The big thing that struck me: the Republicans are in some other bizarre universe. Their notions of healthcare, in particular, are astounding, and their understanding of the threat from radical Islam is so shallow and so very, very dangerous. In no particular order, here are other things I came away with:
Mitt Romney: What an asshole.
Fred Thompson: I think he's still "playing" candidate; we hear him using buzzwords, but we don't really hear him elucidating either clear understandings of the issues or workable solutions.
Ron Paul: It really is an outrage that FOX is excluding him from the upcoming debate; he received twice as many votes in Iowa as Rudy Giuliani, and he's 400 times as smart. But I guess when your foreign policy isn't being dictated by Podhoretz and Kristol, this is the price you pay. It was a relief to hear someone on that stage -- incidentally, the only one from either party -- speak honestly about the complex issues in the war on terror, and about America's need to examine its own culpability for the mess we find ourselves in. But then...the gold standard? For real?
John McCain: Of the Republicans, he really is the best option. But that's not saying very much.
Rudy Giuliani: Wow. Scary. He really has no idea what he's talking about. His answers on healthcare and foreign policy were drawn from fantasy-land. It simply is not true that the United States has the best healthcare in the industrialized world; that is not borne out by the evidence. And then he made a very bizzare assertion that yes, private health insurance is very expensive, but if we could just get 50,000,000 Americans to buy it, the cost would go down. Isn't that an argument in favor of group insurance instead of private coverage? He also just clearly does not understand what's happening in Iraq or what motivates Al Qaeda or anything else going on in the Middle East.
Mike Huckabee: Okay, you know, he may have some unenlightened theological positions and he may very well have cooked squirrels in a popcorn popper, but, I take back my claim from the last post. His Evangelical beliefs are not all he has going for him. Of all the Republican candidates, he's the only nice one. I mean, McCain and Paul have their charm and I don't think they're evil, but Huckabee's fun. And he may be a hick from Punkin' Crick or wherever, but he is far more articulate and confidence-inspiring -- and therefore, presumably smarter -- than Romney, Thompson or Giuliani. Sincerity and plain-spokenness go a long way. He absolutely shamed Romney and Giuliani tonight. He speaks to where people are. He is the only one wanting to take up the mantle of public advocate.
Bill Richardson: Well, here's the foreign policy gaffe of the year, so far: he said he'd negotiate with the Soviet Union. He also said he'd focus on "emboldering" the American people, which at first I balked at, but then I looked it up and discovered it was a perfectly cromulent word. He scored major points by admitting he was wrong to say Whizzer White was his favorite Supreme Court justice.
Hillary Clinton: She had her moments; moderator Charlie Gibson set her up for a "gotcha" when he compared her initial opposition to the Petraeus "surge" to the reduction in violence it has achieved, but she knocked that one out of the park when she said, in essence, yes, but it hasn't achieved its stated goal because the Iraqi government has not taken advantage of the reduction in violence to start governing, and in that light, the deaths of "only" 23 Americans in December is "unacceptable." Brava. But...early on there was a question about her "experience" versus Obama's "change" and she bordered on meltdown. Honestly, I thought we were about one deep breath away from a teary tantrum. I was a little scared. And over and over and over, she kept talking about her "35 years" of experience. She's been a senator since 2001. Before that...I am unclear as to what she's referring. When asked about her accomplishments that pointed to her being an agent of change, she talked about how "President Clinton" balanced the budget after the 12 year Reagan-Bush economic disaster. Hmm. Hadn't realized that was her idea. Mostly she spent the evening transparently attempting to misrepresent Senator Obama's positions. None of her punches landed.
Charlie Gibson: Okay, he's not running, but his claim that a professor at a New England liberal arts college makes a six-figure salary was laughed at by the audience.
John Edwards: I thought he did very well; I certainly agree with his populist positions, but...I don't know, I just don't see him as President. I think he is a great advocate for the people, and I hope the next President finds a useful role for him.
Barack Obama: He's in a league of his own. Panic was just below the surface of every single one of Clinton's answers, but Obama was calm and cool all night long. Articulate, concise, respectful of his colleagues, forceful but not bombastic...what's not to love? His only unsatisfactory answer of the evening was when he chose to follow Clinton's lead and refused to identify a remark he'd made from an earlier debate that he'd like to take back. Both Edwards and Richardson benefited from their candor. He was right to politely emphasize that any one of these folks would offer a major change from the Bush administration, but what was clear (and did not need to be said) was that Hillary represents politics as usual; do we really want to return to the acrimony of the Clinton years? Remember the definition of "is"? America wants to move on. Yes, I'm biased, but, wow...I really want Obama to be the face that America presents to the world next year.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Friday, January 04, 2008
Lapping it Up
As an Obama fan, today has been exhilarating. Fortunately it was a fairly calm Friday at work, so I had an opportunity to read the news online and check out a lot of the commentary, and I took full advantage of it. It's almost as if I needed to keep seeking confirmation that this all really happened.
Having suffered now under the agonizing, infuriating madness of the Bush administration for seven years, it is time, finally, as Andrew Sullivan puts it -- and I am not given to quoting him -- to "know hope." I haven't been this giddy since 2004; not since right before Howard Dean fatally released what became known as "the Dean Scream" and the media had a field day and decided to go with the story of him being unstable, leaving us with John Kerry. Kerry's candidacy was cause for optimism -- sometimes -- but not really hope. I hadn't supported his primary campaign because he, like Senator Clinton, was not the agent of change that this country so desperately needs. But Not Bush was better than the alternative. It just couldn't win.
This country took a profoundly wrong turn in the weeks and months following 9/11. It has been enraging to see this President, dubiously appointed by the Supreme Court for his first term, extol the virtues and necessities of freedom and democracy while systematically dismantling civil liberties and ignoring the rule of law. It has been deeply distressing, too, to watch the ascendancy of Senator Clinton who, among all people, should have known not to trust the neocons pulling Bush's strings when she cast the fatal vote in favor of allowing Bush to "disarm" Iraq. I believe she made that decision not for the security of the people of the United States, not for the welfare of the people of an oppressed Iraq, not for the hope of a better Middle East, but out of political calculation: she wanted to look tough. Since then, she has continued to defend her vote, to say that the disaster lay in the bungling of the plan, not in the idiocy of the plan itself. And she must pay.
I am also delighted with the rise of Mike Huckabee. After nearly a decade of utterly transparent insincerity from our President, with a boiling hostility and arrogance just barely restrained, a Connecticut blueblood with degrees from Harvard and Yale trying to pass himself off as a "jes' folks" regular guy from Texas, I think it's actually kind of nice that a major portion of the Republican Party is rallying around a genuine "aw shucks" hick who once cooked a squirrel in a popcorn popper.
Here you have a political party that until quite recently has succeeded on message discipline: if we all say the same thing, and keep saying it, it becomes true, or at least, people will believe it's true, especially if we characterize challenges (climate change is real, bin Laden didn't like Saddam Hussein, cutting taxes does not increase federal revenues, Barack Obama was not educated in a madrassa, the U.S. has the worst healthcare of any industrialized nation, etc.) as the idiotic fantasies of pot-smoking, divorced, gay-marrying illegal immigrant members of Al Qaeda. And now...? You don't even have a party. You've got three distinct groups of wackos -- libertarians, hawks, and fundamentalists -- who have suddenly discovered after 30 years of mutually indulgent delusion that they have nothing in common. The Evangelicals have awakened to realize that they are the GOP's useful idiots: Karl Rove dangled gay marriage in front of them so that they'd rush to the polls to re-elect (often gay) men who gave lip-service to scripture but handjobs to corporations (and sometimes to random men in airport bathrooms).
Well, the Evangelicals are mad as heck, and they aren't gonna take it anymore. They will not be fooled by a pro-choice, pro-gay, thrice-married Catholic whose idea of foreign policy is that there is no crisis which can't be solved by a new war. They will not settle for the governor of the first state in the country to legalize same-sex marriage. When you're dealing with an entire community of people whose lives center around the concept of moral absolutes, you're not going to find them making politically strategic compromises. You've never heard of religious martyrs? These people are prepared to lose an election; they'd rather throw away the vote that was given to them by the "Christian" founders of this "Christian" nation on a sure-fire loser than make a tactical calculation to vote for someone who doesn't really represent them, who will ignore them until the next time they are called to the polls by urgent warnings against lesbian terrorists having abortions paid for by socialized medicine.
If Huckabee is not the GOP nominee -- and right now, I don't think he will be -- I think the big surprise is that many Evangelicals will cross over to Obama. They may strongly disagree with him on a wide range of policies, but in him they will recognize a man of sincerity and integrity. I think they will take a chance and vote for someone who will be straight with them, rather than risk being betrayed and ignored again by an oily politician who came promising things he never intended to deliver.
Having suffered now under the agonizing, infuriating madness of the Bush administration for seven years, it is time, finally, as Andrew Sullivan puts it -- and I am not given to quoting him -- to "know hope." I haven't been this giddy since 2004; not since right before Howard Dean fatally released what became known as "the Dean Scream" and the media had a field day and decided to go with the story of him being unstable, leaving us with John Kerry. Kerry's candidacy was cause for optimism -- sometimes -- but not really hope. I hadn't supported his primary campaign because he, like Senator Clinton, was not the agent of change that this country so desperately needs. But Not Bush was better than the alternative. It just couldn't win.
This country took a profoundly wrong turn in the weeks and months following 9/11. It has been enraging to see this President, dubiously appointed by the Supreme Court for his first term, extol the virtues and necessities of freedom and democracy while systematically dismantling civil liberties and ignoring the rule of law. It has been deeply distressing, too, to watch the ascendancy of Senator Clinton who, among all people, should have known not to trust the neocons pulling Bush's strings when she cast the fatal vote in favor of allowing Bush to "disarm" Iraq. I believe she made that decision not for the security of the people of the United States, not for the welfare of the people of an oppressed Iraq, not for the hope of a better Middle East, but out of political calculation: she wanted to look tough. Since then, she has continued to defend her vote, to say that the disaster lay in the bungling of the plan, not in the idiocy of the plan itself. And she must pay.
The Evangelicals have awakened to realize that they are the GOP's useful idiots: Karl Rove dangled gay marriage in front of them so that they'd rush to the polls to re-elect (often gay) men who gave lip-service to scripture but handjobs to corporations (and sometimes to random men in airport bathrooms).
I am also delighted with the rise of Mike Huckabee. After nearly a decade of utterly transparent insincerity from our President, with a boiling hostility and arrogance just barely restrained, a Connecticut blueblood with degrees from Harvard and Yale trying to pass himself off as a "jes' folks" regular guy from Texas, I think it's actually kind of nice that a major portion of the Republican Party is rallying around a genuine "aw shucks" hick who once cooked a squirrel in a popcorn popper.
Here you have a political party that until quite recently has succeeded on message discipline: if we all say the same thing, and keep saying it, it becomes true, or at least, people will believe it's true, especially if we characterize challenges (climate change is real, bin Laden didn't like Saddam Hussein, cutting taxes does not increase federal revenues, Barack Obama was not educated in a madrassa, the U.S. has the worst healthcare of any industrialized nation, etc.) as the idiotic fantasies of pot-smoking, divorced, gay-marrying illegal immigrant members of Al Qaeda. And now...? You don't even have a party. You've got three distinct groups of wackos -- libertarians, hawks, and fundamentalists -- who have suddenly discovered after 30 years of mutually indulgent delusion that they have nothing in common. The Evangelicals have awakened to realize that they are the GOP's useful idiots: Karl Rove dangled gay marriage in front of them so that they'd rush to the polls to re-elect (often gay) men who gave lip-service to scripture but handjobs to corporations (and sometimes to random men in airport bathrooms).
