Letting Go of God

I just saw Julia Sweeney's brilliant one-woman show, Letting Go of God. There's one more show at the Groundling's on Tuesday. I'd say catch it if you can. It's funny, smart, honest, emotional--I loved it. It's her trek through bible study, new age, buddhism, and trying to find out if God exists, and how she can believe what she grew up with. You can also listen to a half hour of it at This American Life, as they played part of it last year--it's 6/3/05 Episode--Godless America. Go, go, go. One of my favorite lines, to her daughter: "Oh, everyone thinks you're so pretty. I guess you won't have to develop a personality like your Mother did." And this one "So basically Jesus had a really bad weekend for our sins." Or when she tells her mother she doesn't believe in God anymore, and her mother responds, "I hope this doesn't mean you're not going to Church!"

As a lifelong spiritual searcher, I found her quest refreshing, not only her honesty, but her willingness to ask questions and deal with the answers when they were difficult. The Deepak Chopra is full of shit section was hysterical. She manages to find the base of confusion, and control in most religions, and still is able to respect the religions themselves, as well as the impulses that drive people to believe. For me the triumph of the show is the compassion with which she is able to look at organized religions and belief systems, asking questions, but never ridiculing those who believe. And I love her discovery of science--that in the end, science for her acknowledges the mystery and the lack of answers in a way that no religion can. That was a surprising and satisfying conclusion to come to. I certainly left not sad about her conclusion, but filled with the true sense of wonder that we are here at all. Wonderful show.

Gay Fiction circa 2006

Ah, the gay fiction boom of the mid-eighties to early nineties. Remember that? Remember all those earnest novels of coming out, moving to the big city, having sex for the first time? I do, as I was doing all of those things. Then Borders and Barnes & Noble had a gay fiction section, and A Different Light closed and became a hardware store. I wonder if we are reading less, or we have less of a need for it. I have mixed feelings about it, being a lifelong reader, but many times disappointed in gay fiction. This has led me to questions: Is it my own homophobia, that I can't take gay fiction seriously? Is it that the books are narrow in scope, and don't seem to connect to the world at large, except as a site of opression? IS it just that I feel I'm reading the same story over and over? All of these may be true, but I am currently excited about a new collection of gay fiction that Stinkylulu sent me, Fresh Men 2, New Voices in Gay Fiction, edited by Donald Weise.

I am not saying anything here said that's not said better by Andrew Holleran in his forward, but I am struck by the difference in the tone of these stories. They are still some seeped in the sadness and melancholy that pervades a lot of gay fiction for me--the desire that is just out of reach, desire attained but still unsatisfactory. I think much of that is the psyche of writers--you're not writing a story because you're thrilled with the way things are. That said, what's striking about this collection (and I've only just dipped in) is the breadth of voice. It's new, and wonderful. The writers aren't even all gay--and the stories aren't either, or should I say that they aren't explicit in the way of previous collections I've read. I've read a story about the death of a lover, another about drinking buddies, about an ambi-sexual drugged-up club kid, and another about a straight man's obsession with his roommates pecs. "Manboobs", it's called, and it made me laugh. Not only is the peotic language intriguing, but the straight protagonist, having just been abandonded by his fiancee, becomes obsessed with his new roommates giant pectorals. Throughout the story he just wants to touch them, and ends up working out to try and get them himself. It's an hysterical story about the body and desire, but from an unexpected source.

I suppose what's fascinating about this collection is the variety of voices, and the difference of experience. Since "gay" has become part of the culture in such a way that people writing can now explore outside of the "gay ghetto", and explore a lived experience in the world at large. It just feels less claustrophibic to me, I guess. And that's a great thing. It's why I like the films of I've seen of Eytan Fox , as he positions his characters in a world at large that feels real and lived. Not everyone is part of a larger opressive culture, they are people to degrees accepting of difference, and trying themselves to figure out a place in the world. This is not to say those feelings of shame, closetedness, self-hatred, aren't with us anymore. In fact. some would argue we are still the butt of the joke in a way that's acceptable, but would be offensive to any other minority. ( I personally feel somewhat being able to take the joke, and give it back, is part of acceptance, as it is on any playground) Those feelings of self-hatred are still with us, and as "gay" becomes more accepted we are in danger of forgetting why we grouped together in the first place. I'm hoping that doesn't happen. But this book gives me hope that gay fiction, instead of disappearing, is just becoming something else. That's exciting.

