Barf.
I watched tonight's "debate" (I use that term loosely) on ABC between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton as study prep for my radio debut next week.
First, if I had to call a "winner" tonight, it would be Hillary. She just looked better, for one thing; healthier, more relaxed and yet more animated, more concise and more interesting. Barack looked pretty damn tired, and he got off to a terrible start. Charlie Gibson threw his "bitter" quote from last week back at him and said, okay, you've said now you chose your words poorly. What did you really mean to say? Barack's response tonight frankly made less sense than it did the first time around.
Honestly, though, who cares? This was the 21st debate for the Democratic nomination. We know Barack can debate. We know he can speak eloquently and concisely and be inspiring. He can be funny and substantive. Tonight just wasn't his night. I don't think that changes the game.
I wish he'd been more on, and could have given a more forceful rejection and indictment of the idiotic "questions" thrown by George Stephanopoulos and Charlie Gibson; they exemplified the politics of distraction which has disenchanted -- indeed, embittered -- voters across the country and the political spectrum. No wonder he looked exhausted: here he is campaigning to take over the White House from the criminal idiocy of the Bushies, and he has to keep swatting away these manufactured scandals.
I mean, my God, people. We kidnapped people from around the world, spirited them away to secret jails, never charged them with a crime, never granted them access to an attorney, gave them no opportunity to speak in their defense or see any evidence against them, we tortured them and some of them have died. And you want to ask, again, why Barack Obama isn't wearing a flag lapel pin?
Andrew Sullivan encapsulated my despair during his live-blogging coverage of the debate: "9.32 pm. No questions on the environment, none on terror, none on interrogation, none on torture, none on education, none on spending, none on healthcare, none on Iran ... but four separate questions in the first hour about a lapel-pin, Bitter-gate, Wright-gate and Ayers."
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
If I Could be Sirius for a Moment
A wise man once said, "It's better to stay silent and let people think you're a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."
In that spirit, please tune in next Thursday, April 24, at 5:00 p.m. Eastern time to Sirius Radio Channel 110 "Indie Talk," when I will be a guest (!) on their political talk-show The Blog Bunker. Speaking to you live on a cellphone from my car in the parking lot at work on my lunch break, you'll hear me crash and burn as I attempt to improvise plausible-sounding answers to questions I've never pondered.
Will I be hapless and adorable, like Scottie McClellan? Or bloodless and boring like Dana Perino? Tune in and find out!
In that spirit, please tune in next Thursday, April 24, at 5:00 p.m. Eastern time to Sirius Radio Channel 110 "Indie Talk," when I will be a guest (!) on their political talk-show The Blog Bunker. Speaking to you live on a cellphone from my car in the parking lot at work on my lunch break, you'll hear me crash and burn as I attempt to improvise plausible-sounding answers to questions I've never pondered.
Will I be hapless and adorable, like Scottie McClellan? Or bloodless and boring like Dana Perino? Tune in and find out!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Riding the Hood River Railroad
This past Wednesday, our department traveled to Hood River, Oregon, for a day to celebrate the completion of a major project. Hood River, a small, funky little town in the Columbia River Gorge, has some neat little shops and a couple of good restaurants. Our main activity for the day was to ride the historic Hood River Railroad.
Being a Wednesday in the off-season, we basically had the entire car to ourselves, which was nice, and I found the change of pace and the beautiful scenery relaxing. The train used to wind itself up the hill through evergreen forests and fruit orchards -- the Hood River Valley is famous for its apples -- to the small town of Parkdale, but a flood at the end of 2006 caused more than $1 million in damage to the tracks, so for the time being the train only goes as far as Odell.
Now, I grew up in Oregon, but I had never heard of Odell. And now I know why.
There is so little of interest in Odell that as we disembarked, the conductor encouraged us to visit the Chevron to see its collection of antique toys. So, there being nothing else to do for the 30 minutes in which we were deposited in this backwater, we dutifully trudged over to the gas station and gazed politely at a few shelves covered haphazardly with rusty, dusty junk. I did manage to find one highlight.