Well, the Evangelicals are mad as heck, and they aren't gonna take it anymore. They will not be fooled by a pro-choice, pro-gay, thrice-married Catholic whose idea of foreign policy is that there is no crisis which can't be solved by a new war. They will not settle for the governor of the first state in the country to legalize same-sex marriage. When you're dealing with an entire community of people whose lives center around the concept of moral absolutes, you're not going to find them making politically strategic compromises. You've never heard of religious martyrs? These people are prepared to lose an election; they'd rather throw away the vote that was given to them by the "Christian" founders of this "Christian" nation on a sure-fire loser than make a tactical calculation to vote for someone who doesn't really represent them, who will ignore them until the next time they are called to the polls by urgent warnings against lesbian terrorists having abortions paid for by socialized medicine.
If Huckabee is not the GOP nominee -- and right now, I don't think he will be -- I think the big surprise is that many Evangelicals will cross over to Obama. They may strongly disagree with him on a wide range of policies, but in him they will recognize a man of sincerity and integrity. I think they will take a chance and vote for someone who will be straight with them, rather than risk being betrayed and ignored again by an oily politician who came promising things he never intended to deliver.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Rocky Comes Out of the Closet
After work I went out to dinner with some friends. Now, when I come home, I am always greeted by both cats at the door, but tonight only Starbuck was there, and she seemed particularly agitated. "Rocky?" I called out. Nothing. He wasn't in any of his usual hiding places, and this apartment isn't that big. I began to get concerned.
When I opened the bedroom closet door, out he sprang. "Mrao!" he said curtly, as he ran into the kitchen to get some kibble. He'd gone in there -- as he knows he is forbidden to do -- when I'd gotten out my shirt for dinner and then I unknowingly locked him in. (That's why they're not allowed in the closet...and he's made this mistake before, the big oaf.) Then I smelled cat poo. Ew.
But I could not find it. I tore the closet apart, got out the flashlight, but could not find any kitty presents. I decided it must be my overactive imagination.
* * * * * *
So, Obama and Huckabee won Iowa. Color me not surprised. Stupid beltway pundits. I saw this coming months ago. And Clinton came in third. I am beside myself with joy.
Now, let us put some things in perspective: Bill Clinton placed fourth in Iowa in 1992 and Pat Robertson beat Bush Sr. in 1988, for what it's worth. And I think the rest of the country is, after John Kerry, leery of Iowa's taste in candidates. Still, I think what will matter is that Obama won by drawing huge numbers of first-time caucus-goers, independents, and disaffected Republicans. You want to talk "electability"? How about a genuine liberal who gets Republicans to cross party lines? I'm telling you, a Clinton candidacy would have the opposite effect (and here's one progressive who would vote for some Republicans before he'd vote for Hillary). And we've been told all the while that the Democratic race in Iowa was too close to call; Obama whupped Hillary by nine points. So much for her aura of invincibility. Maybe she'd like a nice ambassadorship to Palau.
And I'm sorry, Huckabee is no flash in the pan. Look back over the past few weeks since his numbers started to skyrocket, and look at all the negative media attention he's gotten, all his supposed gaffes, goofy views and silly gimmicks, like trying to dupe news reporters into airing the negative ad he was too nice a guy to run. The pundits have been predicting a Huckabee implosion. He was supposed to be neck and neck with Romney, according to their wisdom. And Romney got stomped. These are the people who told us Giuliani was a lock...how many months ago, now? Hello, fifth place; he got fewer than half as many votes as crackpot Ron Paul (that's where the implosion will be, when liberals and independents impressed by an anti-war Republican start taking a look at his totally verkakte ideas). Huckabee's going to be in it for a while. As I've said here repeatedly, he may be completely wrong about everything, but he shares the views of millions of Americans. He has the evangelical vote sewn up.
So, what happens next week? I'm guessing Huckabee will fall way back in libertarian New Hampshire, where the top three will be McCain, Paul and Romney. On the Democratic side, I think the race will be between Obama and Edwards. It will be the same scenario in South Carolina; I think Obama has a strong shot at winning both. Clinton will continue to come in third, the media will write her off, and she will tank. The Republicans will be different; Huckabee will win South Carolina in a walk, but the GOP nominee will probably be determined by Super Duper Tuesday. I think it will be Romney.
* * * * * *
So I got undressed for bed and was about to put my clothes in the hamper when...I saw I pile of cat poo at the bottom.
The lesson here? I know crap when I smell it. Don't vote for Hillary.
When I opened the bedroom closet door, out he sprang. "Mrao!" he said curtly, as he ran into the kitchen to get some kibble. He'd gone in there -- as he knows he is forbidden to do -- when I'd gotten out my shirt for dinner and then I unknowingly locked him in. (That's why they're not allowed in the closet...and he's made this mistake before, the big oaf.) Then I smelled cat poo. Ew.
But I could not find it. I tore the closet apart, got out the flashlight, but could not find any kitty presents. I decided it must be my overactive imagination.
* * * * * *
So, Obama and Huckabee won Iowa. Color me not surprised. Stupid beltway pundits. I saw this coming months ago. And Clinton came in third. I am beside myself with joy.
Now, let us put some things in perspective: Bill Clinton placed fourth in Iowa in 1992 and Pat Robertson beat Bush Sr. in 1988, for what it's worth. And I think the rest of the country is, after John Kerry, leery of Iowa's taste in candidates. Still, I think what will matter is that Obama won by drawing huge numbers of first-time caucus-goers, independents, and disaffected Republicans. You want to talk "electability"? How about a genuine liberal who gets Republicans to cross party lines? I'm telling you, a Clinton candidacy would have the opposite effect (and here's one progressive who would vote for some Republicans before he'd vote for Hillary). And we've been told all the while that the Democratic race in Iowa was too close to call; Obama whupped Hillary by nine points. So much for her aura of invincibility. Maybe she'd like a nice ambassadorship to Palau.
And I'm sorry, Huckabee is no flash in the pan. Look back over the past few weeks since his numbers started to skyrocket, and look at all the negative media attention he's gotten, all his supposed gaffes, goofy views and silly gimmicks, like trying to dupe news reporters into airing the negative ad he was too nice a guy to run. The pundits have been predicting a Huckabee implosion. He was supposed to be neck and neck with Romney, according to their wisdom. And Romney got stomped. These are the people who told us Giuliani was a lock...how many months ago, now? Hello, fifth place; he got fewer than half as many votes as crackpot Ron Paul (that's where the implosion will be, when liberals and independents impressed by an anti-war Republican start taking a look at his totally verkakte ideas). Huckabee's going to be in it for a while. As I've said here repeatedly, he may be completely wrong about everything, but he shares the views of millions of Americans. He has the evangelical vote sewn up.
So, what happens next week? I'm guessing Huckabee will fall way back in libertarian New Hampshire, where the top three will be McCain, Paul and Romney. On the Democratic side, I think the race will be between Obama and Edwards. It will be the same scenario in South Carolina; I think Obama has a strong shot at winning both. Clinton will continue to come in third, the media will write her off, and she will tank. The Republicans will be different; Huckabee will win South Carolina in a walk, but the GOP nominee will probably be determined by Super Duper Tuesday. I think it will be Romney.
* * * * * *
So I got undressed for bed and was about to put my clothes in the hamper when...I saw I pile of cat poo at the bottom.
The lesson here? I know crap when I smell it. Don't vote for Hillary.
Review: Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd
I like Tim Burton. I really like Johnny Depp. But I love Sweeney Todd, so my only option is to write two separate reviews.
The Film
I'm not good with scary movies; if I didn't know the show so well -- and, I know every line -- I don't think I could have tolerated the suspense and the violence. Even then, knowing full well who gets it, when and how, I spent a lot of the film cringing in my seat with my hands over my eyes. Sweeney Todd is a bloody story, and the great thing about a film version is that you can really show spraying, spurting, gushing, pooling blood (in which Burton here relishes) in ways that would be impossible or, at least, impractical on stage. Film also gives the viewer unique intimacies with the performers and the scene, access to shades and subtleties and inflections that get lost in the theatrical chasm between the lip of the stage and the first row of the audience, let alone the back row of the balcony. Two more things about the blood, and then I'll move on: I thought the opening sequence gave too much away, and the blood was too orange for my taste; I'd have preferred something darker.
Tim Burton was exactly the right director for the film version that has been crying out to be made of this stage masterpiece. His vision of early 19th century London was wholly appropriate, dark and gothic, splendidly squalid, filled to the brim with grimy decadence. Clearly he understood the characters and wanted to serve the original; this is an outstanding adaptation. He even successfully navigated the treacherous comic-relief bits, such as Mrs. Lovett's beach fantasy, which often bogs down the stage action.
It goes without saying that Johnny Depp is a formidable actor. The title role is an exceptional test: it's the rare artist who can summon the bloodlusty rage necessary to sustain the plot and yet communicate it in such a carefully restrained way as to maintain credibility and, therefore, terror. There are few who could approach what he as achieved in his interpretation of the role. Mrs. Lovett presents a wholly different yet similar challenge: how to convincingly portray a generally kind, hapless, hopeless romantic type who nonetheless cooks up (so to speak) the scheme to get rid of Mr. Todd's victims? And again, in Helena Bonham Carter we have an actor of rare ability; I found her performance deeply affecting.
I know I said I like Tim Burton and Johnny Depp; did I mention how much I like Alan Rickman? Talk about your luxury casting. Again, the same challenge presents itself: how to portray a nearly impossibly evil human being and make it both believable and, in a way, pathetic? In the case of Judge Turpin, the answer is simple: use Rickman.
The discovery of Ed Sanders, the young actor who takes on the tragic hero Tobias, is proof that God wanted this film made. Another gift of the film medium is that we can get an actor young enough to convincingly sell innocent, naive courage; in a stage production, where a voice has to carry over an orchestra and the actor has to be available for 8 shows a week, we often get a man in his early 20's who comes off, instead, as mildly retarded. Sacha Baron Cohen can do no wrong, and as Todd's tonsorial rival Pirelli gives a spirited, pitch perfect performance. In the other major roles, Timothy Spall was delectably oily (hmm...maybe I should get away from taste-oriented metaphors) as Beadle Bamford; Jayne Wisener and Jamie Campbell Bower made sincere efforts, but were both a trifle palid and young for their roles as Johanna and Anthony.
The Music
You have a major problem when the strongest voice in the cast belongs to a 14 year old boy.
I first came across this show when I was a junior in high school; my voice teacher suggested I take a look at the song "Johanna," written for the character of Anthony. It was a dark and stormy night -- no, really -- and I had just gotten home from Tower Records with my cassettes (hey, it was the early '90s). The musical opens with a distant pipe organ, but I didn't know it was supposed to be distant so I cranked up the volume to what seemed normal. Then the dirge was interrupted by the bloodcurdling shriek of the steam whistle, and I nearly leapt out of my skin and soiled myself. Welcome to the uniquely evocative power of Stephen Sondheim's soundworld for Sweeney Todd.
