're thinking. I'm terrible aren't I? You just want what everyone wants! Recognition of your love, a white picket fence, 2.5 children, etc, etc.
Yeah, I've heard it all before.
Really. Really? You want that? You probably should have stayed in the closet then! You could have lived the fabulous straight life that you always wanted to live! ...Or at least the one that your parents always told you you wanted. After all, that's why you think you want it, isn't it?
Y'see, this is what happens when you recognize and understand that you're a homosexual: There's no going back. It's a transcendent experience. You cease to be what you were and you become something else. You are minority whether you like it or not. That is how being gay is different from many other minority groups. It emerges later in life rather than at birth. Some can hide it, surely, and many do; others can't, or bravely choose not to. Some are born minorities, some achieve minority status, and some have minority status thrust upon them. If you weren't born into it in some other way then I recommend you achieve it before it's thrust upon you and you must deal with the consequences.
Every marginalized group creates for itself a subculture and every subculture follows a particular path. It begins by purposefully distancing itself from the hegemonic culture from which it was spawned. It creates a new identity for this purpose so that its adherents can be differentiated from the herd. Then there is the reaction. Subcultures scare the herd. In order for the boring, mainstream motherfuckers to feel comfortable again they have to find ways to reintegrate that subculture (see: Will & Grace, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, etc). Little by little they adapt and make concessions until they have placated the social rebels, and society has become a "unified" whole once again. We lay down our integrity for their meager "rights." Lather. Rinse. Repeat. We have already seen this happen countless times in the past century.
Marriage is the last major milestone that prevents our full reintegration. Do you know what happens when we get it? Our entire community begins to disintegrate and disperse, as we slowly forsake everything that was quirky and interesting about us so that we can live the cookie-cutter, pre-boxed lives we're told to live. Our bars and our clubs will close down! The gay villages in every city will be turned into condos!
May they rest in peace.
We'll all move out to the suburbs and have dinner parties with our neighbors and arrange play-dates for our adopted children and walk our golden retrievers in the evening.
Oh joy.
I can think of nothing more tedious than that.
You see, there's a price that comes with living outside of society. Certain things must be lost in order for certain things to be gained. This is not a choice; it is a direct result of our becoming who we are. We become what we are at the expense of concepts like "marriage" and, some may even argue (not I), monogamy. After all, why do we need it? It's heteronormative behavior that wasn't made for us and has no place in our lives. The "love that dare not speak its name" does not exist to be recognized by a contract. What place does a contract, an unbreakable bond, have in love anyway? The very nature of such a contract reduces and pollutes any sublime conception of love. It cheapens it to the point of empty posturing.
This is not for us, we who have fought so long to be able to love openly.
We've all become so obsessed with getting our marriage rights that we haven't stopped to think whether they're good for us or whether we should even want them at all. Gaining them will destroy our communal identity and our culture just as they have begun to come into their own.
There's really not too much I can say about this film that hasn't already been said.
As the hype suggests, this is indeed the best in what has been a generally good season of summer blockbusters. It is also, without a doubt, the best comic book adaptation ever made, surpassing Batman Begins, as well as other films like Spider-Man 2 or X2: X-Men United (before you ask, no, I don't think Superman: The Movie was a good film, despite the recent apotheosis of Christopher Reeves).
True to its title, The Dark Knight is an extremely dark, complex and gritty film that is likely to turn off some viewers who want their Batman served Adam West-style. There is no easy way to summarize the plot of this film other than to say that the Joker is on a rampage and a lot of shit goes down. This also means that it is not a film for kids. At all. Frankly, I can't imagine any child actually enjoying or understanding this movie, and that's without throwing in the spine-chilling creepiness of the Joker, or the borderline-nauseating appearance of Two-Face. Within the first fifteen minutes of the film the Joker stabs someone in the neck with a pencil for chrissakes. Let the kiddies watch (the Emmy award winning) Batman: The Animated Series instead.
The hype about Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker is all true. He disappears completely behind his character and creates what is arguably the best screen villain since Anthony Hopkins took his first turn as Hannibal Lecter or Kevin Spacey delivered his shocking twist in The Usual Suspects (performances which no doubt inspired Ledger). Bale delivers his A-game, as always, playing Bruce Wayne and Batman brilliantly, although he could have backed off on his gruff Batman voice just a tad and I'm sure no one would have complained. Maggie Gyllenhaal is... well, she's a hell of a lot better than Katie Holmes, lets put it that way. The supporting trio of Michael Caine, Gary Oldman and Morgan Freeman are perfect in their respective roles, as you would expect. Finally, Aaron Eckhart manages to capitalize on his all-American good looks to deliver a fully realized performance as Harvey Dent, one which makes his inevitable fall from grace all that much more tragic.
