Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Practical Uses for Pornography
Over the weekend I was in the town of Monmouth, Oregon to lead another LGBT faith outreach workshop centered around the documentary For the Bible Tells Me So. Just to put this in context, the giant billboard alongside Highway 99W just north of town proclaims in bold red letters, "POLK COUNTY IS PALIN COUNTRY." (In 2004, Polk went for Bush by 12 points.)
After the screening, we broke up into small groups for discussion. I talked about the challenges of trying to conceal my sexuality as a teenager from a born-again father. "That must have been very difficult for you," said a concerned, sympathetic older woman. Then I recalled one of my more brilliant strategies.
"Yeah. I used to hide pictures of naked women in my bedroom for my dad to find, to throw him off the trail."
After the screening, we broke up into small groups for discussion. I talked about the challenges of trying to conceal my sexuality as a teenager from a born-again father. "That must have been very difficult for you," said a concerned, sympathetic older woman. Then I recalled one of my more brilliant strategies.
"Yeah. I used to hide pictures of naked women in my bedroom for my dad to find, to throw him off the trail."
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Opera Review: Elektra in Seattle
There was much to admire on the opening night of Seattle Opera's Elektra by Richard Strauss, but nonetheless I have to admit I came away a bit disappointed.
Taking on the title role, soprano Janice Baird -- who became famous earlier this year when she made her Met debut jumping into the middle of an in-progress Tristan und Isolde -- sang the smartest, most secure Elektra I've ever heard. Though it took her a few minutes for the voice to gain full power and lustre, she sang radiantly through her nearly two hours on stage, and finished sounding like she was ready to do it again. Everything was wonderfully aligned, her rich tone shimmered up and down the scale, and her high notes were perfectly in tune and vibrant, whether she was singing full out or sweetly and delicately in the second half of the recognition scene. Unlike many Elektras -- who shriek, wail, scoop, caterwaul and sometimes actually scream to get through the killer role -- Baird was completely in control...which was part of the problem. You see, Elektra is not in control. Elektra is nuts.
Now, I'm not saying a wonderful artist with a long, promising career ahead of her should sabotage her vocal future by adopting all the vulgarities of her colleagues, but Baird just didn't convey much of Elektra's shattered personality. Her vocal restraint was mirrored by her physical performance. This is a woman so obsessed with revenge that it's literally what keeps her alive: at the end of the opera, she simply drops dead from relief. Baird didn't begin to approach the necessary level of fixation and desperation. But damn, she can sing.
As her sister Chrysothemis, German soprano Irmgard Vilsmaier was much more succesful in protraying the fragile, jumpy, shell-shocked survivor of an abusive househould. She looked like she'd shriek if you said "boo." Which is a safe bet, because she did shriek. A lot.
At first she displayed a rich, warm voice, but soon ran out of steam in the high-flying aria "Ich kann nicht sitzen," stumbling badly on the climactic high B-flat. She did the same thing on the high B in the final duet, finding herself unable to sustain the tone for the full duration the score requires, almost causing an orchestral fender-bender in the process. Maybe she was ill or just having an especially bad night? If not...I think she needs to visit mezzo-land, where she might thrive at lower altitudes.
Veteran mezzo Rosalind Plowright as Queen Klytaemnestra was a horror. (In a good way. ) Finally we got some old-fashioned scenery-chewing and a healthy balance of good singing and cheesy vocal histrionics. (Her "und schlachte, schlachte, schlachte Opfer um Opfer" was a particular highlight.)
Alfred Walker sang a beautiful, if not particularly passionate, Orest. Gorgeous voice, but we could have used a little more personality and warmth after he revealed his identity to his long-lost sister. I'm not clear why Richard Margison -- a sturdy and reliable if not especially compelling tenor who has sung all the leading roles in all the great houses of the world -- took on the brief and ungrateful role of Aegisthus, usually reserved for tenors who are on their way out. He sounded fine to me...when you could hear him. I don't know where he was during the murder scene, but he was utterly inaudible. "Help, murder! Doesn't anyone hear me?" read the supertitles.
No, actually, we didn't. I'm sure it wasn't Margison's fault, because we couldn't hear the chorus, either, in the glorious finale. I was in the chorus as an apprentice at Santa Fe, so I know what to listen for, and it just wasn't there. They should fix that.
Among the smaller roles, mezzo Melissa Parks as the Third Servant was a standout, with a powerful, voluptuous tone.
The production, by Chris Alexander, was only so-so. Wolfram Skalicki's set gave no hint of classical Greece and instead looked like it was borrowed from one of those corny episodes of Stargate Atlantis on SciFi, where they visit yet another new planet where everyone seems to be living in medieval England and the climate looks just like British Columbia. Alexander missed that Elektra is a very, very lonely opera. Aside from the opening bit with the five maids and the overseer and Klytaemnestra's entrace, there are never more than two singers on stage at a time. This production was too busy; instead of staging a goofy battle between Orestes' men (where did they come from?) and the palace guards (who looked like they wandered in from Monty Python's Holy Grail), complete with clanking swords and unconvincing grunts from the actors distracting from the gorgeous music, if they felt they needed more people on stage, they should have just trotted out the chorus, so we could hear them.