The new arrangement for the film version is marvelous; the recent Broadway revival was brilliant and clever in its reduced vision, yet sorely lacked the bursts of power provided by the original score. The movie reinstates the orchestral splendor to floor-vibrating effect, but I really missed the whistle.
I think they were right to axe the choral passages from the film version, even though "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" was a major sacrifice. Todd is not Oklahoma!, where people suddenly and randomly burst into sweet, plot-collapsing melodies. Todd is operatic -- and indeed, has notably been produced by actual opera companies and was given in concert form by the New York Philharmonic -- and the singing and the bloodshed never stop. For some reason, I think solos and duets succeed in this format where large ensembles and choruses could not. There is no question in my mind that my exposure to Sweeney Todd in my impressionable teens led me inexorably toward real opera: once you learn the dramatic potential in the combination of great singing and great composition, you thirst for it.
Alas, great singing is what was completely lacking in the film version.
While many reviewers noted that Depp is not the traditional voice type called for by the score, at least one claimed his "rock-star tenor" was effective. I beg to differ, and I must say it is a sorry tenor indeed, of any variety, that struggles on notes within easy reach of any bass-baritone worthy of the name. His physical performance -- his eyes, his face, his hands, his overall body posture -- was perfection. His singing was painful; in fact, it was so bad, it significantly detracted from his acting. It was a distraction that ill-served a carefully considered performance.
People who know Sondheim know he wrote with unusual effectiveness for limited voices; one need only think of Elaine Stritch's raucous turn in Company. But he also knew how to write for gifted singers; think of the differences -- and yet seamless compatibility -- between the roles written for Hermione Gingold and Glynis Johns in A Little Night Music, and the music for Carl-Magnus in the same show. Sondheim knows voices, and Sweeney is a singer's role. Yes, it's the exceptionally rare singer who can do the music justice and also carry the part, but that's largely what makes the show so good when it's right. Burton gave us half a Sweeney. Depp's vocalism, while long on Cockney diction, was woefully short on phrasing, musicality, pitch, and the subtle but vibrant and varied shadings of a true singer.
Bonham Carter, with her breathy tone, came off better. Filling the impossibly large shoes of Angela Lansbury, whose voice was expressive and accurate if not oppulent, is a daunting task. Yet Bonham Carter managed to successfully navigate the chromatic complexities of her vocal lines.
I had high hopes for Alan Rickman, since his speaking voice is so resonant and marvelous, but alas, he, too, was underpowered and uncertain of pitch. Sacha Baron Cohen acquitted himself quite nicely of a role that is nearly impossible to sing well. Since he's playing a fraud, anyway, it rather worked well for him that he was faking the more operatic flourishes. What to say of Jamie Campbell Bower and Jayne Wisener? Any conservatory or university with a music school could field a good handful of good-looking, competent actors who could waltz through Anthony and Johanna's graceful music. What a disappointment to hear their glorious melodies given such short shrift.
At length we come to young Ed Sanders in the oft-under-appreciated role of Tobias. Here is a performer not only fluid as an actor, but innately musical. Every phrase had shape, every pitch had a center, and every tone had vibrancy; this is all the more miraculous considering his tender age. Without disrespect to his esteemed castmates, Sanders put Burton to shame for failing to recognize that there really are singers who can act in this world. And yet, what a near fiasco "Nothing's Going to Harm You" was: one of the few places in the score that cries out for tender, sotto-voce lyricism was sung as though Mrs. Lovett was in the next room, possibly watching television. I am certain this is not Sanders' fault.
Overall? Visual experience: A. Aural experience: C-.
The Film
I'm not good with scary movies; if I didn't know the show so well -- and, I know every line -- I don't think I could have tolerated the suspense and the violence. Even then, knowing full well who gets it, when and how, I spent a lot of the film cringing in my seat with my hands over my eyes. Sweeney Todd is a bloody story, and the great thing about a film version is that you can really show spraying, spurting, gushing, pooling blood (in which Burton here relishes) in ways that would be impossible or, at least, impractical on stage. Film also gives the viewer unique intimacies with the performers and the scene, access to shades and subtleties and inflections that get lost in the theatrical chasm between the lip of the stage and the first row of the audience, let alone the back row of the balcony. Two more things about the blood, and then I'll move on: I thought the opening sequence gave too much away, and the blood was too orange for my taste; I'd have preferred something darker.
Tim Burton was exactly the right director for the film version that has been crying out to be made of this stage masterpiece. His vision of early 19th century London was wholly appropriate, dark and gothic, splendidly squalid, filled to the brim with grimy decadence. Clearly he understood the characters and wanted to serve the original; this is an outstanding adaptation. He even successfully navigated the treacherous comic-relief bits, such as Mrs. Lovett's beach fantasy, which often bogs down the stage action.
It goes without saying that Johnny Depp is a formidable actor. The title role is an exceptional test: it's the rare artist who can summon the bloodlusty rage necessary to sustain the plot and yet communicate it in such a carefully restrained way as to maintain credibility and, therefore, terror. There are few who could approach what he as achieved in his interpretation of the role. Mrs. Lovett presents a wholly different yet similar challenge: how to convincingly portray a generally kind, hapless, hopeless romantic type who nonetheless cooks up (so to speak) the scheme to get rid of Mr. Todd's victims? And again, in Helena Bonham Carter we have an actor of rare ability; I found her performance deeply affecting.
I know I said I like Tim Burton and Johnny Depp; did I mention how much I like Alan Rickman? Talk about your luxury casting. Again, the same challenge presents itself: how to portray a nearly impossibly evil human being and make it both believable and, in a way, pathetic? In the case of Judge Turpin, the answer is simple: use Rickman.
The discovery of Ed Sanders, the young actor who takes on the tragic hero Tobias, is proof that God wanted this film made. Another gift of the film medium is that we can get an actor young enough to convincingly sell innocent, naive courage; in a stage production, where a voice has to carry over an orchestra and the actor has to be available for 8 shows a week, we often get a man in his early 20's who comes off, instead, as mildly retarded. Sacha Baron Cohen can do no wrong, and as Todd's tonsorial rival Pirelli gives a spirited, pitch perfect performance. In the other major roles, Timothy Spall was delectably oily (hmm...maybe I should get away from taste-oriented metaphors) as Beadle Bamford; Jayne Wisener and Jamie Campbell Bower made sincere efforts, but were both a trifle palid and young for their roles as Johanna and Anthony.
The Music
You have a major problem when the strongest voice in the cast belongs to a 14 year old boy.
I first came across this show when I was a junior in high school; my voice teacher suggested I take a look at the song "Johanna," written for the character of Anthony. It was a dark and stormy night -- no, really -- and I had just gotten home from Tower Records with my cassettes (hey, it was the early '90s). The musical opens with a distant pipe organ, but I didn't know it was supposed to be distant so I cranked up the volume to what seemed normal. Then the dirge was interrupted by the bloodcurdling shriek of the steam whistle, and I nearly leapt out of my skin and soiled myself. Welcome to the uniquely evocative power of Stephen Sondheim's soundworld for Sweeney Todd.
The new arrangement for the film version is marvelous; the recent Broadway revival was brilliant and clever in its reduced vision, yet sorely lacked the bursts of power provided by the original score. The movie reinstates the orchestral splendor to floor-vibrating effect, but I really missed the whistle.
I think they were right to axe the choral passages from the film version, even though "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" was a major sacrifice. Todd is not Oklahoma!, where people suddenly and randomly burst into sweet, plot-collapsing melodies. Todd is operatic -- and indeed, has notably been produced by actual opera companies and was given in concert form by the New York Philharmonic -- and the singing and the bloodshed never stop. For some reason, I think solos and duets succeed in this format where large ensembles and choruses could not. There is no question in my mind that my exposure to Sweeney Todd in my impressionable teens led me inexorably toward real opera: once you learn the dramatic potential in the combination of great singing and great composition, you thirst for it.
Alas, great singing is what was completely lacking in the film version.
While many reviewers noted that Depp is not the traditional voice type called for by the score, at least one claimed his "rock-star tenor" was effective. I beg to differ, and I must say it is a sorry tenor indeed, of any variety, that struggles on notes within easy reach of any bass-baritone worthy of the name. His physical performance -- his eyes, his face, his hands, his overall body posture -- was perfection. His singing was painful; in fact, it was so bad, it significantly detracted from his acting. It was a distraction that ill-served a carefully considered performance.
People who know Sondheim know he wrote with unusual effectiveness for limited voices; one need only think of Elaine Stritch's raucous turn in Company. But he also knew how to write for gifted singers; think of the differences -- and yet seamless compatibility -- between the roles written for Hermione Gingold and Glynis Johns in A Little Night Music, and the music for Carl-Magnus in the same show. Sondheim knows voices, and Sweeney is a singer's role. Yes, it's the exceptionally rare singer who can do the music justice and also carry the part, but that's largely what makes the show so good when it's right. Burton gave us half a Sweeney. Depp's vocalism, while long on Cockney diction, was woefully short on phrasing, musicality, pitch, and the subtle but vibrant and varied shadings of a true singer.
Bonham Carter, with her breathy tone, came off better. Filling the impossibly large shoes of Angela Lansbury, whose voice was expressive and accurate if not oppulent, is a daunting task. Yet Bonham Carter managed to successfully navigate the chromatic complexities of her vocal lines.
I had high hopes for Alan Rickman, since his speaking voice is so resonant and marvelous, but alas, he, too, was underpowered and uncertain of pitch. Sacha Baron Cohen acquitted himself quite nicely of a role that is nearly impossible to sing well. Since he's playing a fraud, anyway, it rather worked well for him that he was faking the more operatic flourishes. What to say of Jamie Campbell Bower and Jayne Wisener? Any conservatory or university with a music school could field a good handful of good-looking, competent actors who could waltz through Anthony and Johanna's graceful music. What a disappointment to hear their glorious melodies given such short shrift.
At length we come to young Ed Sanders in the oft-under-appreciated role of Tobias. Here is a performer not only fluid as an actor, but innately musical. Every phrase had shape, every pitch had a center, and every tone had vibrancy; this is all the more miraculous considering his tender age. Without disrespect to his esteemed castmates, Sanders put Burton to shame for failing to recognize that there really are singers who can act in this world. And yet, what a near fiasco "Nothing's Going to Harm You" was: one of the few places in the score that cries out for tender, sotto-voce lyricism was sung as though Mrs. Lovett was in the next room, possibly watching television. I am certain this is not Sanders' fault.
Overall? Visual experience: A. Aural experience: C-.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Bad Fag
On July 6, 2006, when the New York Court of Appeals handed down its execrable decision in Hernandez v. Robles, in which it denied same-sex couples the "fundamental right" -- in the opinion's own words -- to civil marriage based on the "assumption" (again, quoting) that "marriage is important to the welfare of children" and because the State of New York had a compelling interest in depriving a segment of its own citizenry their rights in order to encourage the other 90-something percent to have responsible relationships, I joined a throng of angry protesters in Greenwich Village's Sheridan Square to give voice to my rage.
Tonight, all across Oregon, same-sex couples and fair-minded supporters are gathered in candlelight vigils to protest the unnecessary delay that was placed on the state's new domestic partnership law.
And where am I?
Home eating a pork chop.