Grey Gardens

Wow. Check out the Ben Brantley review of Christine Ebersole in Grey Gardens. They all look amazing. Wow.

Yay, Turan!

I don't get the calendar section on line, but here's Kenneth Turan's take on the Oscars. Bravo.

By Kenneth Turan, Times Staff Writer
March 5, 2006

Sometimes you win by losing, and nothing has proved what a powerful, taboo-breaking, necessary film "Brokeback Mountain" was more than its loss Sunday night to "Crash" in the Oscar best picture category.

Despite all the magazine covers it graced, despite all the red-state theaters it made good money in, despite (or maybe because of) all the jokes late-night talk show hosts made about it, you could not take the pulse of the industry without realizing that this film made a number of people distinctly uncomfortable.

More than any other of the nominated films, "Brokeback Mountain" was the one people told me they really didn't feel like seeing, didn't really get, didn't understand the fuss over. Did I really like it, they wanted to know. Yes, I really did.

In the privacy of the voting booth, as many political candidates who've led in polls only to lose elections have found out, people are free to act out the unspoken fears and unconscious prejudices that they would never breathe to another soul, or, likely, acknowledge to themselves. And at least this year, that acting out doomed "Brokeback Mountain."

For Hollywood, as a whole laundry list of people announced from the podium Sunday night and a lengthy montage of clips tried to emphasize, is a liberal place, a place that prides itself on its progressive agenda. If this were a year when voters had no other palatable options, they might have taken a deep breath and voted for "Brokeback." This year, however, "Crash" was poised to be the spoiler.

I do not for one minute question the sincerity and integrity of the people who made "Crash," and I do not question their commitment to wanting a more equal society. But I do question the film they've made. It may be true, as producer Cathy Schulman said in accepting the Oscar for best picture, that this was "one of the most breathtaking and stunning maverick years in American history," but "Crash" is not an example of that.

I don't care how much trouble "Crash" had getting financing or getting people on board, the reality of this film, the reason it won the best picture Oscar, is that it is, at its core, a standard Hollywood movie, as manipulative and unrealistic as the day is long. And something more.

For "Crash's" biggest asset is its ability to give people a carload of those standard Hollywood satisfactions but make them think they are seeing something groundbreaking and daring. It is, in some ways, a feel-good film about racism, a film you could see and feel like a better person, a film that could make you believe that you had done your moral duty and examined your soul when in fact you were just getting your buttons pushed and your preconceptions reconfirmed.

So for people who were discomfited by "Brokeback Mountain" but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, "Crash" provided the perfect safe harbor. They could vote for it in good conscience, vote for it and feel they had made a progressive move, vote for it and not feel that there was any stain on their liberal credentials for shunning what "Brokeback" had to offer. And that's exactly what they did.

"Brokeback," it is worth noting, was in some ways the tamest of the discomforting films available to Oscar voters in various categories. Steven Spielberg's "Munich"; the Palestinian Territories' "Paradise Now," one of the best foreign language nominees; and the documentary nominee "Darwin's Nightmare" offered scenarios that truly shook up people's normal ways of seeing the world. None of them won a thing.

Hollywood, of course, is under no obligation to be a progressive force in the world. It is in the business of entertainment, in the business of making the most dollars it can. Yes, on Oscar night, it likes to pat itself on the back for the good it does in the world, but as Sunday night's ceremony proved, it is easier to congratulate yourself for a job well done in the past than actually do that job in the present.

Runway!

I've been posting at another site, so excuse my absence. I will hopefully be writing a tome soon about the Russians. To be Posted here, where such things are posted. :)

Here's a link to the NYTimes article about Runway, and there is slideshow with three of the final designs. I didn't know Heidi's modeling agent said she had the "personality of a German Sausage". Not so nice--but fashion is tough. I realize I watch the show too much when I noticed two typos--he got Zulema's name wrong, and it's the L'Oreal PARIS makeup room. He calls Tim Gunn a heartthrob--I love it!