Under Lawrence Renes the Seattle Opera Orchestra played magnificently. McCaw Hall is my new favorite opera house, not least because of the wonderful acoustics. I'll be back in the early spring for their Erwartung/Bluebeard's Castle double bill.
Taking on the title role, soprano Janice Baird -- who became famous earlier this year when she made her Met debut jumping into the middle of an in-progress Tristan und Isolde -- sang the smartest, most secure Elektra I've ever heard. Though it took her a few minutes for the voice to gain full power and lustre, she sang radiantly through her nearly two hours on stage, and finished sounding like she was ready to do it again. Everything was wonderfully aligned, her rich tone shimmered up and down the scale, and her high notes were perfectly in tune and vibrant, whether she was singing full out or sweetly and delicately in the second half of the recognition scene. Unlike many Elektras -- who shriek, wail, scoop, caterwaul and sometimes actually scream to get through the killer role -- Baird was completely in control...which was part of the problem. You see, Elektra is not in control. Elektra is nuts.
Now, I'm not saying a wonderful artist with a long, promising career ahead of her should sabotage her vocal future by adopting all the vulgarities of her colleagues, but Baird just didn't convey much of Elektra's shattered personality. Her vocal restraint was mirrored by her physical performance. This is a woman so obsessed with revenge that it's literally what keeps her alive: at the end of the opera, she simply drops dead from relief. Baird didn't begin to approach the necessary level of fixation and desperation. But damn, she can sing.
As her sister Chrysothemis, German soprano Irmgard Vilsmaier was much more succesful in protraying the fragile, jumpy, shell-shocked survivor of an abusive househould. She looked like she'd shriek if you said "boo." Which is a safe bet, because she did shriek. A lot.
At first she displayed a rich, warm voice, but soon ran out of steam in the high-flying aria "Ich kann nicht sitzen," stumbling badly on the climactic high B-flat. She did the same thing on the high B in the final duet, finding herself unable to sustain the tone for the full duration the score requires, almost causing an orchestral fender-bender in the process. Maybe she was ill or just having an especially bad night? If not...I think she needs to visit mezzo-land, where she might thrive at lower altitudes.
Veteran mezzo Rosalind Plowright as Queen Klytaemnestra was a horror. (In a good way. ) Finally we got some old-fashioned scenery-chewing and a healthy balance of good singing and cheesy vocal histrionics. (Her "und schlachte, schlachte, schlachte Opfer um Opfer" was a particular highlight.)
Alfred Walker sang a beautiful, if not particularly passionate, Orest. Gorgeous voice, but we could have used a little more personality and warmth after he revealed his identity to his long-lost sister. I'm not clear why Richard Margison -- a sturdy and reliable if not especially compelling tenor who has sung all the leading roles in all the great houses of the world -- took on the brief and ungrateful role of Aegisthus, usually reserved for tenors who are on their way out. He sounded fine to me...when you could hear him. I don't know where he was during the murder scene, but he was utterly inaudible. "Help, murder! Doesn't anyone hear me?" read the supertitles.
No, actually, we didn't. I'm sure it wasn't Margison's fault, because we couldn't hear the chorus, either, in the glorious finale. I was in the chorus as an apprentice at Santa Fe, so I know what to listen for, and it just wasn't there. They should fix that.
Among the smaller roles, mezzo Melissa Parks as the Third Servant was a standout, with a powerful, voluptuous tone.
The production, by Chris Alexander, was only so-so. Wolfram Skalicki's set gave no hint of classical Greece and instead looked like it was borrowed from one of those corny episodes of Stargate Atlantis on SciFi, where they visit yet another new planet where everyone seems to be living in medieval England and the climate looks just like British Columbia. Alexander missed that Elektra is a very, very lonely opera. Aside from the opening bit with the five maids and the overseer and Klytaemnestra's entrace, there are never more than two singers on stage at a time. This production was too busy; instead of staging a goofy battle between Orestes' men (where did they come from?) and the palace guards (who looked like they wandered in from Monty Python's Holy Grail), complete with clanking swords and unconvincing grunts from the actors distracting from the gorgeous music, if they felt they needed more people on stage, they should have just trotted out the chorus, so we could hear them.
Under Lawrence Renes the Seattle Opera Orchestra played magnificently. McCaw Hall is my new favorite opera house, not least because of the wonderful acoustics. I'll be back in the early spring for their Erwartung/Bluebeard's Castle double bill.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Andy for GOP Secretary of State
If John McCain wins in November, I think based on my extensive foreign policy experience that he should definitely consider me for Secretary of State.
First off, I was born in the State of Washington, which is on the border with Canada, and I have even visited Victoria. I grew up in Oregon, which is right across the water from Korea, which means that I am familiar with the threat posed by Kim Jong Il. After a year in Los Angeles (which is close to Mexico), I spent nearly fourteen years in Manhattan, which, as everyone knows, is the home of the United Nations.
In high school I traveled as an exchange student to Japan, which is close to China. I also visited Hawaii, which has only been a state since 1959 and so barely counts as the U.S., which is why Barack Obama is only kinda-sorta an American. From 2000-2001 I lived for 10.5 months in Zurich, Switzerland, which is a real diplomaticky sort of place, and I spent a major percentage of my time there as an ambassador for our nation, explaining to the citizens of "Old Europe" why it was that the candidate who received fewer popular votes was actually the rightful winner of the election and assuring them that, despite what they had heard about George W. Bush, everything would be fine. "What's he going to do," I asked them. "Start a war?"