Look, I'm there in spirit, okay? At the New York protest, it was a) summer and nice, b) on my way home from work, c) light out, d) in close proximity to any number of good bars and I didn't have to drive, and e) there was a good chance of seeing hot guys, like Empire State Pride Agenda's Chris Cormier or Search for Love's Joel Derfner (woof!).
In contrast, the Portland location for the vigil is in southeast. For you non-Cascadians, this is the equivalent of Park Slope. Okay, fine, it's just across the river, but it's in the wrong direction and, like Samantha on Sex and the City says, "I don't do borough." I mean, if someone found an ancient pirate map of Portland, over southeast it would say, "HERE BE ANGRY LESBIANS WITH STROLLERS, YAARRR." Not my scene. Did I mention it's: dark, cold and raining?
So here's my candlelight vigil, Beaverton-style. (Like the shirt? I thought you would.) I'm having a lovely glass of Côtes du Rhône and listening to Barbra. Up yours, Alliance Defense Fund!
Tonight, all across Oregon, same-sex couples and fair-minded supporters are gathered in candlelight vigils to protest the unnecessary delay that was placed on the state's new domestic partnership law.
And where am I?
Home eating a pork chop.
Look, I'm there in spirit, okay? At the New York protest, it was a) summer and nice, b) on my way home from work, c) light out, d) in close proximity to any number of good bars and I didn't have to drive, and e) there was a good chance of seeing hot guys, like Empire State Pride Agenda's Chris Cormier or Search for Love's Joel Derfner (woof!).
In contrast, the Portland location for the vigil is in southeast. For you non-Cascadians, this is the equivalent of Park Slope. Okay, fine, it's just across the river, but it's in the wrong direction and, like Samantha on Sex and the City says, "I don't do borough." I mean, if someone found an ancient pirate map of Portland, over southeast it would say, "HERE BE ANGRY LESBIANS WITH STROLLERS, YAARRR." Not my scene. Did I mention it's: dark, cold and raining?
So here's my candlelight vigil, Beaverton-style. (Like the shirt? I thought you would.) I'm having a lovely glass of Côtes du Rhône and listening to Barbra. Up yours, Alliance Defense Fund!
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
New Year, Same Injustice
Today was supposed to mark the dawn of a new era in fairness in Oregon. Instead, thousands of gay and lesbian residents find themselves in legal limbo.
HB 2007, passed last year by both the houses of the state legislature, established domestic partnership status for same-sex couples, granting them the same rights, benefits and duties as married couples, excepting access to the word "marriage," which the state constitution limits to one man and one woman. Opponents mounted a petition drive to refer the law to the voters, but the Secretary of State determined that they did not gather a sufficient number of valid signatures. The Alliance Defense Fund filed suit, and on December 28 U.S. District Judge Michael Mosman blocked the new law and granted a hearing for February 1.
Under Oregon law, the plaintiffs needed to gather 55,179 signatures of registered voters in order to get a referendum on a statewide ballot. The verification procedures call for the Secretary of State to make a statistical analysis based on a random sampling of 5.01% of the signatures, which showed the petition failed by some 190 or so signings. The ADF believes it can prove that some signatures were improperly invalidated.
There is much squawking over whether the injunction is an act of judicial activism by Judge Mosman, a President Bush appointee who gained some notoriety at his 2003 nomination when it was discovered that as Lewis F. Powell's clerk in 1986, he advised the Supreme Court justice to rule in favor of upholding Georgia's sodomy laws in the infamous case Bowers v. Hardwick. Basic Rights Oregon says "the judge demonstrated a misunderstanding of Oregon’s initiative and referendum law."
All of these technicalities merely obscure the larger story: the stop-at-nothing tactics of conservative activists to maintain official discrimination against gay and lesbian citizens.
When the fight to secure legal recognition and protection for committed same-sex relationships began, we went to the courts, the branch of government responsible for safeguarding civil rights. The right to marriage has repeatedly been identified as fundamental. Opponents of fairness decried the notion that "unelected, unaccountable, activist judges" should have any say in the matter, and insisted that the regulation of marriage was the proper role of state legislatures. For the most part, the courts have agreed: judges in marriage lawsuits in New York, Washington, Massachusetts and New Jersey all ruled that the legislature needed to handle the issue, although in the latter two cases the courts ordered the legislatures to comply with constitutional guarantees of equal protection.
But then something happened the bigots did not foresee: lawmakers began to act without being ordered to do so, first in Vermont, then in California. Governor Schwarzenegger vetoed the California bill, saying the marriage issue needed to be resolved by the courts, with no apparent awareness of irony.
Likewise, the Oregon legislature acted in 2007 of its own volition to give committed same-sex couples the maximum available protection under the state constitution. Having long bemoaned the independence of unelected judges, militant heterosexuals were now left to claim that the legislators they'd picked to represent them had overstepped their authority. Oregon has 1,930,382 registered voters and the petition would have required the signatures of fewer than 3% of them to qualify. Even though 97% of Oregon voters ignored or rejected their efforts, heterosexualists still claim that the legislature has thwarted the will of the people.
Their final, desperate ploy is to attempt to prove they found enough homophobes to put the dignity and security of thousands of Oregon families up for a vote. Despite carefully disguising their prejudice as pro-democracy rhetoric, they have displayed only open contempt for guarantees of liberty, the democratic process and their fellow citizens. With no justification other than simple prejudice, they have mounted an assault to deny gay and lesbian citizens even the shameful second-class status of "domestic partnerships." They failed at the courts, they failed at the legislature and they will fail at the polls.
Who knows? They might win this battle. But the tide of the war turned long ago: marriage equality is coming to America, and it's coming soon. The best they can hope for is a delay of the inevitable.
HB 2007, passed last year by both the houses of the state legislature, established domestic partnership status for same-sex couples, granting them the same rights, benefits and duties as married couples, excepting access to the word "marriage," which the state constitution limits to one man and one woman. Opponents mounted a petition drive to refer the law to the voters, but the Secretary of State determined that they did not gather a sufficient number of valid signatures. The Alliance Defense Fund filed suit, and on December 28 U.S. District Judge Michael Mosman blocked the new law and granted a hearing for February 1.
Under Oregon law, the plaintiffs needed to gather 55,179 signatures of registered voters in order to get a referendum on a statewide ballot. The verification procedures call for the Secretary of State to make a statistical analysis based on a random sampling of 5.01% of the signatures, which showed the petition failed by some 190 or so signings. The ADF believes it can prove that some signatures were improperly invalidated.
There is much squawking over whether the injunction is an act of judicial activism by Judge Mosman, a President Bush appointee who gained some notoriety at his 2003 nomination when it was discovered that as Lewis F. Powell's clerk in 1986, he advised the Supreme Court justice to rule in favor of upholding Georgia's sodomy laws in the infamous case Bowers v. Hardwick. Basic Rights Oregon says "the judge demonstrated a misunderstanding of Oregon’s initiative and referendum law."
All of these technicalities merely obscure the larger story: the stop-at-nothing tactics of conservative activists to maintain official discrimination against gay and lesbian citizens.
When the fight to secure legal recognition and protection for committed same-sex relationships began, we went to the courts, the branch of government responsible for safeguarding civil rights. The right to marriage has repeatedly been identified as fundamental. Opponents of fairness decried the notion that "unelected, unaccountable, activist judges" should have any say in the matter, and insisted that the regulation of marriage was the proper role of state legislatures. For the most part, the courts have agreed: judges in marriage lawsuits in New York, Washington, Massachusetts and New Jersey all ruled that the legislature needed to handle the issue, although in the latter two cases the courts ordered the legislatures to comply with constitutional guarantees of equal protection.
But then something happened the bigots did not foresee: lawmakers began to act without being ordered to do so, first in Vermont, then in California. Governor Schwarzenegger vetoed the California bill, saying the marriage issue needed to be resolved by the courts, with no apparent awareness of irony.
Likewise, the Oregon legislature acted in 2007 of its own volition to give committed same-sex couples the maximum available protection under the state constitution. Having long bemoaned the independence of unelected judges, militant heterosexuals were now left to claim that the legislators they'd picked to represent them had overstepped their authority. Oregon has 1,930,382 registered voters and the petition would have required the signatures of fewer than 3% of them to qualify. Even though 97% of Oregon voters ignored or rejected their efforts, heterosexualists still claim that the legislature has thwarted the will of the people.
Their final, desperate ploy is to attempt to prove they found enough homophobes to put the dignity and security of thousands of Oregon families up for a vote. Despite carefully disguising their prejudice as pro-democracy rhetoric, they have displayed only open contempt for guarantees of liberty, the democratic process and their fellow citizens. With no justification other than simple prejudice, they have mounted an assault to deny gay and lesbian citizens even the shameful second-class status of "domestic partnerships." They failed at the courts, they failed at the legislature and they will fail at the polls.
Who knows? They might win this battle. But the tide of the war turned long ago: marriage equality is coming to America, and it's coming soon. The best they can hope for is a delay of the inevitable.
Monday, December 31, 2007
2007: Andy's Year in Review
JANUARY: Pat Robertson predicts a major terrorist strike on the United States toward the end of 2007. "I'm not necessarily saying it's going to be nuclear. The Lord didn't say nuclear. But I do believe it will be something like that."
FEBRUARY: Mary Cheney announces she's carrying a baby, not a prop. The Primates of the Anglican Communion issue a "communiqué" to the Episcopal Church: discriminate or get out. Andy is a guest on The Colbert Report. (Okay, fine, I was in the audience.)
MARCH: Rocky & Starbuck make their YouTube debut. General Peter Pace testifies before Congress in favor of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." The Episcopal Church's House of Bishops responds to the Primates: "Get Bent." Four of Final Five Cylons revealed! And, who could forget Bong Hits 4 Jesus?
APRIL: Andy says goodbye to New York; The Cats Across America Tour.
MAY: The Oregon Legislature passes a bill establishing statewide domestic partnership registration for same-sex couples. (The law was set to go into effect tomorrow, but a judge halted it on December 29, saying opponents should get another shot at putting the civil rights of lesbian and gay Oregonians up for a vote). Andy, Rocky & Starbuck find a new home. The Rapture Index approaches "Fasten Your Seatbelts!"
JUNE: The Preznit pardons Scooter Libby. Andy turns 29 (again).
JULY: Heaven gets a new angel. Britney takes up method acting.
AUGUST: I receive the ugliest flower arrangement in the history of the universe. Mabel the Sable has a breakdown. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert go on vacation for two weeks, during which thankfully nothing newsworthy happens, except Michael Vick is arrested for dogfighting, Alberto "I Can't Answer That Question" Gonzales abruptly resigns, and Larry "I am Not Gay" Craig takes a wide stance for civil rights.
SEPTEMBER: Cancer claims Pavarotti. The President addresses the You-Night-Ed Nay-Shunz. Portland Opera opens with Carmen.
OCTOBER: Starbuck's modeling debut. Andy gets a job. Andy switches to FOX News. Andy gets fan mail. Andy makes a Cat-o-Lantern.
NOVEMBER: Andy (accidentally) goes undercover at a Catholic Church. Revealed!: Admiral Cain eats out (at Quiznos?).
DECEMBER: Hurricane-force winds strike Oregon. 60 Minutes airs a story about openly gay servicemen and women, prompting Concerned Woman J. Matt Barber to cry, "Put a cork in it!" Portland gets its first white Christmas since 1937. Andy makes a New Year's resolution.