And here's a spoof memo to the Vatican, complete with a questionaire on how to identify truly committed homosexuals. Hee hee. Part of it:

1. Jesus would have been a bad boyfriend because:

(a) He wasn’t gay or sexual in any way, so the question is disgusting.

(b) He would have cared about everyone, but not enough about you.

(c) He wasn’t really Jewish.

Very Bad People

I love the New Yorker. The latest issues has some great things. One of the personal favorites is Adam Gopnik spinning completely out of control trying to write about the Shakers --starts as a regular fascinating essay/criticism/history, and turns into some kind of over-reaching pedantry concerning the spiritual in art and commerce. Crash and burn time. Like him a lot, and you have to admire the dare-devilry. But don't they have, like, editors? If you can find it, you should read an article from a few years ago about his daughter making up an imaginary friend, who, in New York style, becomes too busy to take her calls. She ends up talking to his assistant. You can't make that up. There's also a great article about Alberto Vilar, who gave millions to the Met and Opera companies all over the world, but went completely bankrupt and was arrested for money laundering. Quite a personality.

But the real reason for this post is the funny conversation written by Zev Borow under the heading "Very Bad People", in response to the Bush Administration supposedly only eavesdropping on very bad people. For some reason, it just makes me laugh. Bit of an excerpt below (as I think you can't copy whole things without getting into copyright problems, so you'll just have to suck it up and click on the link yourself):

This is not about monitoring phone calls to arrange Little League practice or what to bring to a pot-luck dinner. These are designed to monitor calls from very bad people to very bad people.”
—Trent Duffy, a spokesman for the White House, on reports about the government’s eavesdropping, quoted in the Times.


NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

PHONE TAP TRANSCRIPT

January 13, 2006, 1:22 P.M.

[PHONE RINGING]

Male Voice 1: Yellow!

Male Voice 2: Chad?

Male Voice 1: You guessed it!

Male Voice 2: It’s Rex.

Male Voice 1: What do you want?

[SOUNDS OF FOOD BEING CHEWED]

Male Voice 2: Jesus, what are you eating?

Male Voice 1: Foie gras.

[LAUGHTER]

Male Voice 2: You know they force-feed geese until their livers are distended so you can eat that?

Male Voice 1: I know.

Male Voice 2: Pretty cool.

Male Voice 1: Yep. So what do you want?

Male Voice 2: Well, a souped-up monster truck driven by an illegal Mexican chauffeur, with a trunk full of fen-phen and a horn that blows “Who Let the Dogs Out?” would be nice. Especially in teal.

Male Voice 1: No, you can’t borrow my truck again. But I will lend you my forged handicapped-parking pass.

Male Voice 2: So what are you bringing to the potluck?

Male Voice 1: Only thing I got here is an old jar of beets and some crystal meth. The beets are really old. What color are new beets?

Male Voice 2: I was gonna bring Styrofoam plates, and maybe some bootlegged CDs. Hope it rains.

Crystal and Cleaning

Okay--This story makes me laugh. Scroll down to "Just say no...of the dead. Not for the faint of heart, or who don't have a sense of humor about drugs, idiocy, and gay men, but this is great. From Sean's live journal blog, which manages to be well-written, entertaining, and also personal--which is a feat, to write entertaining stories about one's own life. Anyhow, he seems like a great guy, and one of the more interesting people I've met in a while, so here's a plug for his blog. It's always nice to be able to plug friends. And by plug, I mean....y'know...say nice things about them. :)

This rivals the Julie Halston reading of the Ann Landers "Please warn your readers about the dangers of mixing drugs and tanning." Oh, how I wish I had a copy of that. If you haven't seen it, it's Julie Halston reading an Ann Landers' column about someone "scared straight" by the experience of doing drugs (cocaine, I think) for 48 hours, and then having an anxiety attack in a tanning booth and barely "escaping with his life." He mentions that he would write more, but it's taken him 4 hours to write as much as he has, and then asks Ann to warn her readers about the daner of mixing drugs and tanning. Priceless. Sad, but priceless. Half a brain is a terrible thing to waste.