While I never read Batman comics as a kid, I did watch Batman: The Animated Series religiously, and it was there that my appreciation for the character began. I've subsequently read three of the all-time classic Batman stories which were used, in varying degrees, as inspirations for this film. Batman: The Killing Joke, written by the incomparable Alan Moore (Watchmen, V for Vendetta; I'll be speaking more on him soon) delivers what is probably the greatest Joker story ever told. It begins with the Joker's hypothesis that "All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy." Joker attempts to prove this to Batman by terrorizing Jim Gordon and his family, shooting and permanently paralyzing his daughter Barbara in the process. Batman: The Long Halloween (written by Jeph Loeb, who has also worked on Lost and Heroes) is a murder mystery that also delivers the definitive origin of Two-Face and explores the theme of escalation, explaining how Gotham City went from being a mob-run town, to one overrun by costumed freaks. Finally there's The Dark Knight Returns, Frank Miller (300)'s masterpiece which explores the concept that Batman might be just as insane as the criminals he hunts; an unsettling notion for any Batman fan. The Nolan brothers have taken these themes and woven them together into an intricate plot that is pushed inexorably forward by the unstoppable force that is the Joker. They've also thrown in a sizable amount of psychology and philosophy, daring to question human nature and the strength of "civilization" in the face of nihilism. I've read many reviews that have labeled Ledger's Joker as an anarchist; this is a misnomer. Anarchists believe in a world without leaders, not a world without order. Joker is a nihilist, through and through and, as Alfred says early on, "some men just want to watch the world burn." This Joker extends his ideas from the individual, to society itself, seeking to demonstrate that men are only as good as their society allows them to be and that "when the chips are down... these 'civilized' people will eat each other." This certainly isn't a new concept and has been demonstrated in film and television as far back as Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone (The Monsters are Due on Maple Street). The Joker excels at presenting people with horrific decisions, making Batman choose between two important people in his life, and giving a group of civilians and a group of criminals a Prisoner's Dilemma scenario in which they must choose between losing their own lives and murdering hundreds of others.
This is deep shit for a Batman movie, no?
The most interesting dynamic of the film is the relationship between Batman and the Joker, or at least, the way in which the Joker perceives it. Here are two men who have completely harnessed their will to power, and re-evaluated their values. While Batman has chosen one virtue for himself, justice, the joker has done away with values entirely, seeking only to entertain himself in whatever sadistic (or masochistic) way he chooses. Yet, the Joker posits that these two titans need each other in order to be whole ("you...complete...me" he says, with mock sincerity). The Joker will never stop killing and causing chaos, while Batman will never kill the Joker, which the only sure way to stop him. They are, in effect, at a stalemate. If we really want to go down the whole "gender and sexuality studies" road, we could easily talk about the homosexual overtones of the Joker's obsession with Batman, but I think that's best left to the imagination... or the porn studios.
The film takes the Joker's hypothesis from The Killing Joke and directs it against Harvey Dent, rather than the incorruptible Commissioner Gordon. As a result of the Joker's scheming, Dent does indeed have one very bad day and we're given an unsettling example of the fragile nature of our adherence to morality. Presented with the unthinkable, Dent renounces everything he had stood for and becomes a vigilante that believes in nothing but the "fairness" of chance, represented here by the flipping of his iconic double-headed coin. Dent is scarred both mentally and physically, becoming Two-Face in the character's most startlingly accurate portrayal yet. Two-Face was always my favorite Batman villain (I have a thing for tragic villains and scarred faces, don't ask me why) so I was glad to see the character finally done justice (as opposed to the horror that was Tommy Lee Jones in Batman Forever). His appearance in this film is seriously unnerving; my compliments to the make-up and digital FX team that pulled that off. With any franchise, the question of the next sequel springs to mind almost immediately. The open-ended conclusion to The Dark Knight certainly implies that there is much more story yet to be told, but I can't help but feel that they should stop here. How can they possibly top a masterpiece like this, especially after the tragic death of Heath Ledger? It's unlikely that any other Batman villain will manage to be as gripping or interesting as the Joker, and the part certainly can't be recast after Ledger's iconic performance. Where can they go from here? Other Batman villains like The Penguin or The Riddler seem a little too hokey to fit in to Nolan's vision of Gotham, and they certainly aren't capable of providing a threat on the same level as the Jokey. Still, I wouldn't put it past Nolan and Goyer to come up with something brilliant. Only time will tell.