To my readers: best wishes for a happy, healthy, successful 2007!
UPDATE: Erm, I meant 2008.
FEBRUARY: Mary Cheney announces she's carrying a baby, not a prop. The Primates of the Anglican Communion issue a "communiqué" to the Episcopal Church: discriminate or get out. Andy is a guest on The Colbert Report. (Okay, fine, I was in the audience.)
MARCH: Rocky & Starbuck make their YouTube debut. General Peter Pace testifies before Congress in favor of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." The Episcopal Church's House of Bishops responds to the Primates: "Get Bent." Four of Final Five Cylons revealed! And, who could forget Bong Hits 4 Jesus?
APRIL: Andy says goodbye to New York; The Cats Across America Tour.
MAY: The Oregon Legislature passes a bill establishing statewide domestic partnership registration for same-sex couples. (The law was set to go into effect tomorrow, but a judge halted it on December 29, saying opponents should get another shot at putting the civil rights of lesbian and gay Oregonians up for a vote). Andy, Rocky & Starbuck find a new home. The Rapture Index approaches "Fasten Your Seatbelts!"
JUNE: The Preznit pardons Scooter Libby. Andy turns 29 (again).
JULY: Heaven gets a new angel. Britney takes up method acting.
AUGUST: I receive the ugliest flower arrangement in the history of the universe. Mabel the Sable has a breakdown. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert go on vacation for two weeks, during which thankfully nothing newsworthy happens, except Michael Vick is arrested for dogfighting, Alberto "I Can't Answer That Question" Gonzales abruptly resigns, and Larry "I am Not Gay" Craig takes a wide stance for civil rights.
SEPTEMBER: Cancer claims Pavarotti. The President addresses the You-Night-Ed Nay-Shunz. Portland Opera opens with Carmen.
OCTOBER: Starbuck's modeling debut. Andy gets a job. Andy switches to FOX News. Andy gets fan mail. Andy makes a Cat-o-Lantern.
NOVEMBER: Andy (accidentally) goes undercover at a Catholic Church. Revealed!: Admiral Cain eats out (at Quiznos?).
DECEMBER: Hurricane-force winds strike Oregon. 60 Minutes airs a story about openly gay servicemen and women, prompting Concerned Woman J. Matt Barber to cry, "Put a cork in it!" Portland gets its first white Christmas since 1937. Andy makes a New Year's resolution.
To my readers: best wishes for a happy, healthy, successful 2007!
UPDATE: Erm, I meant 2008.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Sex and the Kitty
So, I'm feeling a little nostalgic for New York. After spending a wonderful afternoon with long-time friends, I came home, mixed up a batch of cosmopolitans, and popped in my Sex and the City DVD's.
Picture it: I'm in the club chair with my feet on the ottoman, sipping my cocktail, with Starbuck in my lap. Rocky is curled up, as is his wont, in front of the fire. We're watching the episode "Great Sexpectations" from Season 6, when Samantha and Smith have sex for the first time. Samantha is hooting and squawking in ecstasy. Rocky wakes up, trots over to the TV, looks at me, meows, and then runs away.
Picture it: I'm in the club chair with my feet on the ottoman, sipping my cocktail, with Starbuck in my lap. Rocky is curled up, as is his wont, in front of the fire. We're watching the episode "Great Sexpectations" from Season 6, when Samantha and Smith have sex for the first time. Samantha is hooting and squawking in ecstasy. Rocky wakes up, trots over to the TV, looks at me, meows, and then runs away.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Bach to the Future
I just did something I haven't done in five years: I ordered some music.
With New Year's Eve just around the corner, I've been spending some time pondering just what the hell I am doing with my life. For 2007, I established some specific goals -- big ones -- and met them. So, now what?
I mean, fine. I have the kind of apartment I wanted in the neighborhood I like, and I have a good job with the salary I needed. But these are all external, meaningless things. Who am I? Where am I going in life? How am I getting there?
Okay, maybe I'm not ready to answer all those questions in detail, but if right now my response is, "I'm an administrative assistant going nowhere in my '93 Mercury Sable," that's fairly unsatisfactory.
Earlier this month I went to an extraordinary concert of baroque holiday music by the Trinity Consort. It was the finest performance I had heard -- by a longshot -- since leaving New York. It wasn't long before I began to ache with envy for the performers and I thought, "Damnit, I'm not a secretary. I am a musician."
There is a passage in the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas that reads, "If you bring forth what is within you, it will set you free. If you do not bring forth what is within you, it will destroy you." And I am afraid that is true.
So, I'm going to sing again. There, I said it.
Now, wait, just a moment. This is not me re-launching my singing career. Uh-uh. Now that I live in the realm of steady paychecks and benefits, I'm not ready to turn around and go back to poverty and uncertainty and auditions and all that. I don't have time for that kind of dedication. This is merely me deciding that all that time and effort -- literal blood, sweat and tears -- is not going to go to waste while I quietly disappear into my cubicle in Beaverton, with a few fading photographs and wrinkled posters on my walls.
Actually, I have already been singing a little bit. I warm up every now and then and sing through my old repertoire, just for fun. But it's become clear to me that without goals, it's only so much yodeling.
So here's the deal: I've picked a piece to learn (the aria "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein" from JS Bach's St. Matthew Passion) and I'm going to ask the music director at my church if I can sing it at a service either for Lent or Easter.
There. It's in writing. I expect you to hold me to it.
With New Year's Eve just around the corner, I've been spending some time pondering just what the hell I am doing with my life. For 2007, I established some specific goals -- big ones -- and met them. So, now what?
I mean, fine. I have the kind of apartment I wanted in the neighborhood I like, and I have a good job with the salary I needed. But these are all external, meaningless things. Who am I? Where am I going in life? How am I getting there?
Okay, maybe I'm not ready to answer all those questions in detail, but if right now my response is, "I'm an administrative assistant going nowhere in my '93 Mercury Sable," that's fairly unsatisfactory.
Earlier this month I went to an extraordinary concert of baroque holiday music by the Trinity Consort. It was the finest performance I had heard -- by a longshot -- since leaving New York. It wasn't long before I began to ache with envy for the performers and I thought, "Damnit, I'm not a secretary. I am a musician."
There is a passage in the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas that reads, "If you bring forth what is within you, it will set you free. If you do not bring forth what is within you, it will destroy you." And I am afraid that is true.
So, I'm going to sing again. There, I said it.
Now, wait, just a moment. This is not me re-launching my singing career. Uh-uh. Now that I live in the realm of steady paychecks and benefits, I'm not ready to turn around and go back to poverty and uncertainty and auditions and all that. I don't have time for that kind of dedication. This is merely me deciding that all that time and effort -- literal blood, sweat and tears -- is not going to go to waste while I quietly disappear into my cubicle in Beaverton, with a few fading photographs and wrinkled posters on my walls.
Actually, I have already been singing a little bit. I warm up every now and then and sing through my old repertoire, just for fun. But it's become clear to me that without goals, it's only so much yodeling.
So here's the deal: I've picked a piece to learn (the aria "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein" from JS Bach's St. Matthew Passion) and I'm going to ask the music director at my church if I can sing it at a service either for Lent or Easter.
There. It's in writing. I expect you to hold me to it.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Meowing in a Winter Wonderland
For the record, according to Wikipedia, the chance of snow on Christmas Day in Portland is 0%.
Merry Christmas.
And me with no Golden Griddle.
The First LOL
I volunteered to help with the Christmas Pageant this year.
All went well until, for some reason, one "sheep" decided to punch another "sheep" right in front of the whole congregation. Fortunately the father of the dominant male rose from his pew, leaped to the altar, swept his child under his arm and strode out the door.
I guess this is what the narrator meant when he said the Wise People (one of ours was a girl) brought gifts of gold, frankincense and mirth.
All went well until, for some reason, one "sheep" decided to punch another "sheep" right in front of the whole congregation. Fortunately the father of the dominant male rose from his pew, leaped to the altar, swept his child under his arm and strode out the door.
I guess this is what the narrator meant when he said the Wise People (one of ours was a girl) brought gifts of gold, frankincense and mirth.
Monday, December 24, 2007
That's the Spirit
So I'm driving home from a pleasant, delicious Christmas Eve dinner at my father's house, and I'm in the right lane because I know I have a right turn coming up in a bit. The car in the left lane -- hi, welcome to Oregon -- is going about 7 miles under the speed limit, for no apparent reason. He signals that he's going to move into my lane, and while my initial reaction was, "Oh, no, Pokey, you're not getting in front of me," and move into the left lane to pass him, I decide, no, it's Christmas, let it be. So I ease up on the pedal to give him room to come over.
And then after 45 more seconds or so he's still in the left lane, so I muttered, to no one in particular, "Come on, dickwad." Then, this being Christmas, I felt ashamed.
Then after another block or so, as he still hasn't moved over, I conclude that he is a moron and I accelerate to the speed limit. As I get to about six inches from his bumper, he suddenly moves into my lane.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!" I shouted.
: (
And then after 45 more seconds or so he's still in the left lane, so I muttered, to no one in particular, "Come on, dickwad." Then, this being Christmas, I felt ashamed.
Then after another block or so, as he still hasn't moved over, I conclude that he is a moron and I accelerate to the speed limit. As I get to about six inches from his bumper, he suddenly moves into my lane.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!" I shouted.
: (
Merry Christmas from Andy & the Cats
Well, it's Christmas Eve and the tree is still standing, so...hurray for that.
Starbuck decided she could be helpful while I was decorating by making sure that the tissue paper didn't blow away.
Here she is supervising the preparations for my dinner party.
Package inspection.
This picture has nothing to do with Christmas, but I couldn't help myself.
Last night I curled up on the sofa by the fire with A Christmas Carol; it's been a long time since I actually read it. I'd forgotten how amazing it is. The movie versions all leave out the most inflammatory stuff. Dickens is truly kicking it Old Testament Prophet style.
And then I decided that it was so nice and comfortable in the living room that I would have a camp-out. I pulled the blankets off the bed, curled up by the fire, and read 2 Peter by the light of the tree. Rocky slept on a pillow next to my head, and Starbuck, as is her new custom, crawled under the blankets and curled up next to my tummy and did that paw-kneading thing.
Best wishes to everyone for a very Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
A Christmas Meditation
"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew. "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Back to Health
The cold is over. Yay! Here I am at a little dinner party I had at my apartment last night.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Good Thing All Those States Banned Gay Marriage
First thing to say: I can't even believe that this is "news," let alone currently CNN.com's top story.
Second thing to say: "It was a shock for both of us, so unexpected," said Jamie Lynn Spears of her pregnancy. "I was in complete and total shock and so was he." Well, when you have sex and don't use birth control, this tends to happen. (See Spears, Britney.) For real? A shock?!?!? Please.
Third thing to say: Jamie Lynn Spears Pregnancy Raises Legal Questions. Here's a legal question: what is the point of these laws? It takes (at least) two to tango. If you prosecute the gander, you should prosecute the goose.
Fourth thing to say: Thank God we keep banning gay marriage all over the country, in order to steer procreation into marriage. It's working swell.
Fifth thing to say: If you Google "steer procreation into marriage," The Last Debate is the top result. Cool.