Sedition Scare

I was reading about this on Andrew Sullivan's blog. More upsetting as it happened in my home town. This administration gets scarier and scarier. Now I don't know if I should even post this. Culture of fear. Excerpt:

Bach and Kronen say they can't imagine how Berg's seemingly innocuous letter could amount to anything remotely resembling sedition under U.S. law. They both believe the letter is protected speech under the First Amendment. Last week, they filed a Freedom of Information Act request with the VA for all documents pertaining to this bizarre investigation. For now, they won't speculate as to why or how this investigation was initiated. They only note that multiple people must have been involved for it to have progressed as far as it did.

Creepy is right.

Random Notes

Just a random day. Bored at work, and figuring it's a good time to post. Maybe too much sugar, so feeling a little next to sane, but not quite there--like if sane was a duplex, it would be living on the bottom floor and I would be on the top because the view's better. Haven't seen many movies, but here's a random sampling of viewings, things to come, etc.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan--haven't seen him before, but he played a heart patient on Grey's Anatomy who the Izzie (blond intern) character had a flirtation with. Mature, ridiculously handsome, but not in the way you normally see. Perhaps because he was ill in the episode. Pic here. More, please.

Junebug---Saw it, loved it, don't miss it. Amy Adams is all that, as is Celia Weston, as usual. Much more compelling than the other recent bring your fiance home movie. This one felt real and lived, and some great performances. Embeth Davidtz plays the analogous role to SJ Parker's in The Family Stone, and she's riveting.

I was listening to NPR and there was something about naming the wrong first Catwoman, and realizing that cat and bat rhyme. This set me off, as you have LOADS OF TIME in your car in LA, and you can't read, like you can in New York. I was thinking of what else rhymed with cat, like fat, drat, spat, etc., and then what rhymed with other superhero names. So how about a superfriends with Fat Girl, WiderMan, and Blunderwoman? Wouldn't that be klutzy fun? Truly, folks, I need some creative outlet.

Okay--crazy frigging dream. The other night, I dreamt that I had a new old house, it was big--almost like a plantation house. I was having people over, and the house kept changing. There was a garden, which was a surprise, as it was behind a large pile of rocks, and not easy to see; it suprised me. Then I walked up the back steps to go into the house. There was a platform, and it fell apart and I fell through though didn't hit the ground. It turns out the house was infested by termites. I went into the house, and went to use the phone, and there were very large termites crawling up the phone nook. They actually had hard hats, and I could tell the male from female. It was like Sesame Street. Then I went into the ballroom, and there were more people, and people out on the driveway. Apparently, I know how to throw a party. But what surprised me most: I looked up termites in dreams on the web and found out they mean a temporary increase in fortune. Since I'm contemplating bankruptcy, that would be nice. It's a little counter-intuitive, though, don't you think. As a homeowner in the dream, I certainly didn't think "Termites! I'm rich!" And these were not small termites. Maybe I'm winning the lottery.


And last but not least, my friend Kara is going to see an installation piece done by a Japanese man who dresses as a beaver in an art gallery and builds a dam. According to the interview, he says something like "In Japan...people will think 'This is a difficult beaver'", which has provided me with the latest title of my autobiography: A Difficult Beaver. Here is a link to the artist and the project. Incredible. His name is Shintaro Miyake. Just going to show that mostly art is just witnessing someone's obsessions. I love the beaver souvenir stand.

Brokeback

I haven't been writing about it, as there has been so much said. Here's a link to Daniel Mendelssohn's brilliant take on it as a specifically gay, closet story. I think he's right on the nose.

Cute dress

SO I was getting coffee this morning at the Starbuck's on LaBrea and Beverly, which is near a Hasidic/Modern Orthodox neighborhood. There was an orthodox girl and her Mother talking to a man who was disheveled, a little dirty, and sitting outside. He was instructing the little girl in something, though I'm not sure what. They were all smiling. The Mother said goodbye and thank you, and then the man said "Baruch Ha Shem," which kind of surprised me. And made me smile.