Truly, we agreed, this had been the longest half-hour of our lives, as we stood in a parking lot petting a random black lab that had appeared from nowhere.
Once back in Hood River, we had a delicious lunch at a restaurant whose name I forgot to notice. The service was good, but our waitress had some issues with pronunciation. When I asked about the red wine options, she said they had a merlot (correct) and a sangiovese, which she pronounced san-JEE-oh-VESS-ee. Close enough, I guess.
Then as she was describing the specials, she mentioned that one dish came with "nokey." What the hell is "nokey", I wondered; but not wanting to appear ignorant in front of my co-workers, I refrained from asking. Fortunately, someone else took the leap for me: "What is nokey?" "Oh, nokey are small Italian potato dumplings."
Ah. Gnocchi.
For dessert she offered us pot de creme, which, truthfully, she called paht-duh-cream. I'm told it was delicious, but I opted for the cream broolee.
Being a Wednesday in the off-season, we basically had the entire car to ourselves, which was nice, and I found the change of pace and the beautiful scenery relaxing. The train used to wind itself up the hill through evergreen forests and fruit orchards -- the Hood River Valley is famous for its apples -- to the small town of Parkdale, but a flood at the end of 2006 caused more than $1 million in damage to the tracks, so for the time being the train only goes as far as Odell.
Now, I grew up in Oregon, but I had never heard of Odell. And now I know why.
There is so little of interest in Odell that as we disembarked, the conductor encouraged us to visit the Chevron to see its collection of antique toys. So, there being nothing else to do for the 30 minutes in which we were deposited in this backwater, we dutifully trudged over to the gas station and gazed politely at a few shelves covered haphazardly with rusty, dusty junk. I did manage to find one highlight.
Truly, we agreed, this had been the longest half-hour of our lives, as we stood in a parking lot petting a random black lab that had appeared from nowhere.Once back in Hood River, we had a delicious lunch at a restaurant whose name I forgot to notice. The service was good, but our waitress had some issues with pronunciation. When I asked about the red wine options, she said they had a merlot (correct) and a sangiovese, which she pronounced san-JEE-oh-VESS-ee. Close enough, I guess.
Then as she was describing the specials, she mentioned that one dish came with "nokey." What the hell is "nokey", I wondered; but not wanting to appear ignorant in front of my co-workers, I refrained from asking. Fortunately, someone else took the leap for me: "What is nokey?" "Oh, nokey are small Italian potato dumplings."
Ah. Gnocchi.
For dessert she offered us pot de creme, which, truthfully, she called paht-duh-cream. I'm told it was delicious, but I opted for the cream broolee.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Let's Go for a Ride
Via Andrew Sullivan, here is an amazing web ad for the Zurich Chamber Orchestra:
I love this. You see, this is actually how I experience classical music. Not so much visually, but when I close my eyes, I feel this happening inside my body; I actually have the sensation of going up and plunging down, and of physically moving at different speeds. One of the most incredible feelings is the rallentando, a brief slowing or stretching of the beat which often heralds a leap into a faster tempo. I have frequently described it as being just like a roller coaster; the slowing isn't a loss of momentum, but rather a powerful buildup of potential energy about to burst into kinetic joy. Just sitting and listening to certain pieces causes me to break out in a sweat; I can feel my heart pound.
This is why I actually prefer to work out to classical music when I'm doing aerobic stuff. I like pop music, sure, but it just doesn't send me over the top in the way that some classical stuff does. For me, pop is good for keeping a relatively constant pace over a long period of time, but a lot of my favorite classical pieces build steadily to a frantic climax. My heart races, my skin tingles, and I can effortlessly pound away on the elliptical or the stationary bike with a feeling of complete exhilaration. It seems to just uncork my adrenaline. And just like with a roller coaster, certain pieces make me dizzy and give me temporary sensations of weightlessness.
