Some Things...

...are just too precious for words.

Siesta Épica

I feel as though I've taken an extended vacation, when in fact all I've really done is spend every spare moment of the last week or so lying around either sweltering with a fever that wouldn't break, or lying around in a puddle of my own sweat, rejoicing over the fact that a fever had broken, and refusing to acknowledge that it was a temporary situation.

Your body, my friends, is not something to be taken lightly. If it's kicking your ass with a fever of 101° or 102°, there's a reason for it and you need to get yourself to a doctor. Which, of course, I put off. I'm a jackass that way.

So anyway, I'm feeling a lot better now, but between rehearsing hopped up on ibuprofen and lying around feeling like crap, I feel like I've lost a week.

To whom do I apply to get that back?

So Nancy Nall and Lance Mannion have another of their trysts littraires over at American Street. And they're both trumped by a comment by Shakespeare's Sister. All of which explains why all three of them are on my blogroll. Genius. Geniuses? Anyway, read 'em and be amazed.

Their discussion about movies reminds me that I've had a discussion with a couple of people lately about why Pixar animated films just plain kick the ass of anything that Dreamworks puts out. My contention is this: The Dreamworks animated features -- and in this I include Shrek and Shrek 2 -- just seem to me to written by clever people who're entirely too aware of how clever they are. They're so chock full of clever little pop culture references and one-liners that the whole thing ends up creaking like an over-loaded galleon stuck on a windless sea.

Pixar, on the other hand, concentrates on story, and what happens to interesting characters who get stuck in extraordinary situations. That's why even the least of the Pixar films (who wants to have that discussion? Choose your least favorite Pixar film!) will always seem to me light-years better than the Dreamworks flicks. Color me nutty that way.

She's Home

According to Tom Watson's post from yesterday -- itself based on Nick Kristoff's New York Times column -- Mukhtaran Bibi has been released and is at home in Pakistan. Which, of course, doesn't mean she's free to travel. As Tom writes, "it's way too early to exchange high-fives, American style."

Ol' General Musharraf is apparently getting his butt whupped in the press -- at least in the free press -- on his international tour. Yay, free press, say I.

One Struggles...

... to be reasonable when faced with the outrageous, and doubly so when that which is outrageous wraps itself in the cloak of reasoned discourse.

I'm actually kinda proud, you know. I've been labeled an "outside agitator." Well, not me specifically, but me and the scores of bloggers and journalists who've been going out of their way to spread the world about Mukhtaran Bibi. Tom Watson links to a great article by the BBC's Karachi Bureau Chief, and has some really great thoughts of his own. He's really on top of it:

Yet the apologists continue their braying about patriotism and PR. Their work in the pro-Musharraf Pakistani media is obvious and really not worth quoting; generally it goes like this: Musharraf is "on Mukhtar Mai's side, this is a Pakistani problem, we are handling it." More troubling are the views of the prominent social critic Dr. Aslam Abdullah, a naturalized U.S. citizen who is editor of the Muslim Observer and director of the Islamic Society of Nevada, Las Vegas, as well as the director of the Muslim Electorates Council of America. Dr. Adbullah's work appears on sites like alt.muslim and Islamicity - sites that are inherently progressive because they allow many differing viewpoints of the modern Islamic world. In a nutshell, this is Dr. Abdullah's view of the case (from Islamicity):

This case exposes an aspect of Pakistan's social reality and must be condemned, but when such cases are selectively exploited by government officials and special interest groups for political purposes, it also exposes a hypocrisy that must also be taken to task.

Ah yes, I can see it now: from his perch in Vegas, Dr. Abdullah is going the "special interest group" route or the well-worn "outside agitators" route used for so long in the old segregationist South. Here's more:

It is not their concern for the victims of rape as their commitment to their own agenda that has brought them in the forefront. If they were serious about her case, they would have allowed the judicial process to take its full course before deciding any action specially in a situation when the highest executive authority of the country himself stood by her and assured the nation that justice shall be done.

By bringing her to the US or to the UN, they were not helping Mukhtaran but promoting their own agendas. What was done to her was inhumane and Un-Islamic? The feudal and tribal system that promotes this kind of action must be challenged because who knows how many Mukhtarans have been living in the agony of harm done to them. By exposing her to a society where there is a growing anti-Islamic environment the activists are primarily serving their agenda to humiliate those who stand for Islam or Pakistan.