-- A little side, Baruch Ha Shem means "Blessed be the name". It is the name of God, just "the name", as how can you know the unknowable, and how can you name the unnameable? It's one of my favorite things about Judaism. In Hasidic lore, there is also a strong tradition of the beggar/holy man. Anyhow....

This man was on the line; I wasn't sure if he was homeless, or just eccentric. If so, he was more than likely a neighborhood eccentric. One of the things I love about living in a big city is this mix of cultures. Although there are always specific enclaves, people have to mix at some point. And as we always hear about anger and hatred, because it makes good news, it's important to remember how much people actually laugh, learn, and respect each other--if not on an global level, then a personal one, where all the important changes are made. The other day, in fact, I was driving down Melrose, and there were two Hassids admiring the Harley Davidsons of a couple of bikers, while a tight jeaned blonde woman with a hip cocked out to traffic looked on. In my review mirror was her backside, looking like a sillhouette on a mudflap, standing near two Hasidic men smiling and listening to a biker talk about his ride.

So back to Starbucks, I got my coffee, following another young bewigged Orthodox mother in a long skirt pushing a baby carriage. As I walked out the door, the man was getting up to cross Beverly, half-smoked cigarette in one hand and paper in the other. He turned around as a petite dark-haired girl was walking toward the door. "That is a cute dress!" he yelled, visibly suprsing her. "Thank you", she said a little cagily. It was, for the record, a cute dress. I smiled, almost laughing, and he turned back around to see if there was a space for him to cross the street.

The Huh? Department

Okay, here is one of the strangest stories in a long time. The director of the XXX sequel, Die Another Day, and Once Were Warriors, was found loitering in the street in Hollywood dressed in drag, and was arrested after soliciting a policeman for sex. Huh?
And here, after a week which included seeing someone I was supposedly dating having sex with someone else in a bar while I was there, and finding out I owe more than I make a month in taxes, I have to say now that things don't seem so bad. I'm not taking any joy in it, but it certainly puts things into perspective.
Now, if you were a big Hollywood director, don't you think you could just dress in drag in your own home and job someone in? Hopefully he's not that hard up for money. I can't imagine being a tranny hooker in Hollywood pays all that well. I'm sure he has more marketable skills. You just have to wonder at this one. Fascinating.

Blog Shirts

This is the coolest thing, courtesy of Stinky lulu. . It's a t-shirt made from the words in your blog. Fun.

Cindy Sheehan

If you'd like to read Cindy Sheehan's account of what happened to her at the State of the Union, click here.

We need to be clear about what is happening in this country. Forward this to friends. Bush has three more years. We must stop him from eroding all the liberties he purports to protect. He must be answerable to the people who supposedly elected him.

Da Bears

I realized that I haven't posted in a while, and I think my decaf was regular today so I am speeeeeeding along. That, or I'm bi-polar, and tomorrow will suck.

Anyhow, had the distinct pleasure of attending Tuesday night dinner with a room full of bears who watch trashy TV last night. Actually, they all used to be bears, but they are now post-bear, or as I was told post-post bear. And if you want a laugh, try a bunch of bears making fun of bear culture. I never studied the intricacies, but it was fun hearing them joke about it. But the most fun was watching Project Runway with a group of guys. Hysterical. Through the miracle of TiVo, we were able to stop and start the program, freezing on Emmet when he was knocked out. (Did we really think Emmett was going to last through the ice-skating challenge?) One of the guys said "he looks like an alien who is trying to remember the human protocol. He's like the the man who fell to Runway." And sure enough, if you freeze on Emmett, that's exactly what he looked like. I loved Zulema's eyeshadow, though the dress reminded me fo a cross between internal tubing and breakfast cereal. It won.

We were also able to see last night's episode of American Idol, spurring more serial killers with every audition, and reinforcing as many stereotypes along the way. The whole Rhonetta thing was such a reinforcement of the L'il Kim thing, and went on way too long. Ugh. And did anyone else notice the framing of the girl whose father was in prison and lived with her Granfather was exactly the same framing as Parker Posey's character in Waiting for Guffman when she moves back to Alabama after her father is released from Prison? Coincidence?