Second thing to say: "It was a shock for both of us, so unexpected," said Jamie Lynn Spears of her pregnancy. "I was in complete and total shock and so was he." Well, when you have sex and don't use birth control, this tends to happen. (See Spears, Britney.) For real? A shock?!?!? Please.
Third thing to say: Jamie Lynn Spears Pregnancy Raises Legal Questions. Here's a legal question: what is the point of these laws? It takes (at least) two to tango. If you prosecute the gander, you should prosecute the goose.
Fourth thing to say: Thank God we keep banning gay marriage all over the country, in order to steer procreation into marriage. It's working swell.
Fifth thing to say: If you Google "steer procreation into marriage," The Last Debate is the top result. Cool.
Little House in the Big Suburb
One of my favorite books as a kid -- which I think probably was some sort of sign -- was Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House in the Big Woods.
I found the recollection of her time as a young girl living deep in the Wisconsin frontier in a log home built with her father's own hands fascinating; I read it several times over. I loved the detailed descriptions of the daily life, which was one of endless hard work, where every member of the family -- even young children -- had important responsibilities necessary to survival. Yet this hard work didn't seem like drudgery to me; I would set the book down, close my eyes, and indulge in reveries about what those tasks would be like. (In reality, my parents eventually gave up trying to get me to do anything resembling a chore; I was fairly undisciplined, in that regard.)
The highlight of the book was the Christmas celebration; relatives arrived from far away loaded in a sleigh which came gliding across the snow through the woods, with everybody wrapped in thick blankets. Children got handmade toys and adults got more practical gifts, like tools and clothing. They all went together to a big party at a neighboring farm and danced by candlelight, with the snow falling thickly all around.
This seemed like real Christmas, to me.
I liked the book so much that I even tried to replicate one of the experiences. Wilder recalled how she would go outside with a little bit of maple syrup, which she would pour in squiggles in the snow, and after a time it would harden into "candy." So of course the next time there was about an eighth of an inch of snow in the backyard (which counts as a major front-page blizzard in Portland) I took our plastic bottle of Golden Griddle and squirted some on the ground.
Now, I'm guessing the Wisconsin woods get a sight colder than western Oregon. Also it probably helps to use real, homemade maple syrup rather than...well, Golden Griddle. I waited patiently for about five minutes, but it hadn't really set up. I went back inside for a bit, but when I came back out to check, nothing really had happened. I grew impatient and decided to go ahead and taste it. Basically I had made sweet brown snow, with a little bit of dirt for texture.
Mmm.
I found the recollection of her time as a young girl living deep in the Wisconsin frontier in a log home built with her father's own hands fascinating; I read it several times over. I loved the detailed descriptions of the daily life, which was one of endless hard work, where every member of the family -- even young children -- had important responsibilities necessary to survival. Yet this hard work didn't seem like drudgery to me; I would set the book down, close my eyes, and indulge in reveries about what those tasks would be like. (In reality, my parents eventually gave up trying to get me to do anything resembling a chore; I was fairly undisciplined, in that regard.)
The highlight of the book was the Christmas celebration; relatives arrived from far away loaded in a sleigh which came gliding across the snow through the woods, with everybody wrapped in thick blankets. Children got handmade toys and adults got more practical gifts, like tools and clothing. They all went together to a big party at a neighboring farm and danced by candlelight, with the snow falling thickly all around.
This seemed like real Christmas, to me.
I liked the book so much that I even tried to replicate one of the experiences. Wilder recalled how she would go outside with a little bit of maple syrup, which she would pour in squiggles in the snow, and after a time it would harden into "candy." So of course the next time there was about an eighth of an inch of snow in the backyard (which counts as a major front-page blizzard in Portland) I took our plastic bottle of Golden Griddle and squirted some on the ground.
Now, I'm guessing the Wisconsin woods get a sight colder than western Oregon. Also it probably helps to use real, homemade maple syrup rather than...well, Golden Griddle. I waited patiently for about five minutes, but it hadn't really set up. I went back inside for a bit, but when I came back out to check, nothing really had happened. I grew impatient and decided to go ahead and taste it. Basically I had made sweet brown snow, with a little bit of dirt for texture.
Mmm.
Monday, December 17, 2007
I am Concerned About this Woman
Meet J. Matt Barber, the Policy Director for Cultural Issues at Concerned Women for America, which seeks "to protect and promote Biblical values among all citizens - first through prayer, then education, and finally by influencing our society - thereby reversing the decline in moral values in our nation."In response to yesterday's edition of 60 Minutes on CBS, in which Lesley Stahl interviewed openly gay current and former servicemen who claimed their colleagues and superiors knew and didn't care that they were gay, Barber had this to say to Cybercast News Service: "The military is no place for such radical San Francisco-style social experimentation, especially during a time of war."
That's a difficult argument to sustain, since according to the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network, 22 nations with troops currently fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan allow gay and lesbian soldiers to serve openly: Australia, Austria,Belgium, Britain, Canada, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, and Switzerland. Israel and South Africa also allow gay soldiers. Maybe the better argument is that in a time of war, when the military is desperately trying to maintain recruitment goals by admitting felons and lowering standards for physical and intellectual competence while doubling and tripling enlistment bonuses, we shouldn't be clinging to discredited Colorado Springs-style notions about sexual orientation.
But do let's give Ms. Barber a little credit for personal experience: "I served 12 years in the military. During basic training, one of my fellow recruits was sent home for soliciting sex from other male recruits. The incident was an enormous distraction from our task at hand, which was to learn how to be good soldiers. Instead, recruits were violated, complaints were filed, and our command was forced to conduct a thorough investigation. It was an incredible waste of time and resources, and it definitely harmed troop morale and unit cohesion."
So, let's get this straight. (I do love that phrase.) Girlfriend here served twelve years in the military and once some gay soldier made unwelcome sexual advances. Wow, that does sound like a great reason to disqualify thousands of uniquely skilled, hardworking Americans willing to put their lives on the line for our nation's safety. You wouldn't want to have to put some poor heterosexual schmo in the awkward position of having to say, "Umm...no thanks, I'm not interested." Heavens, no. (Because female service members never have to deal with unwelcome advances.)
What does Ms. Barber recommend? "If the bleeding-heart lefties over at CBS News and the SLDN really want to do something to support our troops and help the military, they should abandon their attempts to radically alter and undermine the armed forces, pipe down, put a cork in it and let our brave fighting men and women win this war on terror."
That's right. Leave the fighting up to "brave men and women," i.e. those who through an accident of genetics find themselves hopelessly heterosexual, instead of risking our national security by allowing prancing nellies like these guys (and gal) to serve their country.
* Copying the texts from these websites seems to have resulted in some irreconcilable font-size issues. But in the interests of diversity, I decided not to impose my personal preference for unity. Actually I tried, but failed.
What Did I Smoke Last Night?
Well, nothing, of course. But good grief I had some weird dreams.
One dream I had three times -- in the same night! And it was always the same. I was running through the forest being chased by a pack of wolves. They would corner me in a cave, standing at the mouth snarling at me, and then I'd wake up drenched in sweat. Yes, this happened three lovely times.
But that's not all. I had the dream again with a variation: the last time I was being chased by a gorilla.
I've had gorilla dreams ever since I was a child. Almost always I'm in my house and the gorilla is looking through the windows trying to see me, and I'm hiding behind a wall. But he's never chased me through a forest before.
Interpretation courtesy Dreammoods.com:
Wolf
To see a wolf in your dream, symbolizes beauty, solitude, mystery, self-confidence and pride. You are a loner by choice. Negatively, it represents hostility and aggression. It may also reflect an uncontrollable force or situation in your life. In particular, if the wolf is white, then it signifies valor and victory. [Andy: no, they were dark gray, all three times.] You have the ability to see the light even in your darkest hours.
Gorilla
To see a gorilla in your dream, suggests that you may be too "over the top" in your behavior. Perhaps you are compensating for your rigidity and stiffness in your waking life. Alternatively, the gorilla symbolizes your primitive impulses, wild nature and repressed sexual energy. [Andy: Well, duh.]
One dream I had three times -- in the same night! And it was always the same. I was running through the forest being chased by a pack of wolves. They would corner me in a cave, standing at the mouth snarling at me, and then I'd wake up drenched in sweat. Yes, this happened three lovely times.
But that's not all. I had the dream again with a variation: the last time I was being chased by a gorilla.
I've had gorilla dreams ever since I was a child. Almost always I'm in my house and the gorilla is looking through the windows trying to see me, and I'm hiding behind a wall. But he's never chased me through a forest before.
Interpretation courtesy Dreammoods.com:
Wolf
To see a wolf in your dream, symbolizes beauty, solitude, mystery, self-confidence and pride. You are a loner by choice. Negatively, it represents hostility and aggression. It may also reflect an uncontrollable force or situation in your life. In particular, if the wolf is white, then it signifies valor and victory. [Andy: no, they were dark gray, all three times.] You have the ability to see the light even in your darkest hours.
Gorilla
To see a gorilla in your dream, suggests that you may be too "over the top" in your behavior. Perhaps you are compensating for your rigidity and stiffness in your waking life. Alternatively, the gorilla symbolizes your primitive impulses, wild nature and repressed sexual energy. [Andy: Well, duh.]
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
But Not Nice Manager
Sick and stuffed up as I am, I thought Vietnamese for dinner sounded like a brilliant idea. I stopped in at the place around the corner to see if I could get a take-out menu.
"No take out," the manager said to me. "This nice restaurant."
Well, all righty then.
"No take out," the manager said to me. "This nice restaurant."
Well, all righty then.
And a Partridge on the Bird Feeder
I am sick.
UGH.
I woke up early Thursday morning with a painful sore throat and a clogged head, and had to stay home from work, which meant I missed the department holiday party. (I guess maybe not such a bad thing, but still.) I went in yesterday and banged out everything that absolutely had to be done and then skedaddled at two. I have canceled all my weekend plans, including seeing this morning's live Hi-Def broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera's matinee performance of Gounod's Romeo et Juliette (instead I'm listening to it on the radio) with Anna Netrebko, Roberto Alagna, Nathan Gunn, and Placido Domingo in the pit (yes, he conducts, too). One of the smaller roles is being taken by someone I went to school with, one of those singers who had an unbelievable instrument but was a complete putz of a person. Argh. I'm also missing a parishioner's funeral and a concert I was supposed to attend with new friends. Rats.
It hasn't been all bad, though. I've been running around like an administrative assistant with his head cut off for the last many weeks, and so some enforced laziness has been something of a treat. I've been spending some time lying on the couch admiring the tree and reading, something I haven't done in forever. The cats seem happy to have me home, and so usually as soon as I get on the couch, I've got Starbuck curled up on my chest and Rocky in my lap. Of course since I'm also drinking gallons of fluids right now, they give me lots of lip when I have to get up to pee. Still, it's nice to be loved. Plus, I was wondering when I'd have time to do Christmas cards.
[OOOOF...Netrebko is off to a rough start. She just completely cracked her opening cadenza. Easy, girl. It's not Isolde.]
Earlier in the year I was regularly visited by a variety of cute little finches who came to hang out at my bird feeder. Alas, I guess they migrated and my feeder had been so long neglected that I had to throw it out; the seeds sprouted and I couldn't get the thing clean.