It would be interesting to hook me up to a cardiograph or one of those brain-wave thingies and monitor my physical response to a piece like the overture to Don Pasquale (which is all over the place, tempo-wise, but ends frenetically) or Tchaikovsky's Marche Slave. I think my heart probably actually stops every time I hear Renee Fleming's high E-flat in the finale from Lucrezia Borgia.
Now if I can just find a boyfriend who's equally into the Bacchanale from Samson et Dalila...
I love this. You see, this is actually how I experience classical music. Not so much visually, but when I close my eyes, I feel this happening inside my body; I actually have the sensation of going up and plunging down, and of physically moving at different speeds. One of the most incredible feelings is the rallentando, a brief slowing or stretching of the beat which often heralds a leap into a faster tempo. I have frequently described it as being just like a roller coaster; the slowing isn't a loss of momentum, but rather a powerful buildup of potential energy about to burst into kinetic joy. Just sitting and listening to certain pieces causes me to break out in a sweat; I can feel my heart pound.
This is why I actually prefer to work out to classical music when I'm doing aerobic stuff. I like pop music, sure, but it just doesn't send me over the top in the way that some classical stuff does. For me, pop is good for keeping a relatively constant pace over a long period of time, but a lot of my favorite classical pieces build steadily to a frantic climax. My heart races, my skin tingles, and I can effortlessly pound away on the elliptical or the stationary bike with a feeling of complete exhilaration. It seems to just uncork my adrenaline. And just like with a roller coaster, certain pieces make me dizzy and give me temporary sensations of weightlessness.
It would be interesting to hook me up to a cardiograph or one of those brain-wave thingies and monitor my physical response to a piece like the overture to Don Pasquale (which is all over the place, tempo-wise, but ends frenetically) or Tchaikovsky's Marche Slave. I think my heart probably actually stops every time I hear Renee Fleming's high E-flat in the finale from Lucrezia Borgia.
Now if I can just find a boyfriend who's equally into the Bacchanale from Samson et Dalila...
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Kids These Days
Today my company hosted a couple hundred GLBTQ? + Friends teenagers from regional high schools for its annual Queer Youth Forum. Since I coincidentally am an alum of the nearest high school, they asked if I would serve as a "mentor" during lunch, which involved sitting at a table with some kids, talking to them, and doing my best to make Company X sound like a great place to work and to be an example of a well-adjusted gay adult functioning openly in the business world.
Of course, it is a great place to work, as exemplified by the fact that they even conduct such an event. For a global corporate behemoth, Company X ranks at the very top in terms of corporate responsibility, and we make an excellent product. That's the easy part; I would be on less-sure footing if we got around to the fact that I only work there because my life's dream fell apart and that I'm currently in the professional equivalent of water-treading while I figure out what to do next and how to get there. There was also a minor risk that someone might ask me a sports-related question, but fortunately all the lesbians at my table were of the chubby goth variety, not the LPGA types. Phew.
We got off to a depressing start. One of the boys is actually a current student at my old high school. "When did you graduate?" he asked. "Oh...1992," I said, dreading what was coming next:
"Ohmagawd, I was born in 1992!"
Sigh.
To my right was an awfully cute blond twink who reminded me a lot of myself at 16, not least because on his t-shirt -- which we had provided, printed with the statement "Proud to Be ______" -- he had written, in katakana, "homosekusharu." I turned to him and said, "Brian-san,* gakkoh de Nihongo o benkyoh shimasu ka?" Which is a totally easy question with an obvious answer, but with my Japanese lying dormant all these years, it was the best I could come up with. Still, it successfully disarmed him.
He spent most of his lunch groping and pecking at the adorable, reticent, chubby boy next to him, who was proud to be a "musician." I asked him what he played (bass) and told him I studied at Manhattan School of Music, which impressed him but was meaningless to the rest of the group. "What did you play?" he asked. "Oh, I used to be an opera singer," I confessed.