But he saves the best for last:

What a load of dung. Sure, my agenda is to "humiliate those who stand for Islam or Pakistan." That's clearly Nick Kristoff's agenda. And it's the agenda of the 100 bloggers who have sounded the call in Mukhtaran Bibi's defense. Throw in the Guardian, the Independent, and the BBC - all of which have been all over the story. It's the ANAA's agenda, alright. And that of MercyCorps and Amnesty International. And it's surely a goal of the U.S. State Department, which lodged a needed but too-mild (in my view) protest of Ms. Mai's treatment by Pakistan.

Read this well Dr. Abdullah, and you agents of President Musharraf, and everyone else who would see Mukhtaran Bibi and her supporters as just another public relations problem in the cause of power and regional hegemony - as somehow disloyal to state and religion:

It is Mukhtaran Bibi who stands for Pakistan and for Islam. She is clearly a patriot and a Muslim

For those of you who haven't bothered to follow the thread of Tom's posts for the e-mails of the Pakistani officials, I'll make it easy for you. Get off your duff and vent your own outrage (politely) to:

His Excellency Mr. Jehangir Karamat
ambassador@embassyofpakistan.org

Mr Mohammad Sadiq is Deputy Chief of Mission and assists the Ambassador in the overall functioning of the Embassy. He deals with both political and administrative issues.
dcmsadiq@embassyofpakistan.org

Mr Aslam Khan is Minister (Political) and deals with political issues
minpol@embassyofpakistan.org

Mr Shahid Ahmed is Counsellor Community Affairs and deals with the Pakistani community in the United States.
shahidahmed@embassyofpakistan.org

Brig Shafqaat Ahmed is the Defence & Military Attache of the Pakistan Embassy. da@embassyofpakistan.org

Mr Ashraf Hayat is the Minister (Trade) and deals with Pakistan-US trade issues. commercialsection@embassyofpakistan.org &
compk@rcn.com

Mrs Talat Waseem is the Press Minister and Media Spokesperson of the Embassy pressinfodiv@embassyofpakistan.org

More on Mukhtaran

Thanks to Tom Watson, blogger extraordinnaire, we're getting more information on Mukhtaran Bibi -- and the news is not good. Those of you who've followed the links and used the e-mail addresses he's posted to voice your outrage should continue to do so.

The idea that this sort of outrage could happen in a country that's one of our alllies amazes me. Then again, I've read A People's History of the United States, so I guess nothing we do should shock me, really.

On A Lighter Note:

For those of you perturbed by my unaccustomed political outburst, this just in from the Wrong-Wrong-Wrongity-Wrong Files:

Hershey is now making cookies of some of its candy bar flavors. They have Reeses Cup Cookies. I think I'm in Heaven.

Oh, and to those of you who gave me crap for jumping into the Mukhtaran Mai fray: Bugger off and get a social conscience.

Fever Pitch

So, I'm suffering my first high fever in, like, nearly thirty years, and it's bugging me out, yo. I don't have an actual degree number, 'cuz I keep forgetting to pick up a thermometer at the drugstore as I pass by. I'm a jackass that way. Part of me wants to downplay it, and suggest that, because I don't ever get sick, I'm overreacting to a fever of 99-100°. But the other part of me is sitting here, thinking, "That's a fever blister I've got on my lip!"

I suffered through the first night, and kept it down with ibuprofen last night, but a fever's there for a reason, right? It should be running it's course and burning out some sort of nasty little virus, no? I dunno.

How long should one suffer through a fever before seeking medical attention?

In other news, Nancy Nall pretty much sums up my reaction to the whole Michael Jackson thing.

Go here...

...RIGHT NOW!

In yet another blisteringly perfect example of "Support the Oppressive Dictator Who Helps Us/Fuck Up the Oppressive Dicatator Who Used To," we're led to believe by our distinguished president that President Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan is our good buddie in the War on Terror. Well, apparently, he's also leading the charge in the War on Women.

Have you heard the story of Mukhtaran Bibi? She's the Pakistani woman whose village council allowed her to be gang-raped by four men, and then forced her to walk home nearly naked in front of a crowd of villagers -- all this as a punishment for her brother, who apparently had "relations" with a higher-caste woman.