This morning, as I was reading The New York Times and having my coffee, I was distracted by a familiar noise: Rocky's whining and Starbuck's squawking that indicates birds are around. I went to the window to have a look: goodness me, it was a regular aviary out there. Ravens, grackles, bluejays, starlings, robins, juncos, hummingbirds and a whole gaggle of red-winged blackbirds.
Anyway, if anyone needs me, I'll be on the couch with my book.
UGH.
I woke up early Thursday morning with a painful sore throat and a clogged head, and had to stay home from work, which meant I missed the department holiday party. (I guess maybe not such a bad thing, but still.) I went in yesterday and banged out everything that absolutely had to be done and then skedaddled at two. I have canceled all my weekend plans, including seeing this morning's live Hi-Def broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera's matinee performance of Gounod's Romeo et Juliette (instead I'm listening to it on the radio) with Anna Netrebko, Roberto Alagna, Nathan Gunn, and Placido Domingo in the pit (yes, he conducts, too). One of the smaller roles is being taken by someone I went to school with, one of those singers who had an unbelievable instrument but was a complete putz of a person. Argh. I'm also missing a parishioner's funeral and a concert I was supposed to attend with new friends. Rats.
It hasn't been all bad, though. I've been running around like an administrative assistant with his head cut off for the last many weeks, and so some enforced laziness has been something of a treat. I've been spending some time lying on the couch admiring the tree and reading, something I haven't done in forever. The cats seem happy to have me home, and so usually as soon as I get on the couch, I've got Starbuck curled up on my chest and Rocky in my lap. Of course since I'm also drinking gallons of fluids right now, they give me lots of lip when I have to get up to pee. Still, it's nice to be loved. Plus, I was wondering when I'd have time to do Christmas cards.
[OOOOF...Netrebko is off to a rough start. She just completely cracked her opening cadenza. Easy, girl. It's not Isolde.]
Earlier in the year I was regularly visited by a variety of cute little finches who came to hang out at my bird feeder. Alas, I guess they migrated and my feeder had been so long neglected that I had to throw it out; the seeds sprouted and I couldn't get the thing clean.
This morning, as I was reading The New York Times and having my coffee, I was distracted by a familiar noise: Rocky's whining and Starbuck's squawking that indicates birds are around. I went to the window to have a look: goodness me, it was a regular aviary out there. Ravens, grackles, bluejays, starlings, robins, juncos, hummingbirds and a whole gaggle of red-winged blackbirds.
Anyway, if anyone needs me, I'll be on the couch with my book.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Misunderestimating Huckabee
The mainstream media seems to think it has uncovered dirt on “surprise” Republican contender Mike Huckabee, the former governor of Arkansas. This only helps to highlight how profoundly out of touch beltway conventional wisdom is with political reality in the heartland.
Slate posts Huckabee’s 1992 responses to a political questionnaire under their “Hot Document” column, with the subheadline, “A homophobic comment comes back to haunt him.”
CNN.com’s “Political Ticker” reports that “Huckabee takes fire for Mormon comment.”
USAToday rapped him last week for not keeping abreast of major U.S. foreign policy developments.
But this is not evidence that the governor’s “come from nowhere” meteoric rise in the polls is going to quickly fizzle once people know him better. Quite the contrary.
First, Huckabee didn’t come from “nowhere.” It was the media that picked the early front-runners based on name recognition: McCain, Giuliani, Romney, and, later, Thompson. But anyone really in touch with the political dynamics in this country had to know that the evangelical base the Republican Party has been working so hard to cultivate for the last decade was not going to be able to fall in lock-step behind any of these guys. The open question for them has been, “For which lesser evil shall we settle?”
When you have a group that deals primarily in non-negotiable moral absolutes, this is not an easy decision. Hence, you get Pat Robertson on the one hand endorsing thrice-married, pro-gay, pro-choice, anti-gun Rudy Giuliani, while James Dobson issues a fatwa against his candidacy. Those who feel that defeating Hillary* is objective #1 and are willing to make the necessary political calculations can’t rally support from fellow partisans who are unwilling to compromise on abortion and gay rights.
I’ve been waiting for a long time for Huckabee to get the national attention I knew was coming. He’s folksy and plainspoken without effort; this already sets him widely apart from the rest of the pack, especially high-strung, urban Giuliani and robotic, aloof Romney.
These recent “exposures” of Huckabee’s views from 17 years ago – of which he said, "I'm not going to recant or retract from the statement that I did make” – are not a collective bucket of water about to douse his sudden campaign fire. It’s lighter fluid.
While those of us in the reality-based community might react in horror at the prospect of a president who wants to isolate people with HIV and find it appallingly irresponsible that someone running for the White House didn’t even know about the NIE that completely reversed the Bush Administration’s assertions about Iran, this is music to evangelical ears. This is what they’ve been waiting to hear. It’s Huckabee’s frankness on issues where the frontrunners have been transparently calculating that is propelling him to the front of the pack.
To the Rovian base, homosexuality is a national health risk, Mormons aren’t Christians, and any foreign-policy related news that seems to contradict the End Times Countdown to Armageddon is to be ignored or openly challenged. Huckabee’s comments aren’t gaffes; they reflect the views of millions of Americans. And they’re going to vote for him.
*To defeat Hillary, you simply have to nominate her. Polls indicate she’s likely to lose against any of the Republican frontrunners; Edwards and Obama can win.
Slate posts Huckabee’s 1992 responses to a political questionnaire under their “Hot Document” column, with the subheadline, “A homophobic comment comes back to haunt him.”
CNN.com’s “Political Ticker” reports that “Huckabee takes fire for Mormon comment.”
USAToday rapped him last week for not keeping abreast of major U.S. foreign policy developments.
But this is not evidence that the governor’s “come from nowhere” meteoric rise in the polls is going to quickly fizzle once people know him better. Quite the contrary.
First, Huckabee didn’t come from “nowhere.” It was the media that picked the early front-runners based on name recognition: McCain, Giuliani, Romney, and, later, Thompson. But anyone really in touch with the political dynamics in this country had to know that the evangelical base the Republican Party has been working so hard to cultivate for the last decade was not going to be able to fall in lock-step behind any of these guys. The open question for them has been, “For which lesser evil shall we settle?”
When you have a group that deals primarily in non-negotiable moral absolutes, this is not an easy decision. Hence, you get Pat Robertson on the one hand endorsing thrice-married, pro-gay, pro-choice, anti-gun Rudy Giuliani, while James Dobson issues a fatwa against his candidacy. Those who feel that defeating Hillary* is objective #1 and are willing to make the necessary political calculations can’t rally support from fellow partisans who are unwilling to compromise on abortion and gay rights.
I’ve been waiting for a long time for Huckabee to get the national attention I knew was coming. He’s folksy and plainspoken without effort; this already sets him widely apart from the rest of the pack, especially high-strung, urban Giuliani and robotic, aloof Romney.
These recent “exposures” of Huckabee’s views from 17 years ago – of which he said, "I'm not going to recant or retract from the statement that I did make” – are not a collective bucket of water about to douse his sudden campaign fire. It’s lighter fluid.
While those of us in the reality-based community might react in horror at the prospect of a president who wants to isolate people with HIV and find it appallingly irresponsible that someone running for the White House didn’t even know about the NIE that completely reversed the Bush Administration’s assertions about Iran, this is music to evangelical ears. This is what they’ve been waiting to hear. It’s Huckabee’s frankness on issues where the frontrunners have been transparently calculating that is propelling him to the front of the pack.
To the Rovian base, homosexuality is a national health risk, Mormons aren’t Christians, and any foreign-policy related news that seems to contradict the End Times Countdown to Armageddon is to be ignored or openly challenged. Huckabee’s comments aren’t gaffes; they reflect the views of millions of Americans. And they’re going to vote for him.
*To defeat Hillary, you simply have to nominate her. Polls indicate she’s likely to lose against any of the Republican frontrunners; Edwards and Obama can win.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
A Visit from Dad
My dad came over after work tonight to drop off my Christmas presents. He's a Southern Baptist who attends a church that believes in the literal inerrancy of Scripture and I'm...well, I'm a fag, so our relationship is, shall we say, delicate? We actually get along just fine, but there are certain things We Do Not Discuss.
Even though we live just about 8 miles apart, we don't see each other very often. Tonight was only the second time he's been in my apartment and the first time he's seen it with furniture.
"Hmm, you're a better housekeeper now than when you were ten," he said.
It was pleasant enough. He rode his bike here in the 30 degree weather so I offered him a cup of hot tea and we talked about a problem I was having with a spreadsheet at work (he's an accountant), played with the cats and made other banal small talk while sitting in the living room with the tree and listening to my Christmas mix on the iPod.
He did comment on my rather well-stocked bar, but I just said I like to entertain. Which is true. No one ever comes over, but I like to entertain.
About this time the iPod shuffled to "Hard Candy Christmas."
"Is that Dolly Parton?" my dad asked, with a combination of surprise and distaste.
"Yup. I love Dolly," I said. He looked at me skeptically.
"I met her once," he said.
Okay, time out. I am not really someone who's into celebrities, but Dolly Parton is on my very short list of people I would kill to meet. I just have a sense that she is an amazing human being. She is an incredibly compelling artist, both as a musician and an actress; she just seems to radiate warmth. I am mad about Dolly Parton.
Now, my father is the kind of guy who can't remember that he's told you a story before, so I've heard every story he has to tell about a hundred times each. Except this one.
"Wait, you met Dolly Parton?"
"Yeah, she came into the restaurant in Pleasant Hill."
"And...?"
He shrugged. "Mostly I remember the gazongas."
Yes. He said, gazongas.
Even though we live just about 8 miles apart, we don't see each other very often. Tonight was only the second time he's been in my apartment and the first time he's seen it with furniture.
"Hmm, you're a better housekeeper now than when you were ten," he said.
It was pleasant enough. He rode his bike here in the 30 degree weather so I offered him a cup of hot tea and we talked about a problem I was having with a spreadsheet at work (he's an accountant), played with the cats and made other banal small talk while sitting in the living room with the tree and listening to my Christmas mix on the iPod.
He did comment on my rather well-stocked bar, but I just said I like to entertain. Which is true. No one ever comes over, but I like to entertain.
About this time the iPod shuffled to "Hard Candy Christmas."
"Is that Dolly Parton?" my dad asked, with a combination of surprise and distaste.
"Yup. I love Dolly," I said. He looked at me skeptically.
"I met her once," he said.
Okay, time out. I am not really someone who's into celebrities, but Dolly Parton is on my very short list of people I would kill to meet. I just have a sense that she is an amazing human being. She is an incredibly compelling artist, both as a musician and an actress; she just seems to radiate warmth. I am mad about Dolly Parton.
Now, my father is the kind of guy who can't remember that he's told you a story before, so I've heard every story he has to tell about a hundred times each. Except this one.
"Wait, you met Dolly Parton?"
"Yeah, she came into the restaurant in Pleasant Hill."
"And...?"
He shrugged. "Mostly I remember the gazongas."
Yes. He said, gazongas.
Monday, December 10, 2007
A "Family" Classic
I hadn't seen White Christmas since I was a kid, but it was on TV tonight and I thought it would be a perfectly schmaltzy, relaxing end to another frantic day.
Ummm...I didn't remember this scene.
Ummm...I didn't remember this scene.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Miracle on Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway
I put up the tree today. (It's awesome...pics to come.)