If you were a tree

Here's another reason art is dead, again. The reviewer comes to the conclusion that the work is worthwhile pretty much only for "the thought and counter-thought that swirls around [the] work. Love it. Art as only an exercise for the critic. I suppose this is supposed to spur thought, or make us look at it differently, but it's a friggin' tree. The florid prose is self-serving. Geez. I'm glad he had this experience, but my god, take a walk in the park and look at some tree bark. Although I imagine it's hard to see with your head up your ass.

Couple of Interests

Just wanted to share a link to this disturbing, informative, and heartbreaking series that the New York Times is doing on Diabetes. Truly fascinating about diesase, poverty, and profit, among other things. Also, about where we could be as a country very soon.

And, speaking of interesting, I'm reading Freakonomics right now and loving it. Completely engaging, and thought-provoking. I'm sure there are some controversial studies in it (like the correlation between legal abortion and lower crime in the early and mid-90's), but it's done in such a wide-eyed, data-rich way it's hard to argue with. And I think people's responses to the work are just as telling.

The 365- 6

I don't think I'm posting these--I thnk it will be an effort just for myself. Then I can be as navel-gazing/sefl-pitying/artsy as I wanna be, and no one will ever know. I think I like that.

Listening to the new Kate Bush, which, unsurprisingly, sounds a lot like the old Kate Bush. Although now she has songs about her son and a housecleaner. Still atmospheric, repetetive, and strangely alluring. I love that some people have a sound so unique it could be no one else, and no one could imitate it. Kate Bush is one of those people.

Have a good weekend.

Update on Didion

I find this letter to Joan Didion about her review to Woody Allen's movies fascinating for a few reasons.

Read it here.

What her criticism of his films seems to have been is that no one sits around talking about relationships, except adolescents. And here we have her latest book, for which she won the National Book Award, all about her relationships and searching for meaning--a very Allen-esque pasttime, although admittedly in a different vein. What is most interesting to me about her dismissal of Woody Allen, though, is that the life she describes--tony New York neighborhood, intellectuals, the best hotels and whim-ish trips abroad--is a life that seems out of a Woody Allen movie. And perhpas an idea for his next film. Huh--how we see ourselves, and how we come across--altogether different. And I love her response.

Year of Magical Thinking

I just finished reading Joan Didion's new memoir of the year after her husband's death, The Year of Magical Thinking. I was interested, rapt I suppose, in this book as I read it. It captures grief in a way that I have not read very much before, and she is fearless in exposing her life without giving us too much information or things that are embarassingly personal. I am struck with her summations near the end--trying to keep him alive, figuring out what she could have done, reliving the moment. I thought of what we do whenever there is a smaller accident--a cut finger, a bruise from a fall--how we can live over that moment and think what we could have done to avoid that little bit of pain. How much greater it is with a life she explores here. A lot of her process is trying to change, figure out her part, figure out how she could have prevented it, etc. The entire situat9ion is exacerbated by her daughter's strange and sudden illness, and spending much of her time in hospitals, worrying about her daughter. It's very upsetting, and more so as we've come to feel we know Didion a little, to know that after this book was finished her daughter died as well. I can't imagine.
I also found the book interesting for the life she describes. She is definitely priveleged, and it would be easy to think there is no reason to feel bad for her, with talks of trips to Paris, every day meals at Morton's, houses in Malibu, Brentwood, and the Upper East Side. We are aware, as she is, of how connected she is, the people she can call, the names she can casually drop. But though this could come off as haughty or self-important, it seems more just the honest recollections of a woman trying to find answers and coming up empty-handed. There are problems, there are tough times, and those aren't wallowed in either. What we have is an author trying to work through her grief doing the one thing she knows how to do: write. Near the end of the book, she shares a story of her husband John re-reading a passage in one of her earlier books to figure out how it worked technically. It was her Birthday and he looked up and said "Don't ever tell me again you can't write. That's my Birthday present to you." After reading this affecting memoir, I would agree.