So instead of doing what everyone expected her to do, which is kill herself, she testified in court against her attackers, and they were sentenced to death. And with the compensation money she got and the help she recieved from generous donations worldwide, she went back to her village and built two schools (one for boys and one for girls) and bought a van that the community could use as an ambulance.

Happy ending no?

No.

These are our allies? What have we become?!?

My Evil Plan for World Domination...

...or at least the domination of the Hot Young Gays™:

Better skin care. I'm constantly told that I don't look my age, but you can sure bet when I get right up next to some 25 y/o kid, the differences show. But I'm beginning to suspect that could be rectified by better skin care. More water. Less caffeine. Lots of good rest. An actual exercise regimin.

I'm on it, baby.*



*He said, slugging back the dregs of his 20 oz. cup of Earl Grey.

Miscellany

This, with props and due credit to Jason Kottke, whom I adore.

Lance Mannion and his friend Nancy Nall join forces for a new feature at The American Street. Lance kicks ass. I have no idea what he looks like, but judging from what I've read of his blog, I've created this vision of him as a big burly ex-biker guy. And even at that, he's such a genius I'd still do him. And y'all know how I feel about bears. Attraction-wise, that is.

In Memorium: I note, with unmentionable sadness, the passing of The Astrologger's blog. He was uber-cool: an MIT-trained astrologer with a sharp wit and a clever turn of phrase. And no, the MIT training wasn't in Astrology, you goofs. The astrology came courtesy of his mother, I believe. Alas, poor Yorrick.

Alas, I also note the disappearence of Susan Rankus' blog. Wither goest thou, Woodgywoo?

Dan Renzi has his say on the state of Modern Theatre (upper case letters mine). I come down firmly in the "That's crap!" camp.

Have a lovely day, y'all.

PS: Charlene is right.

Truth in Advertising

You may recall that a while back, Patti and I went to see the Pittsburgh Symphony perform a couple of pieces by the modern composer John Adams - specifically his Short Ride in a Fast Machine, and his Violin Concerto. You'll likely also recall that I'm not a huge fan of Mr. Adams. It's not his fault. He purposefully and happily embraces all the things about modern orchestral composition that just drive me bugshit. I don't find it so much dissonant as I do overwhelming. With all those instruments competing for my attention, I can't grasp anything to listen to, and hence it's just so much noise to me. Color me a Philistine.

Anywho, beating up on one of America's most beloved composers (you're next, Phillip Glass!) isn't really the point of my entry.

I'm here to kick the ass of the marketing department at the PSO.

You see, the second half of the evening was a stunning and beautiful rendition of Schubert's Symphony No. 9 in C Major, which absolutely blew me away.

But while I was leafing through the program during the intermission, I came across this drawing of Schubert next to the biographical information on the composer. Well, you know me. My first reaction was, "Holy shit! Schubert was hot!"

So, of course, me being me, I want to know more about Schubert, and look at other pictures of him, and find out a little more about his life. I know he died early because of syphilis or some equally presently-treatable disease, but beyond that, zilch.

At the first opportunity, I logged on and did a Google search for Franz Schubert, and this is what I get!

It turns out that the drawing above is of Schubert in 1813. When he was 16 years old! The one to the right is a lot closer to when he wrote his 9th Symphony - a lot closer to his death.

So my grief with the PSO marketing gurus is this: What's up with trying to sell us on the sexy young Schubert, a decade before he's actually writing the piece in question? What's wrong with tired, prematurely old, syphilitic fat guys getting the props they're due?

Hot, callow, dreamy Schubert didn't write the 9th Symphony (although he may have had the syphilis already, for all I know); the old one did -- the one who knew he was sick, and that there was no cure for what he had. That's where the beauty in the symphony comes from.

But no. We gotta go with "sex sells." And that kinda drives me bugshit.

Still... Schubert was hot.

But of course....

Wherefore Art Thou, Observer?

One of the things I constantly struggle with -- especially as a person who thinks of himself as a budding photographer -- is the urge to disconnect from others and simply be an observer. I've written about this before (ad nauseum, you're thinking): The tendancy to not risk rejection by not engaging, but all the while pining to engage and desperately afraid of failing.