During this time I also sang for the Mayor of Zurich and the President of Switzerland. I have met hundreds, if not thousands, of queens.
In addition to Switzerland, Canada, Japan and the Kingdom of Hawaii, I have also traveled to Mexico, the United Kingdom, Germany, France and Italy. While in London, I saw Buckingham Palace. I speak fluent English, conversational German, passable Italian and can read French. Perhaps more importantly for present times, I have sung in Russian, Spanish and Hebrew. I also took three years of Japanese in high school, and once slept with the son of a Brazilian diplomat. (Okay, twice.) Oh! and a friend of mine is married to woman from Zimbabwe.
I have never been to Washington, D.C., but this just means that I would confirm McCain's outside-the-beltway-box thinking and his maverickyness.
Though I admit I have never served on the PTA, my stepfather was a teacher. I was elected to the Vestry in January of 2008, which means I have held elected office longer than Barack Obama has been the Democratic nominee.
Given the depth and range of my foreign policy experiences, I believe I would make an outstanding Republican Secretary of State. Oh, and as for the vetting process, I assure you that Rocky and Starbuck are up to date on licenses and vaccinations. Thank you.
*******
PS, on an unrelated note, prayers for the people of New Orleans.
First off, I was born in the State of Washington, which is on the border with Canada, and I have even visited Victoria. I grew up in Oregon, which is right across the water from Korea, which means that I am familiar with the threat posed by Kim Jong Il. After a year in Los Angeles (which is close to Mexico), I spent nearly fourteen years in Manhattan, which, as everyone knows, is the home of the United Nations.
In high school I traveled as an exchange student to Japan, which is close to China. I also visited Hawaii, which has only been a state since 1959 and so barely counts as the U.S., which is why Barack Obama is only kinda-sorta an American. From 2000-2001 I lived for 10.5 months in Zurich, Switzerland, which is a real diplomaticky sort of place, and I spent a major percentage of my time there as an ambassador for our nation, explaining to the citizens of "Old Europe" why it was that the candidate who received fewer popular votes was actually the rightful winner of the election and assuring them that, despite what they had heard about George W. Bush, everything would be fine. "What's he going to do," I asked them. "Start a war?"
During this time I also sang for the Mayor of Zurich and the President of Switzerland. I have met hundreds, if not thousands, of queens.
In addition to Switzerland, Canada, Japan and the Kingdom of Hawaii, I have also traveled to Mexico, the United Kingdom, Germany, France and Italy. While in London, I saw Buckingham Palace. I speak fluent English, conversational German, passable Italian and can read French. Perhaps more importantly for present times, I have sung in Russian, Spanish and Hebrew. I also took three years of Japanese in high school, and once slept with the son of a Brazilian diplomat. (Okay, twice.) Oh! and a friend of mine is married to woman from Zimbabwe.
I have never been to Washington, D.C., but this just means that I would confirm McCain's outside-the-beltway-box thinking and his maverickyness.
Though I admit I have never served on the PTA, my stepfather was a teacher. I was elected to the Vestry in January of 2008, which means I have held elected office longer than Barack Obama has been the Democratic nominee.
Given the depth and range of my foreign policy experiences, I believe I would make an outstanding Republican Secretary of State. Oh, and as for the vetting process, I assure you that Rocky and Starbuck are up to date on licenses and vaccinations. Thank you.
*******
PS, on an unrelated note, prayers for the people of New Orleans.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Well, That Answers That
I've mentioned before that my father and I shy away from any kind of substantive discussions, especially about religion. (Brief summary for the uninitiated: he's a born-again Baptist and I'm a gay Episcopalian.)
Years ago he filled my head with all kinds of nonsense about Revelation and Biblical "prophecy" and "the Rapture" and whatnot, and only recently did I find the courage to look again at the marvelous last book of the New Testament and begin to explore what's really there. Some of my father's views have moderated a bit over time (he has stopped inquiring about my dress size and plans on voting for Obama this fall -- mostly because he has come to see that Iraq was a boondoggle of criminal dimension), but I've often wondered if he still held the same views about "the Antichrist" and all that.
Presently, he is on a solo bike tour of Oregon; he called me from a campground about 30 miles from Chemult (where?) to check in and let me know he's all right.
"Did we invade Russia, yet?" he asked.
"No, no, we're still talking that over," I said. Then, perhaps rather stupidly, I said, "Besides, everyone knows that Iran is next."
"I was kind of hoping Israel would take out Iran," said my father.
"Hmm...I'm not sure that's something we should really be hoping for."
"Well, it would mean that Christ's return is imminent, that's for sure."
Sigh.
Years ago he filled my head with all kinds of nonsense about Revelation and Biblical "prophecy" and "the Rapture" and whatnot, and only recently did I find the courage to look again at the marvelous last book of the New Testament and begin to explore what's really there. Some of my father's views have moderated a bit over time (he has stopped inquiring about my dress size and plans on voting for Obama this fall -- mostly because he has come to see that Iraq was a boondoggle of criminal dimension), but I've often wondered if he still held the same views about "the Antichrist" and all that.