This meant that I officially opened the last box from my move from New York: the ornaments, which I rather stupidly sent parcel post via the US Post Office.
Not a single ornament broke.
This meant that I officially opened the last box from my move from New York: the ornaments, which I rather stupidly sent parcel post via the US Post Office.
Not a single ornament broke.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
O Holy Rant
After working late tonight, I decided I would take advantage of my overtime money and treat myself to dinner at one of Beaverton's finer establishments.
This being the holiday season, they were playing Christmas pop music. Yes, I'm something of a junior curmudgeon, but I'm okay with lighter fare in public. Some of it I even like, such as Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas (is You)." Tonight, however, I heard absolutely the most wretched attempt at "O Holy Night."
I don't know who sang it. It's probably better that way; I can be meaner.
This song isn't for everyone; most people have less business attempting it than I would 50 Cent's "Wanksta." It is a true operatic aria, even if it doesn't belong to a larger theatrical work. It's operatic in scope not just because of the vocal range and volume required, but because of its drama. The lyrics cry out for a many-hued voice in the service of an artist who can deeply connect with the words and imbue them with passion and fire. It doesn't even have to be a real opera singer in classical style (Thomas Hampson and Leontyne Price are two of my favorite versions); I think Celine Dion's is pretty inspirational. It has to be a voice that can glow, float and thunder. Fall on your knees, the text commands.
Whatever gifts this young woman may possess, they aren't vocal. Transposing the key to a comfortable crooning range robs Adam's inspired melody of the thrill of a voice in full, ardent, ecstatic cry for which it was composed. One might as well kazoo it.
Even if we allow for the unnecessary accommodation of an un-special voice, there is zero excuse for the gutless, automatonic way in which this artless tartlet rendered the text. "O night divine" should conjure images of a black, star-speckled night that suddenly explodes in the silvery brilliance of a host of angels magnificently proclaiming peace and joy in awesome, celestial harmony. We're talking about nothing less than the sudden manifestation of God in human, infant flesh. This is the night the world changed. It wasn't just that her interpretive powers weren't up to the demands; it was that she sounded detached, unaware and bored.
This is not some sweet, toothless seasonal bromide that we trot out because its pretty; it's a triumphant hymn to social justice. Have you ever noticed the final stanza?
This being the holiday season, they were playing Christmas pop music. Yes, I'm something of a junior curmudgeon, but I'm okay with lighter fare in public. Some of it I even like, such as Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas (is You)." Tonight, however, I heard absolutely the most wretched attempt at "O Holy Night."
I don't know who sang it. It's probably better that way; I can be meaner.
This song isn't for everyone; most people have less business attempting it than I would 50 Cent's "Wanksta." It is a true operatic aria, even if it doesn't belong to a larger theatrical work. It's operatic in scope not just because of the vocal range and volume required, but because of its drama. The lyrics cry out for a many-hued voice in the service of an artist who can deeply connect with the words and imbue them with passion and fire. It doesn't even have to be a real opera singer in classical style (Thomas Hampson and Leontyne Price are two of my favorite versions); I think Celine Dion's is pretty inspirational. It has to be a voice that can glow, float and thunder. Fall on your knees, the text commands.
Whatever gifts this young woman may possess, they aren't vocal. Transposing the key to a comfortable crooning range robs Adam's inspired melody of the thrill of a voice in full, ardent, ecstatic cry for which it was composed. One might as well kazoo it.
Even if we allow for the unnecessary accommodation of an un-special voice, there is zero excuse for the gutless, automatonic way in which this artless tartlet rendered the text. "O night divine" should conjure images of a black, star-speckled night that suddenly explodes in the silvery brilliance of a host of angels magnificently proclaiming peace and joy in awesome, celestial harmony. We're talking about nothing less than the sudden manifestation of God in human, infant flesh. This is the night the world changed. It wasn't just that her interpretive powers weren't up to the demands; it was that she sounded detached, unaware and bored.
This is not some sweet, toothless seasonal bromide that we trot out because its pretty; it's a triumphant hymn to social justice. Have you ever noticed the final stanza?
- Truly He taught us to love one another;
- His law is love and His gospel is peace.
- Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;
- And in His name all oppression shall cease.
-
- Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,
- His power and glory evermore proclaim.
- His power and glory evermore proclaim.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Overheard in Beaverton
Woman: "I think that's the first time I've heard someone sing about underwear in church."
Monday, December 03, 2007
Kinda Like Losing a Friend
Overnight we had a tremendous storm slam into the Northwest, with winds at the coast gusting up to 120 miles an hour. Unfortunately, one of the casualties was the largest Sitka Spruce in the US, which snapped and came down.
I visited the tree back in August, on the day my transmission died.
I visited the tree back in August, on the day my transmission died.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Sunday Photo Blogging: Advent 1
Let us then cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.
Today I am officially becoming a member of my new church. (I still won't "officially" be an Episcopalian; confirmation is scheduled for the Easter Vigil.) I've never actually been a "member" anywhere before.
I attended a church in Manhattan for about 12 years and never became a member. I think that's largely because in those dozen years, I can't recall a single moment when someone said "hello" or introduced themselves...which actually was fine, because for most of those years I wasn't interested in anything resembling obligation or commitment or community. I was comfortable being anonymous, and I found a congregation that (rather sadly) enabled that behavior.
I switched to St. Bart's on Park Avenue, mostly because suddenly what I wanted was a community and opportunities to learn and to offer my time and talents. I intended to become a member there, but this was also at the same time that my decision to leave New York was crystallizing in my heart, and so it never happened.
When I arrived in Portland, I started visiting various churches; I went to nearly every Episcopal parish on the west side. I had pretty much decided on Trinity Cathedral downtown, but then one day when I was driving back to my new apartment I noticed a little blue, white and red sign (no bigger than your standard "No Parking" sign) on a nearby road that said "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" with an arrow pointing down the street. It was so close to my new home I figured I at least had to check it out, even though I felt ready to commit to Trinity. I showed up one Sunday in early June, and haven't been anywhere else since. It is the right place for me.
* * * * *
In other news, Rocky is still using Starbuck for a pillow.
Starbuck was so curious about all the racket while I was mixing up the batter for some banana bread that I offered to let her lick the beaters.
And then Rocky had to come see what all the excitement was about. (No, they're not spoiled. Why do you ask?)
Today I am officially becoming a member of my new church. (I still won't "officially" be an Episcopalian; confirmation is scheduled for the Easter Vigil.) I've never actually been a "member" anywhere before.
I attended a church in Manhattan for about 12 years and never became a member. I think that's largely because in those dozen years, I can't recall a single moment when someone said "hello" or introduced themselves...which actually was fine, because for most of those years I wasn't interested in anything resembling obligation or commitment or community. I was comfortable being anonymous, and I found a congregation that (rather sadly) enabled that behavior.
I switched to St. Bart's on Park Avenue, mostly because suddenly what I wanted was a community and opportunities to learn and to offer my time and talents. I intended to become a member there, but this was also at the same time that my decision to leave New York was crystallizing in my heart, and so it never happened.
When I arrived in Portland, I started visiting various churches; I went to nearly every Episcopal parish on the west side. I had pretty much decided on Trinity Cathedral downtown, but then one day when I was driving back to my new apartment I noticed a little blue, white and red sign (no bigger than your standard "No Parking" sign) on a nearby road that said "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" with an arrow pointing down the street. It was so close to my new home I figured I at least had to check it out, even though I felt ready to commit to Trinity. I showed up one Sunday in early June, and haven't been anywhere else since. It is the right place for me.
* * * * *
In other news, Rocky is still using Starbuck for a pillow.
Starbuck was so curious about all the racket while I was mixing up the batter for some banana bread that I offered to let her lick the beaters.
And then Rocky had to come see what all the excitement was about. (No, they're not spoiled. Why do you ask?)
Saturday, December 01, 2007
The 90 Days of Christmas
Ho, ho, hold on.
Last year a priest gently admonished me for having my Christmas tree up during Advent. “It’s a season of waiting and anticipation,” he explained, encouraging me to observe Anglican custom and decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. (Maybe that’s why the cats pulled it down: they’re traditionalists.)
I like Christmas. A lot. But this year, it has been made abundantly clear to me that there can definitely be too much of a good thing.
When I was 19, I took a semester off from college to earn money for my imminent transfer to New York, and spent the holiday season working at the Williams-Sonoma at Pioneer Place in downtown Portland. I recall that I had to work late on Thanksgiving in order to decorate the store in holiday fashion for Black Friday. That’s right, not a garland or bow or bauble or twinkly light or treacly carol until The Day After Thanksgiving, when suddenly the mall burst into yuletide splendor.
This year, the retail holiday season seems to have started around October 1. That’s about the time I noticed that my local Fred Meyer store had cleared out the patio furniture and replaced the tables and lounges with pre-lit trees, ornaments, and inflatable Santas. Seriously, October.
I recognize that this is largely due to the retail world’s anxiety about the economy. As I now work for a giant apparel company and my bonus next year depends on our sales figures, I’m not unsympathetic. It’s even worked to my advantage because I bought my new tree (7.5 feet! Yes, I am a Christmas Size Queen, which can be sung nicely to the tune of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”) at a great price at the pre-season sale.
Still, it seems to me that the magic of the season is muted, and I suspect that’s largely because I’ve been seeing holiday displays in the stores for two months now. I thought stores changed from “Merry Christmas” to “Seasons’ Greetings” as an act of sensitivity, but now it’s appropriate because Christmas literally lasts for three months.
I am reminded of the exchange between Ebenezer Scrooge and his nephew: “You keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine.” “Keep it? But you don’t keep it!”
Exactly.
Last year a priest gently admonished me for having my Christmas tree up during Advent. “It’s a season of waiting and anticipation,” he explained, encouraging me to observe Anglican custom and decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. (Maybe that’s why the cats pulled it down: they’re traditionalists.)
I like Christmas. A lot. But this year, it has been made abundantly clear to me that there can definitely be too much of a good thing.
When I was 19, I took a semester off from college to earn money for my imminent transfer to New York, and spent the holiday season working at the Williams-Sonoma at Pioneer Place in downtown Portland. I recall that I had to work late on Thanksgiving in order to decorate the store in holiday fashion for Black Friday. That’s right, not a garland or bow or bauble or twinkly light or treacly carol until The Day After Thanksgiving, when suddenly the mall burst into yuletide splendor.
This year, the retail holiday season seems to have started around October 1. That’s about the time I noticed that my local Fred Meyer store had cleared out the patio furniture and replaced the tables and lounges with pre-lit trees, ornaments, and inflatable Santas. Seriously, October.
I recognize that this is largely due to the retail world’s anxiety about the economy. As I now work for a giant apparel company and my bonus next year depends on our sales figures, I’m not unsympathetic. It’s even worked to my advantage because I bought my new tree (7.5 feet! Yes, I am a Christmas Size Queen, which can be sung nicely to the tune of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”) at a great price at the pre-season sale.
Still, it seems to me that the magic of the season is muted, and I suspect that’s largely because I’ve been seeing holiday displays in the stores for two months now. I thought stores changed from “Merry Christmas” to “Seasons’ Greetings” as an act of sensitivity, but now it’s appropriate because Christmas literally lasts for three months.
I am reminded of the exchange between Ebenezer Scrooge and his nephew: “You keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine.” “Keep it? But you don’t keep it!”
Exactly.
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