I'm struck, lately, by how easy it sometimes seems to break that mold, and how quickly one can feel trapped by it again -- the mold reformed.

I usually only turn to these thoughts when I'm sitting in a coffee shop feeling blah and a hot guy walks by. Go figure.

So, guess what today is?

The Calm Before

My days are my own, lately, which is why you haven't been seeing as much of me. I start rehearsals for Stones in His Pockets next week, so I'll be rehearsing during the day, and doing Underpants at night.

For now, though my days are footloose and fancy-free, and I've been spending a lot of time hanging out and having fun. Nothing particularly structured, but just a lot of down time. It's times like these when I realize that -- like much of life -- down time can be either a spectacularly good thing or a catastrophically bad thing. It depends entirely on context.

The last couple of days have been tense 'cuz I've been waiting for my landlord to get my rent checks (yeah, you read that right; May's check didn't make it back to Brooklyn, and it's freaking me out), and -- me being me -- I've been fretting about it. Consequently, any spare time I might have had would have been spent obsessing about it.

Now that I know things are alright and my world is sailing it's appointed course, the down time is an absolute delight. You know your life is good when the big decision of your day is whether or not you want to invest the effort in driving to a park to sun yourself.

I've Made a Discovery

My acumen about music venues is, I've decided, unmatched. And here's what I've discovered:

Madeleine Peyroux should stick to small, indoor venues. Kevin and I went to see her on the Volkswagen Stage at the Three Rivers Arts Festival this evening, and Madeleine's sound -- which I absolutely love -- doesn't translate terribly well to an outdoor stage. So much of her charm is intimate, and her voice so delicate that she needs to be in a smaller venue. Though, of course, her record company can't make that much money out of a smaller venue, so of course they'll continue to push into larger and larger venues. I would love to see her at Club Cafe. Or, at the largest, perhaps The Byham Theater.

But, despite my music acumen and demonstrable genius, "They" don't listen to me. Go figure.

Kevin dropped me off at my car and I had to use a restroom rather madly, so I grabbed my bag and hot-footed it over to Tuscany, thinking I'd check my e-mail and maybe post a blog entry while I enjoyed a nice glass of wine. After, that is, "dropping a deuce," as he would so delicately put it.

Once, a long, long time ago, I wrote about this annoying straight couple that was sidled up to the bar at Tuscany -- it being a sort of "everybody's welcome" kinda place. I believe I went on at some length about how much I'd have like to have taken a baseball bat to the head of the obnoxious breeders.

Well, they're back.

Not, actually, the same couple, but there's another one and they're every bit as loud and ugly as the first set. Not physically, mind you, but: They're really loud. They're really white trash. And they're way too fond of listening to their own fucking obnoxious bile.

But, look: The world is chock full of these people and we have to put up with them on a daily basis, everywhere we go. The reason I feel the need to mention these particular obnoxious people is that they inspired a phenomenon in me that doesn't actually happen very often: The violence fantasy.

It's like this: I imagine getting into a heated argument with these folk, and they start something physical (of course it's them who starts the physical violence... I can't be the bad guy in my own fantasy!), at which point I whip out everything I've ever learned in a bar fight or street altercation (I know it's frankly shocking and laughable to the people who know me that I might actually have had experiences with either of these things, but I actually have) and lay waste to the Offending Parties.

Two things...

First, I'm amazed at the sensation of bloodlust that comes over me when these fantasies are playing out in my head. I actually end up with clouded vision (if the joint weren't so dark, I'd swear there was a red film over my vision, just like in bad novels!).

Second, the Offending Parties never get a punch in before they've had their asses kicked.

And that, my friends, is why (a) they're called violent "fantasies," and (b) they're just plain stupid.

It's pretty much a given that if I ever decided to talk smack to obnoxious breeders, I'd end up in a hospital.

Inappropriate Crush Part Deaux

Okay,so I'm a little freaked out. I've just figured out who Tim Draxl reminds me of... yet another of my impossible/inappropriate crushes: A porn star named Nick Steel. Tell me they don't look alike! That aside, I'm still incredibly lame. Ask me about the flight attendant sometime.

I'm Not Sure If This Was Awkward Or Not...