Presently, he is on a solo bike tour of Oregon; he called me from a campground about 30 miles from Chemult (where?) to check in and let me know he's all right.
"Did we invade Russia, yet?" he asked.
"No, no, we're still talking that over," I said. Then, perhaps rather stupidly, I said, "Besides, everyone knows that Iran is next."
"I was kind of hoping Israel would take out Iran," said my father.
"Hmm...I'm not sure that's something we should really be hoping for."
"Well, it would mean that Christ's return is imminent, that's for sure."
Sigh.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
No, Wait; Second Worst Vacation Ever
It occurred to me that the worst vacation I ever took was a trip to Victoria, B.C., with my father when I was 16, in a risky attempt to repair our relationship after I came out. He asked me, "So...am I supposed to start buying you dresses for your birthday?"
I didn't speak to him for about a year and a half after that.
I didn't speak to him for about a year and a half after that.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Worst. Vacation. Ever.
So it turned out that the only thing I took with me on my fabulous August beach trip that proved to be even less useful than the condoms (hey...you never know!) was sunscreen.
It's been a busy, stressful summer and I haven't taken any time off, so I've been dying for a little "me" time to go hide somewhere and decompress. After church on Sunday, I drove out to Waldport, eager for some long walks on the beach and quiet time in prayer and meditation.
Okay, well...first, it immediately became apparent why the Howard Johnson had vacancies in mid-August. As Elizabeth Taylor said in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, "What a dump." Don't get me wrong: I wasn't expecting the Four Seasons, but wow, that place is long overdue for some fresh paint and some general maintenance. It might not kill them to pick up the trash in the grassy area between the hotel and the bay or clean the leaves out of the pool, either...not that it was warm or dry enough to go in the pool. Ahem.
I mean, sure, the room was clean. And by clean, I mean, it had this overpoweringly chemical "clean" smell that gave me a headache and made me sick to my stomach. Fortunately I had a sliding door with a screen...that opened up onto the "pet area." Watch where you step.
About 5 minutes after I arrived, fog as thick as pea soup rolled in and you couldn't even see across the street. I had planned on driving down to a decent restaurant in Yachats (there's not much in Waldport), but I looked at the fog and figured maybe I should stay local. I thought I would investigate the "Ahi Grill" on site at the hotel.
You can't really see what the restaurant looks like from the lobby; you have to go down a hall and around a corner and bang you're suddenly in the dining room, which is about the most depressing little excuse for a "restaurant" I've ever seen. But the waitress pounced and said, "One for dinner?" and I just didn't have the heart to say, "Oh, dear God, no," so instead I said, "Yes, please," with a sinking feeling in my gut. Ahi might be Hawaiian for tuna, but it's also Italian for "ouch."
The menu was depressingly limited; I had settled on the fettuccine alfredo with chicken, but just then the same dish was brought to the woman sitting at the table next to me, and it was far more food than I could possibly eat (and didn't look that great) so when the waitress came I asked for a burger and fries. ($6.95)
So, look, I just wanted to have a quiet dinner alone staring at the bay. Some people might find that depressing, I guess, but I think it's relaxing. Unfortunately, the tourists on either side of me had other ideas; they were the types that like to chat up strangers.
First they remarked on the weather, a reasonable enough starting point, and complained that it was 60, dark and rainy in the middle of August. (Hey, welcome to Oregon; you take your chances.) This prompted one man to say, "Yeah, global warming my foot, what a joke." To which the other table rejoined, "That's right, up in Spokane we had the coldest winter anyone can remember this year." And thus I found myself surrounded by global warming deniers. "It's just a plot so some people can make money." "Yeah, Al Gore -- he has a huge house and I heard he drives three humvees!"
Let's see...the Spokaners complained about how Governor Chris Gregoire "stole" the election from Dino Rossi, then they all commiserated about high taxes and moaned that Barack Obama wants to give us "Canadian" healthcare, "even though everyone knows Canada has the worst healthcare in the world." Naturally then we had to gravitate to Iraq, and it was generally agreed upon that "the Iraqi people are tremendously grateful we are there" and that "the liberal media" simply refuses to report the good news. The oldest man in the group then remarked, "Iran is next, mark my words. Just read Revelation, it's all there."
By this time my blood was positively boiling and the Revelation remark was the last straw. You read Revelation, you butthead. I held my tongue, though (see James 1:19-20) and instead said, "Can I get the check?" I didn't have anything to drink with my dinner because I'd brought along a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir that was waiting for me back in the room; and it's a good thing, too, or I might just have told them off. Instead I wished them all a peaceful visit to Oregon.
About that wine: as I was shopping for the trip, I came across a new label, Anam Cara Cellars, and with my recent introduction to Celtic Christianity, I took that as a sign. Well...it's awful. Tart, no body, with strong hints of pickle. Gross.
It was only 7:00 and I was still mad, so I decided I'd go for a walk on the beach, even though it was windy and foggy. Alas, there is only one public access route to the beach from the hotel, and I hadn't gone very far past it when I realized it was already lost in the fog and growing darker. A storm was coming, so I turned around and went back to the room, cold, wet, sand-encrusted and depressed.