I highly recommend everyone see this film in IMAX if possibly. The size of the screen, complete with the five or so scenes that were shot specifically for IMAX make the experience of seeing The Dark Knight completely immersive. When Batman jumps off a building you feel like you're jumping with him, and the Joker is just that much creepier when he's 100 feet tall. Finally, I've gotta comment on just how much fun it is to see a movie like this on its opening weekend. There's a kind of excitement and electricity in the air when you watch a movie with fans that are passionate about it that makes it much more enjoyable, even if you aren't much of a fan yourself. The way people spontaneously burst into applause when Gordon captures The Joker midway through the film, or collectively gasped when they saw Two-Face for the first time is a real treat. Movies like this are supposed to be fun, so go enjoy them to the max!
Also: did everyone see the incredible trailer for Watchmen? Mindblowingly awesome. I could probably write a whole entry about the trailer alone (as a matter of fact, I just might). The characters were spot-on, as was the dark, foreboding, pre-apocalyptic atmosphere of the story. Dr. Manhattan? Rorschach's voiceover? The ironic use of The Smashing Pumpkin's The Beginning is the End is the Beginning, from the detestable Batman and Robin? For those of you that don't know, Watchmen is based on Alan Moore's graphic novel of the same name. See? I told you I'd bring him up again. It is generally considered to be the Citizen Kane of comic books and was included as one of Time Magazine's top 100 novels of the 20'th century. I would have gone to see Beverly Hills Chihuahua just to see this trailer.
Ok, well, maybe not. But it's still pretty damn cool.
For those of you that haven't figured it out, my mocking, cynical sign-off line after I've just torn apart another New York City gay bar is a paraphrase of the Joker from this film. I am forever in its debt.
While I'm making a general point not to post too many inside jokes here because I want this blog to be generally accessible to a broader audience (in the event that I ever actually get one), I just couldn't resist this one.
A little background info: My friend, who goes by the pseudonym of Urban Sprawl, is notorious for coming to bars and clubs well prepared with flasks and such, so as to limit the amount of his spending. He is also notorious for being the group paparazzo, despite the fact that he's gone through three digital cameras in the past year alone. What can I say? Bitch gets drunk and loses shit. Don't act like you've never done it.
So, I've decided that we need to get Mr. Urban Sprawl a Batman-esque utility belt in order to properly equip him for the New York City bar/club scene.
I think it should look something like this:
Urban Sprawl's belt will include the following:
2 Flasks. 1 Vodka, 1 Rum 1 Pouch of sliced limes 1 Pouch of crushed mint leaves 1 Pouch of sugar packets (splenda is an acceptable substitute) 1 Shaker of salt 1 Miniature cocktail shaker 1 Vial of cranberry juice 1 Vial of carbonated water 1 Corkscrew
2 Back-up digital cameras 1 Motorola KRZR cell-phone charger (because his battery lasts all of 10 minutes) 1 Ipod mini, loaded with Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" 10 latex condoms 1 Miniature bottle, astroglide 1 Switchblade (because he's part Dominican)
1 Gas-powered grappling hook (explains how he disappears so quickly when he's trashed) 1 Pouch explosive ninja powder (explains why we don't notice for a while)
Take the cocktail shaker, add the rum, carbonated water, sugar, mint and limes, place between Urban Sprawl's buttocks, turn on Ipod, play "Hips Don't Lie" and after 30 seconds, you'll have yourself a tasty mojito!
Love,
A Little Poetry: La Vita Nuova (7/17/08) [View | Hide]
A ciascun'alma presa e gentil core
Nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente, In ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente, Salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore. Già eran quasi che atterzate l'ore Del tempo che onne s tella n'è lucente, Quando m'apparve Amor subitamente, Cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore. Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo Meo core in mano, e ne le braccia avea Madonna involta in un drappo dormendo. Poi la svegliava, e d'esto core ardendo Lei paventosa umilmente pascea: Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.