"No way," said Charles. Charles was my favorite. Charles came in full drag.
"Sing something!" commanded Charles, pointing a finger at me imperiously. I obliged with a couple of bars from Puccini's Edgar. "Oh my God, you should try for American Idol!" he squealed. "Yeah...I'm too old to qualify." "Oh," he said, not sounding particularly disappointed.
"So, do you do drag a lot?" I inquired of Charles.
"Yes! I do a weekly show at the queer youth center, and I rule," he said. And I believed him. I told him about my upcoming public debut in a dress and confessed to being nervous. "I'm not going to be nearly as glamorous or as pretty as you," I said.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied, looking me up and down. "I sense a lot of potential."
And there it was. Here I am, supposedly mentoring these impressionable young people, and yet my self-esteem got an enormous boost from a sixteen year-old boy in a dress who sensed potential.
Most of the kids at my table were from the GSA at an east-side high school. "How many kids are in your group?" "Oh, 20, or 25," said one rather serious young girl. "I'm the President," said Charles. "It's more like a benevolent dictatorship than a democracy," said Brian.
"And what about ___________?" I asked of the boy who goes to my old school. "Oh, well, we have about 40 altogether, but there was drama and our president quit and now there's only like five people who participate."
Wow. Forty. I remember when our Gay/Bi/Questioning support group used to meet every couple of weeks; I think we were about five altogether. It was kind of scary just showing up. I always worried that someone from the class I was supposed to be in would see me heading in the opposite direction. What would be my excuse if they asked? And now here we are, sixteen years later, and my school has forty self-identified GLBTQ? students; moreover, they get an official, school-sanctioned day to visit a local business with other area GLBTQ? youth. How times change!
But not only that; here I was, the supposed "role model for a day," and honestly, these kids were more comfortable in their own skin than I am now.
After we finished up our lunch and the kids prepared to go off to the afternoon activities while I went back to my desk, I silently said a little prayer for them and wished them all success, safety and happiness. Charles extended a hand in friendship and said, "It was nice to meet you."
"It was nice to meet you, too," I said. "Good luck with your show tomorrow."
"Thank you!" he smiled. "Um, are you on MySpace?" he asked.
"No, " I said.
"Okay then. Well, see ya!"
* Names have been altered to protect the fabulous.
Of course, it is a great place to work, as exemplified by the fact that they even conduct such an event. For a global corporate behemoth, Company X ranks at the very top in terms of corporate responsibility, and we make an excellent product. That's the easy part; I would be on less-sure footing if we got around to the fact that I only work there because my life's dream fell apart and that I'm currently in the professional equivalent of water-treading while I figure out what to do next and how to get there. There was also a minor risk that someone might ask me a sports-related question, but fortunately all the lesbians at my table were of the chubby goth variety, not the LPGA types. Phew.
We got off to a depressing start. One of the boys is actually a current student at my old high school. "When did you graduate?" he asked. "Oh...1992," I said, dreading what was coming next:
"Ohmagawd, I was born in 1992!"
Sigh.
To my right was an awfully cute blond twink who reminded me a lot of myself at 16, not least because on his t-shirt -- which we had provided, printed with the statement "Proud to Be ______" -- he had written, in katakana, "homosekusharu." I turned to him and said, "Brian-san,* gakkoh de Nihongo o benkyoh shimasu ka?" Which is a totally easy question with an obvious answer, but with my Japanese lying dormant all these years, it was the best I could come up with. Still, it successfully disarmed him.
He spent most of his lunch groping and pecking at the adorable, reticent, chubby boy next to him, who was proud to be a "musician." I asked him what he played (bass) and told him I studied at Manhattan School of Music, which impressed him but was meaningless to the rest of the group. "What did you play?" he asked. "Oh, I used to be an opera singer," I confessed.
"No way," said Charles. Charles was my favorite. Charles came in full drag.