I decided to take the old fart's advice and read Revelation. All of it, so that I could feel justified about my self-righteous indignation. And it made me madder still, because it's actually quite wonderful and there's really nothing in there about Iran; it's about Rome. Anyone with seven heads and ten horns can see that.
A thunderstorm rolled in and, there being nothing else for it, I turned out the lights, reclined on the bed and watched. This was nice for about two hours, but then I felt really tired and wanted to actually sleep. I would drift off for about 10 minutes and then awake again to another window-rattling blast of thunder. The storm finally passed about 3:00.
I awoke about six and lay in bed debating with myself about whether I should try to get more sleep or get up and take advantage of the day; at 6:45 I rose and went for a walk on the beach, which was definitely the highlight of the entire trip. Got some great pictures -- see below -- until flashes of lightning appeared over the ocean and I decided I'd better high-tail it off the beach and get some breakfast.
After morning prayer I hopped in the car and drove down to Yachats to get coffee at the Green Salmon, which has amazing coffee and pastries and boy, if you dared insult Al Gore at the Green Salmon, you'd probably be thrown out. My kind of place.They are closed on Mondays.
After sitting in the car in the parking lot in the rain for about three minutes chanting, "No! Fuck. No! Fuck. Fu-u-uck!!!!" I figured I might as well drive down to the Fred Meyer just north of Florence and go to the Starbucks there.
Ummm...I misjudged the distance. It's like 25 miles.
And the Florence Fred Meyer does not have a Starbucks.
They do have an imitation Starbucks. There were two customers in line ahead of me, which meant I stood there for 12 minutes until I got to order. (Yes, I counted.) I asked for a large coffee and a low-fat marionberry muffin. "Okay, sir, just so you know, the muffins just got delivered so it might still be a little bit cold, is that all right?" "Sure," I said.
Cold? Fucker was frozen. I'm serious. It was cold, wet and mushy on the outside and muffin-ice at the core. Also the coffee was weak and tasted like cigarettes. Within an hour I had a "you have not had coffee yet" headache.
It was raining.
At this point I decided it was time to give up and go home.
You know, the Oregon Coast is wonderful, even in inclement weather. All it takes is a good bottle of wine, a comfy chair and a marvelous view. Well...three strikes. I was outta there. I drove back to the hotel, told them I had changed my plans and asked for a refund for the second night.
The good news is, I got 37.25 mpg in the new car.
* * * * *
The day looked like it maybe had some promise; sunrise over Alsea Bay.
Alone on the beach; perfect.
The tide was definitely out; have you ever seen a beach so broad?
Kind of hard to tell, but these are pelicans.
A great blue heron.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
As Paris Hilton Would Say, "Hot."
Okay...so, today is the third triple-digit day in a row for Portland, which is highly unusual. We usually see 100 degrees somewhere in August, but this is a little intense. Fortunately it's slated to drop to the upper 80s tomorrow and the low '70s on Monday.
Still, in the meantime, there's no question about the most popular spot in the apartment.
I have not (yet) taken a single vacation day this entire summer (too much to do!), but Thursday morning between fits of feeling like I wanted to cry I decided maybe I should ask for Monday off. I found a cheap hotel room for tomorrow and Monday night out at the coast, so I'm just going to drive out after church, spend the night, and then take all day Monday to do, oh, nothing.A while back I promised you a live-blogging roadtrip event for Hermiston, Oregon's first-ever Gay Pride. Umm...I didn't really get around to that. Co-traveler SMB live-blogged (as best he could, given spotty wireless access) on the JustOut webpage -- read here for details. (No, I did not go with him to the strip club. Honest.)
Here's where we stayed. "Tillicum" is a ubiquitous local Native American word, but I have no idea what it means. I confess that, churchgoer that I am, I picked the motel for its dirty, punny connotation. (And the $50/night rate...which, I have to say, was possibly a little inflated, given the amenities.)
Actually, we had a great time. For dinner Friday night, we ate at the first-ever Shari's Restaurant, which was founded in Hermiston, and had truly excellent table service. Breakfast the next morning was at a new restaurant in Umatilla (home of a chemical weapons dump), and while the waffle was excellent, the water was not; and I think the waitress was not entirely sure what to make of two men not in cowboy hats who whiled away the time until the food came by browsing the restaurant's antiques for sale.
Afterward I followed SMB around for some [wo]man-on-the-street interviews, and ended up buying some homemade lavender soap from a friendly, gray-haired lady who said, "It's okay with me if people choose to be gay [!!!], but I don't think Hermiston is ready for any 'New-York-style' protests." I don't think she has anything at all to worry about. As we walked away, SMB remarked that he wasn't sure she even comprehended that we ourselves were queers, despite the fact that I'd talked to her about living in New York and yoga and...well, I bought a lavender soap from her.
"Hermiston Pride" never really got off the ground. First, I guess "Pride" was judged to be a tad ambitious, so it was retitled "Equality Day." The "event" was co-hosted by Western Farm Workers and the Society of Friends, who were there to protest the Iraq war (and had an amazingly powerful Tibetan prayer-flag display).