-Dante Alighieri, La Vita Nuova, III
To every captive soul and gentle heart Into whose sight this present speech may come, So that they may write its meaning for me, Greetings, in their lord's name, who is Love. Already a third of the hours were almost past Of the time when all the stars were shining, When Amor suddenly appeared to me Whose memory fills me with terror. Joyfully Amor seemed to me to hold My heart is his hand, and held in his arms My lady wrapped in a cloth sleeping. Then he woke her, and that burning heart He fed to her reverently, she fearing, Afterwords he went not to be seen weeping.
-Dante Alighieri, La Vita Nuova, III. Translated by A.S. Kline
Most people are somewhat familiar with Dante's magnum opus, La Divina Commedia, but few know of his other great works which include among them his semi-autobiographical collection of poetry and prose, La Vita Nuova (The New Life). La Vita Nuova, like most of Dante's work, is a tribute to his great love Beatrice Portinari. It is one of the greatest examples of the tradition of courtly love, as well as one of the most moving and tragic expressions of unrequited love. Dante had little contact with Beatrice and claimed only to have met her twice. Her character in his work is a complete construction of his own mind. Her early death had a profound effect on him and heavily influenced his later work. In his Paradiso, Beatrice appears to Dante in all her heavenly radiance to be his guide through the kingdom of God.
The sonnet quoted above was adapted to music in an operatic style by Patrick Cassidy, originally for the film Hannibal (a film which hardly deserved a piece like this), but has subsequently been performed by many other artists and symphonies. You can listen to it here:
Bertell Ollman is a professor of politics at New York University and author of Alienation: Marx's Conception of Man in Capitalist Society. He is my current advisor, mentor, and will probably be my thesis director this Fall.
Thanks to Wikipedia I can now blame unrequited love and existential despair on the world capitalist system!
Here's a short interview with Professor Ollman, as well as his appearance on Hannity and Colmes:
Who are these people? Where do they come from? Do they have jobs and families like the rest of us?I see them everywhere, trolling through the crowd in search of their prey. Sometimes I have to fight the urge to walk up to them and ask them what they're thinking, ask them why they're here and what their personal lives are like. Frankly, if anyone knows one of these offenders, I would absolutely love to interview him. Tell him to shoot me a line (no pun intended) at m.vrsvs@gmail.com
Do you think you're better off aloooooooone?
I've put a lot of thought into this, and I've broken down the Lonely Shirtless Club Douchebags into several categories.
The first two concern dance:
1) The terrible dancer. This is the guy who tends to come and stand in one spot for about twenty minutes before moving on to another location in the club. He eye-fucks everyone around him, hoping that someone will take the initiative and come dance with him. He is probably doing the side-to-side shuffle, perhaps bouncing a little too much on his knees, which gives the effect of a sort of bunny hop. This is coupled with that strange movement of the arms that resembles a kind of lopsided flapping of chicken wings. His dancing is both distracting and disorienting; many will stop and stare for a moment in disbelief. I make no pretense of being a prize dancer myself, but I like to flatter myself by thinking that I'm at least one step about this guy.
He is also shirtless, alone, and a douchebag.
2) The vogue guy. This one is probably standing on something, be it a box, stairs, a stage or what have you. He is trying to outdo the go-go boys with the ferocity of his arm movements while his legs remain stationary. Undoubtedly at least one of his arms is stretched way up into the air at all times, giving us an unwanted view of his arm pit. The other arm is probably convulsing and contorting into all sorts of rave-inspired shapes and movements. Either that or he's performing some sort of primitive mating dance. He wants everyone to see that, not only is he shirtless, but he can "dance" better than everyone else at the club. Keep trying buddy.
No one should do this, shirtless and alone or not, unless they are being paid to.
The second form of division concerns age and appearance:
1) The old guy. Actually, this guy may not even be that old, but he is at least nearing the end of his acceptable club-going days. He maybe be sagging and hairy, or he may be incredibly buff; regardless, he is inexplicably shirtless and alone. The old guy tends to sneak up on people and intimidate groups at a time. He can be either a terrible dancer or the vogue guy, but generally tends to belong to the former category rather than the latter. I admire the fact that this geezer is still out and about, but he still kind of frightens me. I'd be much more inclined to talk to him if he were wearing a designer suit and standing by the bar, offering to buy me a drink.
2) The young ugly guy. Again, I exaggerate; this guy may not be ugly, but he certainly has nothing worth showing off under that shirt of his. I applaud you for your self-confidence sir. I'm glad that you love your body. Oprah would be very proud of you... at least when she's adhering to her fat "you go girl" philosophy. I, however, am not the queen of daytime talk and I would much rather you put your clothes back on and went and found some friends. Please stop stalking through the club like a lion on the prowl because it's starting to make me uncomfortable.