"Sing something!" commanded Charles, pointing a finger at me imperiously. I obliged with a couple of bars from Puccini's Edgar. "Oh my God, you should try for American Idol!" he squealed. "Yeah...I'm too old to qualify." "Oh," he said, not sounding particularly disappointed.
"So, do you do drag a lot?" I inquired of Charles.
"Yes! I do a weekly show at the queer youth center, and I rule," he said. And I believed him. I told him about my upcoming public debut in a dress and confessed to being nervous. "I'm not going to be nearly as glamorous or as pretty as you," I said.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied, looking me up and down. "I sense a lot of potential."
And there it was. Here I am, supposedly mentoring these impressionable young people, and yet my self-esteem got an enormous boost from a sixteen year-old boy in a dress who sensed potential.
Most of the kids at my table were from the GSA at an east-side high school. "How many kids are in your group?" "Oh, 20, or 25," said one rather serious young girl. "I'm the President," said Charles. "It's more like a benevolent dictatorship than a democracy," said Brian.
"And what about ___________?" I asked of the boy who goes to my old school. "Oh, well, we have about 40 altogether, but there was drama and our president quit and now there's only like five people who participate."
Wow. Forty. I remember when our Gay/Bi/Questioning support group used to meet every couple of weeks; I think we were about five altogether. It was kind of scary just showing up. I always worried that someone from the class I was supposed to be in would see me heading in the opposite direction. What would be my excuse if they asked? And now here we are, sixteen years later, and my school has forty self-identified GLBTQ? students; moreover, they get an official, school-sanctioned day to visit a local business with other area GLBTQ? youth. How times change!
But not only that; here I was, the supposed "role model for a day," and honestly, these kids were more comfortable in their own skin than I am now.
After we finished up our lunch and the kids prepared to go off to the afternoon activities while I went back to my desk, I silently said a little prayer for them and wished them all success, safety and happiness. Charles extended a hand in friendship and said, "It was nice to meet you."
"It was nice to meet you, too," I said. "Good luck with your show tomorrow."
"Thank you!" he smiled. "Um, are you on MySpace?" he asked.
"No, " I said.
"Okay then. Well, see ya!"
* Names have been altered to protect the fabulous.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Our Photo Session Comes with a Free Insult!
Who was the evil liar who told me that I would stop getting zits once I became an "adult"? I'm two months shy of 34. Argh.
So, tonight I had to have my picture taken. I hate having my picture taken. (My mom can vouch for that.) However, the parish is updating its photo directory, and being on the Vestry, I felt obligated to participate. They hired a "professional" photographer who would do ten minute sittings with us.
Okay...so, first off he says, "Just you? No family members tonight?" Uhh...nope, guess not. Guess I'm just a lonely old spinster homo. Thanks for pointing that out.
Barbra Streisand was famous for only wanting to be photographed from the left. Me, I only want it from the right. So he took two photos from the right and then spun me around. I didn't care enough to protest, I figured I could just reject the picture. Then he wheels out this little padded shelf and has me put one arm on it and then curl my hand under my chin, and rest my head on it with a quarter-tilt and a slight turn. I thought, "Oh, my GAWD, you are NOT doing this! Don't you know we make fun of this pose now?" But I didn't feel like objecting.
Photos being all digital now, they can show you the proofs right then and there. First, though, they wanted to talk to me about "package options." You know, look, I was open to the possibility that if one of the pictures was accidentally really good, I might order a couple, sure. But the problem with pictures of me is that they tend to look just like me, but worse.
So he shows me all these horrible options. A copy of the directory and an 8 x 10 came free, but I could choose to add a diptych with two oval photos taken from different angles. I imagined my caption might read, "Evil Andy" and "Good Andy." I smiled and nodded without saying anything. They also showed me another oval photo in a gaudy gold frame that was printed on some kind of special paper that supposedly makes it look "like a quality oil painting." Gross, I thought. And what's with the ovals? I was tempted to say, "Hey, I'm a Battlestar Galactica fan, don't you have any octagons?"