Hermiston was represented by the local organizer, his mother, and one 18 year old girl who came up to me and said, "So...are you...G, L, T, B...?" I smiled and said, "Oh, I'm G, very, very G." She smiled back and said, "I'm B...which stands for 'bitch.'" I liked her immediately and immensely. Aside from that, the entire turnout consisted of two guys from local organizations in Portland (one of whom was beautiful but clad in a most unfortunate hawaiian-print shirt), a lesbian MCC minister from the Tri-Cities (Pasco/Richland/Kennewick), SMB from JustOut, and a reporter from Spokane's local gay paper. I don't think a single random person from the greater Hermiston metropolitan area even came by. I snapped this picture of a rainbow flag in the park where 'pride' was held because it seemed to me to perfectly encapsulate the flaccid nature of the entire day.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Is that a $600 Check in Your Mailbox or are You Just Happy to See Me?
I am officially stimulated.
Most of you are probably thinking, "You just got your check TODAY?" Well, yes. The IRS distributed the checks according to the last two digits of the taxpayer's social security number. My last digits are 98. Could have been worse, I suppose.
My dear friend "Anonymous" was looking in vain (though, not very hard) for some instance where I disagreed with Barack Obama; this is one. In fact, back in January I said the only politician on the right side of the government's "economic stimulus" bill was...Mike Huckabee. I am still upset that we're going to borrow billions of dollars from China (ummm...that we have to pay back, with interest) to send people a paltry $600.
Granted, right at this moment I'm pretty relieved to have $600 more in my checking account, but it irks me that this isn't actually a tax refund, it's essentially a cash advance on a credit card that George Bush and the Congress took out in my name.
* * * * * *
Following up on Bp. Robinson's visit to the UK during the Lambeth Conference from which he is being excluded on account of some other bishops' discomfort with homosexuality, the Vicar of St. Mary's, Putney -- where Robinson preached this past Sunday -- wrote one of his predictably acidic and hilarious columns for The Guardian about the event.
Money quote: "How on earth does Gene Robinson cope with the disgusting abuse to which he is subjected most days – the protester who interrupted his sermon in my church on Sunday being a pretty mild example? Day after day, buckets of spiritual shit are thrown at him, sometimes by fellow bishops, and he just keeps going."
Wow, I am loving the phrase I emboldened there (to use a favorite word of the President's). It's vulgar, sure, but so, so, so accurate. Absolutely the right metaphor for the situation.
* * * * * * *
It's To Wong Foo meets Priscilla meets The Last Debate: fellow blogger and JustOut columnist SMB and I are teaming up to cover Hermiston, Oregon's first ever Gay Pride event. Okay, well, no SMB will cover it, I'm just driving and along for the thrill of it. It's the weekend of August 1-2; stay tuned for another exciting Road Trip Live Blogging Event (this time without cats, I'm afraid.)
Most of you are probably thinking, "You just got your check TODAY?" Well, yes. The IRS distributed the checks according to the last two digits of the taxpayer's social security number. My last digits are 98. Could have been worse, I suppose.
My dear friend "Anonymous" was looking in vain (though, not very hard) for some instance where I disagreed with Barack Obama; this is one. In fact, back in January I said the only politician on the right side of the government's "economic stimulus" bill was...Mike Huckabee. I am still upset that we're going to borrow billions of dollars from China (ummm...that we have to pay back, with interest) to send people a paltry $600.
Granted, right at this moment I'm pretty relieved to have $600 more in my checking account, but it irks me that this isn't actually a tax refund, it's essentially a cash advance on a credit card that George Bush and the Congress took out in my name.
* * * * * *
Following up on Bp. Robinson's visit to the UK during the Lambeth Conference from which he is being excluded on account of some other bishops' discomfort with homosexuality, the Vicar of St. Mary's, Putney -- where Robinson preached this past Sunday -- wrote one of his predictably acidic and hilarious columns for The Guardian about the event.
Money quote: "How on earth does Gene Robinson cope with the disgusting abuse to which he is subjected most days – the protester who interrupted his sermon in my church on Sunday being a pretty mild example? Day after day, buckets of spiritual shit are thrown at him, sometimes by fellow bishops, and he just keeps going."
Wow, I am loving the phrase I emboldened there (to use a favorite word of the President's). It's vulgar, sure, but so, so, so accurate. Absolutely the right metaphor for the situation.
* * * * * * *
It's To Wong Foo meets Priscilla meets The Last Debate: fellow blogger and JustOut columnist SMB and I are teaming up to cover Hermiston, Oregon's first ever Gay Pride event. Okay, well, no SMB will cover it, I'm just driving and along for the thrill of it. It's the weekend of August 1-2; stay tuned for another exciting Road Trip Live Blogging Event (this time without cats, I'm afraid.)
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Palm Springs
Before I say anything else, a HUGE thank you to my friends Kevin and John, who invited me out to their weekend retreat in Palm Springs and were such amazingly generous hosts that I spent far less money on my vacation than I would have had I just stayed at home in New York.
Really, the trip couldn’t have been better. By nature I am an early riser, so with jet lag working in my favor, I arose about 6 each morning, still feeling like I had slept in. Each day began with a little yoga by the pool in the backyard under the palm trees, and then I would walk about 20 minutes (a mind-boggling distance, by southern California standards) to the nearby Albertson’s to get coffee.