So, I'm sitting in Tuscany, having a sandwich and a Pepsi before the show, coming down off the high of having had a great voice-over session for a national drug chain, and who should walk in accompanied by his gal pal but my ex- boyfriend's boyfriend? The one with whom I always suspected the relationship had begun before ours was over?

The kid looks great, now that he's grown into a young man and isn't a skinny teen-ager anymore. He's filled out a little, thank god.

I'm guessing it was awkward for him, though, since they left without ordering anything. Or without acknowledging me. Alas. I don't suppose it should be a terrible surprise, but it is kinda weird and disappointing. I remember the kid as this skinny shy kid that my agent brought to see The Mystery of Irma Vep. Small world, I guess, that that kid should be the one my ex had waiting in the wings when our relationship went south.

Ah, well. The past is, as they say, the past. Or maybe they don't say that. Maybe I just made that up.

Inappropriate Crush #327

'Cuz, you know, I can't afford to waste my time and energy on men I might actually connect with, I like to spend it on men who're so completely unavailable that they really only ever exist in fantasy.

Case in point: Tim Draxl. A delightful young Australian actor who I saw today when I finally got around to watching Swimming Upstream, compliments of Netflix. I'd seen the trailer for the movie in NYC last year, and really wanted to get around to seeing it -- but either missed its NYC run, or was out of town when it finally came around.

I recommend the movie. Both Geoffrey Rush and Judy Davis are wonderful and heartbreaking in it -- as are the gazillion kids who play their children at various ages. The story is mostly about Tony Fingleton (played as an older kid by Jesse Spencer), a championship swimmer who had a -- to put it mildly -- rocky relationship with his father as he grew up in 1950s Australia.

Draxl plays his brother, John who gets dragged along when the overbearing father discovers the boys are talented swimmers and decides to make something of them. The two boys form an especially close bond as they grow, cheering each other on and helping each other through the torture their father puts them through as he tries to live out his success fantasies through them.

Now, those of you who know me for the inveterate chicken hawk I am would assume I'd fall for the buff, blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesse Spencer. And there was a time when that might've been so. But I tend, these days, to go for the less glamorous, slightly more geeky guy, and Draxl, while still rather hot, has that quality.

So here I sit writing about him, instead of getting out there and meeting men who're actually on the same continent as me.

I'm Cursed, Yo.

You remember the rather adorable doctor who ended up being the saving grace of my tragic night out a couple weeks ago? Well, I just ran into him again, looking as adorable as ever.

He's back with his boyfriend, with whom he'd broken up the week before I met him.

Onward and upward, yinz.

Are You My Mother?

Having come to the conclusion that the internet is just plain no damn way to meet a man, I'm left struggling with the options. My several recent excursions into the world of the smoky bars here in Pittsburgh (these savages still smoke in public places... WTF?) have left me with grave doubts about that scene as well.

In fact, the world of the bars doesn't seem to me to be too distantly removed from the world of the internet, actually. In both cases, you see someone who you give the once-over and about whom you make a split-second decision: Does he seem like someone I want to approach? Can my fragile ego withstand the possible rejection? So you either instant message the fellow or you approach him in the bar, and in each case you're attempting to make a good impression; displaying your saucy wit, worrying about what to say and not what to say. Or just plain looking to get laid.

It's all the same thing, yo.

And the internet has trained us to believe that if the guy in front of us isn't exactly what we want, why then he's got to be just around the corner, since there are so many fucking people online, and there are so many to choose from. I see it all the time, and I struggle not to do it myself: One tiny feature you don't like? Sorry pal, you're off the bus.

What ever happened to getting to know someone? Whatever happened to the second and third dates? I'm just curious.

And where, please tell me, where does a fella go to meet people if he's stone cold over the internet, and isn't particularly a big fan of bars?

I don't know if straight guys have this problem, but it seems to me that men at gay bars travel in packs -- the whole safety in numbers thing -- and that makes it really hard to approach someone you might find interesting. I mean, who wants to run the gauntlet of some cute guy's friends just to chat him up? And why would anyone want to subject themselves to the potential dissection that comes with being observed by your paramour's posse?

I dunno. Maybe I overthink these things.

In case you're wondering, the title of the post refers to a good friend's theory of how most gay men today skip from encounter to encounter, trying to find the perfect man/boyfriend. Not unlike lost little ducklings trying to find their way.