Now we're ready to look at my actual photographs. They come up on the computer two at a time, side by side. "Which of these do you prefer, the left or the right?"
Well...no choice, here. On the left, I must have been talking when he snapped the shutter because I've got one eye closed and it looks like my tongue is sticking out. It reminded me of this. On the right...not amazing, but acceptable. So I said, "Erm, the right one, obviously."
Those were the two photos we took from my good side. Now came a succession of three photos from my Quasimodo side, two of them with the tilted head resting on my hand under my chin. "Okay, now, which do you prefer: the left or the right?" "Erm...gonna have to go with the right." We get to the last picture and I'm thinking, "Good Lord, no wonder I'm single!" and he says, "Now which of these do you -" and I just said, "Dude, the right. Okay? That's the only one that's any good." "You don't like this one here?" "Uhm, no." "Really? I think it's very striking." Yes, but you like oval photographs of grown men posing like awkward high school girls circa 1992.
"Okay then, so, we're going to go with the photo on the right?" "Yes, please." "Okay then, which package option would you like this evening?" "Oh, I think just the freebie will be fine." "Are you sure? It's really a wonderful photograph, you don't even want any wallet-size prints for friends and family?" By now I'm ready to take my "striking" photograph and strike him. It's a completely okay picture. It's fine for a church directory. It is not worth spending a lot of money on. I don't know anyone who wants a picture of me for their wallet (!) -- and hey, if you do, I've got better ones I can send you that you can print out, okay?; or, I'll just post them to the blog -- and the 8 x 10, well...I'll probably just give it to mom to put on the piano with the 400 other family pictures.
"All righty then," he says, his odiferous obsequiousness curdling my blood, "did you want to have any re-touch done?"
"Uh...hmm," I say, as I squint and lean in closer to take a better look. "No, I think that's pretty much fine."
Now, wait for it...
"Are you sure? For just $19.95 we can get rid of that blemish for you."
Oh yes, he said that.
Look, I almost always have a zit somewhere. Right now, my complexion is about as good as it gets. I have one fading pimple on my left cheek that popped yesterday and you can barely see it. And that's it. It looks fine. I was like, "Gee, for $39.95 can you give me hair?"
So, tonight I had to have my picture taken. I hate having my picture taken. (My mom can vouch for that.) However, the parish is updating its photo directory, and being on the Vestry, I felt obligated to participate. They hired a "professional" photographer who would do ten minute sittings with us.
Okay...so, first off he says, "Just you? No family members tonight?" Uhh...nope, guess not. Guess I'm just a lonely old spinster homo. Thanks for pointing that out.
Barbra Streisand was famous for only wanting to be photographed from the left. Me, I only want it from the right. So he took two photos from the right and then spun me around. I didn't care enough to protest, I figured I could just reject the picture. Then he wheels out this little padded shelf and has me put one arm on it and then curl my hand under my chin, and rest my head on it with a quarter-tilt and a slight turn. I thought, "Oh, my GAWD, you are NOT doing this! Don't you know we make fun of this pose now?" But I didn't feel like objecting.
Photos being all digital now, they can show you the proofs right then and there. First, though, they wanted to talk to me about "package options." You know, look, I was open to the possibility that if one of the pictures was accidentally really good, I might order a couple, sure. But the problem with pictures of me is that they tend to look just like me, but worse.
So he shows me all these horrible options. A copy of the directory and an 8 x 10 came free, but I could choose to add a diptych with two oval photos taken from different angles. I imagined my caption might read, "Evil Andy" and "Good Andy." I smiled and nodded without saying anything. They also showed me another oval photo in a gaudy gold frame that was printed on some kind of special paper that supposedly makes it look "like a quality oil painting." Gross, I thought. And what's with the ovals? I was tempted to say, "Hey, I'm a Battlestar Galactica fan, don't you have any octagons?"
Now we're ready to look at my actual photographs. They come up on the computer two at a time, side by side. "Which of these do you prefer, the left or the right?"