Architecture and décor in Palm Springs is something the mo’s refer to as “Mid Century Modern,” a style whose most influential interior designer seems to have been Judy Jetson. I think my desert tastes are more in line with Santa Fe, where architecture tries to be in harmony with the natural surroundings while drawing heavily on native influences. Palm Springs doesn’t harmonize with the desert, it waters itself into atonal tropical lushness.
Every afternoon was spent reclining by the pool, sipping cocktails, and going for a quick swim when the 100º + heat became too intense. I really, really, really enjoyed being that lazy. During the entire trip, I never once checked email or read a newspaper or paid any attention to the world at large. The days would conclude with hot-tubbing under the stars, champagne or cocktail in hand, until my brain was gently boiled into mush and I slipped quickly into deep, relaxed sleep.
Highlights of the trip included visiting The Living Desert, a very chi-chi brunch at Spencer’s, and drinks at Toucan’s, the only bar in the country that accepts Medicare. Really, the best part was just soaking up the sun while getting better acquainted with my iPod.
Monday we drove back to K&J’s place in West Hollywood, and then had a couple of drinks at The Abbey and Fiesta’s, where I met up with my old pal Audrey, whom I’ve known since sixth grade. Audrey then took me off to a barbecue in Sherman Oaks, where I impressed the Angelenos by saying I live on Manhattan’s chic Upper North Side.
*****
Even though I still think Southern California is a bit weird, I just feel so much more at home out west than I do in New York, despite living here almost 13 years. Neither area has the perky efficiency of customer service in the Northwest, but in LA it’s due to a relaxed, easy-going attitude, instead of hostile apathy generously mixed with incompetence. New York, in typical fashion, welcomed me back by losing my luggage.
Really, the trip couldn’t have been better. By nature I am an early riser, so with jet lag working in my favor, I arose about 6 each morning, still feeling like I had slept in. Each day began with a little yoga by the pool in the backyard under the palm trees, and then I would walk about 20 minutes (a mind-boggling distance, by southern California standards) to the nearby Albertson’s to get coffee.
Architecture and décor in Palm Springs is something the mo’s refer to as “Mid Century Modern,” a style whose most influential interior designer seems to have been Judy Jetson. I think my desert tastes are more in line with Santa Fe, where architecture tries to be in harmony with the natural surroundings while drawing heavily on native influences. Palm Springs doesn’t harmonize with the desert, it waters itself into atonal tropical lushness.
Every afternoon was spent reclining by the pool, sipping cocktails, and going for a quick swim when the 100º + heat became too intense. I really, really, really enjoyed being that lazy. During the entire trip, I never once checked email or read a newspaper or paid any attention to the world at large. The days would conclude with hot-tubbing under the stars, champagne or cocktail in hand, until my brain was gently boiled into mush and I slipped quickly into deep, relaxed sleep.
Highlights of the trip included visiting The Living Desert, a very chi-chi brunch at Spencer’s, and drinks at Toucan’s, the only bar in the country that accepts Medicare. Really, the best part was just soaking up the sun while getting better acquainted with my iPod.
Monday we drove back to K&J’s place in West Hollywood, and then had a couple of drinks at The Abbey and Fiesta’s, where I met up with my old pal Audrey, whom I’ve known since sixth grade. Audrey then took me off to a barbecue in Sherman Oaks, where I impressed the Angelenos by saying I live on Manhattan’s chic Upper North Side.
*****
Even though I still think Southern California is a bit weird, I just feel so much more at home out west than I do in New York, despite living here almost 13 years. Neither area has the perky efficiency of customer service in the Northwest, but in LA it’s due to a relaxed, easy-going attitude, instead of hostile apathy generously mixed with incompetence. New York, in typical fashion, welcomed me back by losing my luggage.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Flying
I used to really love flying.
I don’t enjoy airports as much anymore, thanks to the heightened security, my crowd anxiety, and the realization that airports attract fuckwits like some kind of idiot magnet.
Last Thursday, flying from New York’s La Guardia to Dallas-Fort Worth, I sat next to a normal-looking woman who, when I sat down, turned to me and in the most hideously irritating voice imaginable said, “You should know I’m not a very good flyer.”
Great.
I had just drifted off to sleep when The Voice, like a bucket full of ice water, splashed across my ears with a hideous screech, “Do you have Pepsi?” I wasn’t thirsty, but now that I was awake and irritated, a whiskey soda was in order. The flight attendant moved on with the cart, and then The Voice called out, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Hey! Excuse me! Do you have Diet Pepsi?”
She turned to me and said, “Do you think my luggage is okay? I always worry my luggage won’t show up or will get lost.” “I’m sure it’s fine, in all my years of flying, I’ve never had a problem,” I replied, as I put my headphones quickly back on.
Later, “What time to we get to Dallas?” I said, “About 4:30, I think.” “But it’s almost 5 now!” she squealed in despair. “Not in Dallas,” I responded. Then the beverage cart came around again. “Do you have Pepsi?”
As they handed her the can, she cackled, “Don’t you have Diet?” Then, after they had moved on to the next row, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Hey! What time do we arrive in Dallas?” “4:30,” the attendant said.
Returning yesterday, I found myself checking in at the Burbank airport behind a very angry woman. “I can’t believe you’re telling me I can’t get on an airplane that doesn’t leave for another 15 minutes.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” the representative said in a tired, frustrated voice. “FAA regulations forbid us from checking in passengers with luggage less than 30 minutes prior to departure.”