3) The young cute guy. This guy fascinates me more than all the others. He perplexes me. There he is, standing nearby, looking around for a mating sign from someone. I look at him and say to myself, "hey, he's pretty cute, and he's got a nice body!" But then I realize that he's shirtless. And alone. And standing around being creepy. He's probably wearing Abercrombie jeans and flip-flops too. Beware, because guys like this tend to have a major case of Alexis Syndrome.
What a waste, no?
I mean, if I were to meet this guy, fully clothed and with a group of people, I might actually be interested in talking to him. Who knows, maybe he's a great guy! But as it stands right now I can't help but wonder, why doesn't he have at least one friend that would come to the club to be his wingman? How often does he come here and troll around like this? Why does he feel that he has to remove his clothing in order to impress anyone? Doesn't he have anything else to offer? Once all these questions have passed through my head I decide, "ehh...nevermind, he's not all that cute anyway," and I turn my attention back towards my friends.
Shirtlessness. Isn't that fad kind of over? Wasn't it more of a sort of 70's-80's thing? Why the need for the retro revival? We get it: you have a good body. We could already tell that from your too-tight, plunging v-neck shirt. Why not leave the little bit that's left to the imagination? After all, that's half the fun! If your shirt is already off then we won't get to enjoy stripping it off you later! It's tasteless, pointless, and comes across as desperate. Do you need to get laid tonight so badly that you'll just keep taking things off until you do? If so, why don't you just put your dignity in a box and hand it to me; maybe then I'll consider going home with you. Or maybe it's just that you're so devoid of charm and personality that your pecs are the only thing you have to offer the world? If so, I recommend you read a couple books, maybe go to a museum or a gallery or two; it might help you out a bit.
Now before you all get up in arms about that last bit, let me say that I'm only applying that criticism to the titular Lonely Shirtless Club Douchebags. If your with friends or your boyfriend or whatever, then take off whatever you want in good fun. I have no problem with that. This brings me to my next issue...
Why are you alone? Look, I'm sure that a lot of these people might be really great guys, but the fact that they're standing around alone instantly puts me on edge. There's a kind of predatory/lone wolf element to it that creeps me out and makes me instantly hesitant to talk to you. It's like I'm a gazelle that has stumbled onto your feeding grounds. You've all seen those National Geographic videos, so you know how badly it ends for the gazelle. Here's an example:
If instead you had approached me from a group of friends, I'd be more inclined to believe that you are in fact a social animal and perhaps even a real person. Look, it's fine to come to a club alone and it can really make it easier to meet people, if that's what you're going for, but I'd only recommend it if you have the charisma to pull it off.
In conclusion, I will summarize my basic theses here: Being shirtless can be OK, in certain circumstances, and so can coming to a club alone... but when you combine the two and throw in weird/bad dancing? A chemical reaction occurs that results in instant douchebaggery (unless you're a paid go-go). For those of you that are more mathematically minded, let me put it another way:
I could provide the English lyrics, but they're far prettier in French. Plus, I know that a few of my old-school, pretentious, francophile buddies read this blog and will eat it up (sorry it's not Lacan...yet). This song, along with Moire himself was also a part of the French musical Le Roi Soleil which is about (you guessed it) Louis XIV.
Je sais ton amour Je sais l'eau versée sur mon corps Sentir son cou jour après jour J'ai remonté les tourments pour m'approcher encore J'ai ton désir ancré sur le mien J'ai ton désir ancré à mes chevilles Viens, rien ne nous retient à rien Tout ne tient qu'a nous
Je fais de toi mon essentiel Tu me fais naître parmi les hommes Je fais de toi mon essentiel Celle que j'aimerais plus que personne Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne
Tu sais mon amour Tu sais les mots sous mes silences Ceux qu'ils avouent, couvrent et découvrent J'ai à t'offrir des croyances Pour conjurer l'absence J'ai l'avenir gravé dans ta main J'ai l'avenir tracé comme tu l'écris Tiens, rien ne nous emmènes plus loin Qu'un geste qui revient
Je fais de toi mon essentiel Tu me fais naître parmi les hommes Je fais de toi mon essentiel Celle que j'aimerais plus que personne Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne...
Je ferai de toi mon essentiel Mon essentiel Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne Qu'on s'appartienne
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