Well...no choice, here. On the left, I must have been talking when he snapped the shutter because I've got one eye closed and it looks like my tongue is sticking out. It reminded me of this. On the right...not amazing, but acceptable. So I said, "Erm, the right one, obviously."
Those were the two photos we took from my good side. Now came a succession of three photos from my Quasimodo side, two of them with the tilted head resting on my hand under my chin. "Okay, now, which do you prefer: the left or the right?" "Erm...gonna have to go with the right." We get to the last picture and I'm thinking, "Good Lord, no wonder I'm single!" and he says, "Now which of these do you -" and I just said, "Dude, the right. Okay? That's the only one that's any good." "You don't like this one here?" "Uhm, no." "Really? I think it's very striking." Yes, but you like oval photographs of grown men posing like awkward high school girls circa 1992.
"Okay then, so, we're going to go with the photo on the right?" "Yes, please." "Okay then, which package option would you like this evening?" "Oh, I think just the freebie will be fine." "Are you sure? It's really a wonderful photograph, you don't even want any wallet-size prints for friends and family?" By now I'm ready to take my "striking" photograph and strike him. It's a completely okay picture. It's fine for a church directory. It is not worth spending a lot of money on. I don't know anyone who wants a picture of me for their wallet (!) -- and hey, if you do, I've got better ones I can send you that you can print out, okay?; or, I'll just post them to the blog -- and the 8 x 10, well...I'll probably just give it to mom to put on the piano with the 400 other family pictures.
"All righty then," he says, his odiferous obsequiousness curdling my blood, "did you want to have any re-touch done?"
"Uh...hmm," I say, as I squint and lean in closer to take a better look. "No, I think that's pretty much fine."
Now, wait for it...
"Are you sure? For just $19.95 we can get rid of that blemish for you."
Oh yes, he said that.
Look, I almost always have a zit somewhere. Right now, my complexion is about as good as it gets. I have one fading pimple on my left cheek that popped yesterday and you can barely see it. And that's it. It looks fine. I was like, "Gee, for $39.95 can you give me hair?"
Monday, April 07, 2008
Just Close Your Eyes, and Think of McDonald's
As I approach the first anniversary of the day I left New York (two weeks from tomorrow!), my thoughts turn frequently to the city -- and the friends, most especially -- I left behind. I have a pretty good memory for images, so sometimes I just close my eyes and try to visualize a favorite place in Manhattan and just "be" there for awhile.
To keep these memories sharp, I have developed a bizarre habit that I actually find quite relaxing when I need to take a few moments at work to calm down and re-focus. You see, back in the City, I used to bank at Actors Federal Credit Union, and though they only have one branch in the whole entire world (though, I think they did open one in Los Angeles recently), one of the perks was that you could use the ATM in any McDonald's in New York without a fee. Hence, for the sake of convenience, I carried in my wallet a list provided by the bank of McDonald's in Manhattan that had ATM's. I still have that dumb list, and every once in a while I take it out and try to visualize each specific location. Here are the New York City McDonald's branches I can actually picture:
To keep these memories sharp, I have developed a bizarre habit that I actually find quite relaxing when I need to take a few moments at work to calm down and re-focus. You see, back in the City, I used to bank at Actors Federal Credit Union, and though they only have one branch in the whole entire world (though, I think they did open one in Los Angeles recently), one of the perks was that you could use the ATM in any McDonald's in New York without a fee. Hence, for the sake of convenience, I carried in my wallet a list provided by the bank of McDonald's in Manhattan that had ATM's. I still have that dumb list, and every once in a while I take it out and try to visualize each specific location. Here are the New York City McDonald's branches I can actually picture:
- 207th & Broadway
- Dyckman & Broadway
- 181st & Broadway
- 125th & Broadway
- 96th & Broadway
- 71st & Broadway
- 56th & 8th Avenue
- 54th & 1st Avenue
- 51st & Broadway
- 47th between Madison & 5th
- 46th & 7th Avenue
- 44th & 8th Avenue
- 21st & 6th Avenue
- 16th & Union Square West
- 8th & 6th Avenue
- 8th & Broadway
- Houston & Varick
- Broadway & Fulton
- 6 Water Street
Saturday, April 05, 2008
What a Drag
So, a week from tonight, I'm going out in public for the first time wearing a dress.