“Look lady, I don’t think you understand. I am on my way to an interview that I cannot miss. I have GOT to be on this plane.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could help, but I have to follow the rules.”
“Fine, I hope you realize you’re ruining my career,” the woman snarled, as she stormed off, hauling out her cellphone. I could hear her seconds later shouting, “…and these assholes won’t let me on the plane!”
Remember when I said in all my years of traveling I’d never had a luggage problem?
After an unexplained one-hour delay on the trip back through Dallas, I found myself tired and eager to go home in La Guardia’s noisy, chaotic baggage claim. About 20 minutes later, the carousel stopped turning, all the bags were gone, and about 8 of us from the flight stood there looking dumbly at each other.
I cannot imagine what kind of person intentionally takes a job in a lost luggage office in a New York airport, where basically you stand for hours on end deflecting the abuse hurled at you by this city’s dazzling array of self-important assholes. Still, it wouldn’t have killed her to at least say “I’m sorry” or to have expressed any sympathy at all for people who find themselves in a strange city with no clothes.
What I also don’t understand is how, in this day and age of Orange Level security and barcodes on bag-checks, etc., an airline representative can tell you that they don’t know where your bag is. “It’s probably on the next flight,” she told me. “What if it’s not?” I asked. “It’s probably on the next flight,” she said again, as if she were a broken Talking Brooklyn Barbie.
I guess my bag liked Texas so much it just opted for the later flight. Fifty minutes after the second plane landed, it popped out on the carousel. I returned my “lost luggage receipt” and cabbed it home, back to the relative sanity of my vampire cats.
I don’t enjoy airports as much anymore, thanks to the heightened security, my crowd anxiety, and the realization that airports attract fuckwits like some kind of idiot magnet.
Last Thursday, flying from New York’s La Guardia to Dallas-Fort Worth, I sat next to a normal-looking woman who, when I sat down, turned to me and in the most hideously irritating voice imaginable said, “You should know I’m not a very good flyer.”
Great.
I had just drifted off to sleep when The Voice, like a bucket full of ice water, splashed across my ears with a hideous screech, “Do you have Pepsi?” I wasn’t thirsty, but now that I was awake and irritated, a whiskey soda was in order. The flight attendant moved on with the cart, and then The Voice called out, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Hey! Excuse me! Do you have Diet Pepsi?”
She turned to me and said, “Do you think my luggage is okay? I always worry my luggage won’t show up or will get lost.” “I’m sure it’s fine, in all my years of flying, I’ve never had a problem,” I replied, as I put my headphones quickly back on.
Later, “What time to we get to Dallas?” I said, “About 4:30, I think.” “But it’s almost 5 now!” she squealed in despair. “Not in Dallas,” I responded. Then the beverage cart came around again. “Do you have Pepsi?”
As they handed her the can, she cackled, “Don’t you have Diet?” Then, after they had moved on to the next row, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Hey! What time do we arrive in Dallas?” “4:30,” the attendant said.
Returning yesterday, I found myself checking in at the Burbank airport behind a very angry woman. “I can’t believe you’re telling me I can’t get on an airplane that doesn’t leave for another 15 minutes.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” the representative said in a tired, frustrated voice. “FAA regulations forbid us from checking in passengers with luggage less than 30 minutes prior to departure.”
“Look lady, I don’t think you understand. I am on my way to an interview that I cannot miss. I have GOT to be on this plane.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could help, but I have to follow the rules.”
“Fine, I hope you realize you’re ruining my career,” the woman snarled, as she stormed off, hauling out her cellphone. I could hear her seconds later shouting, “…and these assholes won’t let me on the plane!”
Remember when I said in all my years of traveling I’d never had a luggage problem?
After an unexplained one-hour delay on the trip back through Dallas, I found myself tired and eager to go home in La Guardia’s noisy, chaotic baggage claim. About 20 minutes later, the carousel stopped turning, all the bags were gone, and about 8 of us from the flight stood there looking dumbly at each other.
I cannot imagine what kind of person intentionally takes a job in a lost luggage office in a New York airport, where basically you stand for hours on end deflecting the abuse hurled at you by this city’s dazzling array of self-important assholes. Still, it wouldn’t have killed her to at least say “I’m sorry” or to have expressed any sympathy at all for people who find themselves in a strange city with no clothes.
What I also don’t understand is how, in this day and age of Orange Level security and barcodes on bag-checks, etc., an airline representative can tell you that they don’t know where your bag is. “It’s probably on the next flight,” she told me. “What if it’s not?” I asked. “It’s probably on the next flight,” she said again, as if she were a broken Talking Brooklyn Barbie.
I guess my bag liked Texas so much it just opted for the later flight. Fifty minutes after the second plane landed, it popped out on the carousel. I returned my “lost luggage receipt” and cabbed it home, back to the relative sanity of my vampire cats.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Sunday Photo Blogging: From Sea to Shining Sea
It's a bird, it's a plane, it's...no, it's a plane. An American Airlines 767-200, to be precise.
In October 2004, I flew from New York's JFK airport to San Francisco, and all across the country we had spectacularly clear weather, and I was able to take some great pictures. Enjoy!
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