Yeah...to be honest, I'm not super excited. Kinda freaked out.
Drag has not really ever been something I had a particular interest in doing, and don't worry -- I'm not starting. But Portland has an annual HIV/AIDS fundraiser called Red Dress PDX, and apparently it is the party of the year. (Or, so I'm told.) It's a party, just like any other party, except that no one, regardless of gender, gets in without a red dress on. Period.
Now, most guys don't do full drag. (I've seen the pictures from last year.) No wigs, no makeup, no shaved legs or chests or stuffed brassieres. You just go as yourself. In a dress.
Of course I support the mission, but I wasn't really sure I wanted to do this. My friends said, "But you have to go," and I said, "Well, I'll think about it." And then later I said, "You know, I just don't think I can afford it right now."
So, they bought my ticket.
Last weekend we went shopping for our gowns. My rule: I'm not spending more than $20 on a dress that I will never wear again. (Except maybe next year, if this party's any good.) It was harder than I thought it would be.
For one thing, even though Hillary Clinton looks fantastic in red, stores don't seem to be following her lead. There just aren't a lot of red dresses out there. Oh, and then, it turns out, I am what might be termed a big girl. I mean, how many six-foot, 190 pound women do you know?
We hit a couple of stores downtown last Saturday. If you think wearing a dress in public is intimidating, try shopping for one. "Hello, I'd like to try this on," is quite possibly the most difficult sentence I've ever had to utter. But there was hardly anything that was actually red, in my size and in my price range. I found one cute little thing at the Cross Dress for Less on 3rd, and while it fit okay in the waist, my shoulders were too big and we couldn't zip the thing up. "Oh, just go like that, it's fine," said Darren. Yeah, right.
We even went over to Lloyd Center and lived to tell about it. We stopped in at one place that specializes in bridesmaid and prom dresses for women with no taste and the salesgirl was enthusiastic. "Are you going to that party?" she asked. So we knew we had come to the right store. As perfect as some of the gowns might have been (oh, that long strapless number with the sparkly top and the slit up the leg!) and as friendly as the salesgirl was, I had to say, "Honey, I'm sorry, I'm not really in a position to spend $200 on a dress." I struck out.
This morning I decided I would try again. I woke up early, thinking I could get to the stores before most people were out and about, which would minimize the awkwardness, and it was a good call. K-Mart and Target had nothing (WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE AGAINST THE COLOR RED???), but at Kohl's on Canyon Road I found what I was looking for.
This was $8.
Now, it's hard to tell from this photograph what the proportion is. It looks like it might fit Jane Eaglen, but in fact, no, it is very, very, very, very very short. But it fits where it needs to and is just long enough. Fortunately, I have great legs. : )
I had no intention of accessorizing, but it occurred to me when I got it home that the darn thing doesn't have any pockets. The wallet and car keys have to go somewhere. (No, not there.) So I guess I have to go buy a purse now.
Crap.
Yeah...to be honest, I'm not super excited. Kinda freaked out.
Drag has not really ever been something I had a particular interest in doing, and don't worry -- I'm not starting. But Portland has an annual HIV/AIDS fundraiser called Red Dress PDX, and apparently it is the party of the year. (Or, so I'm told.) It's a party, just like any other party, except that no one, regardless of gender, gets in without a red dress on. Period.
Now, most guys don't do full drag. (I've seen the pictures from last year.) No wigs, no makeup, no shaved legs or chests or stuffed brassieres. You just go as yourself. In a dress.
Of course I support the mission, but I wasn't really sure I wanted to do this. My friends said, "But you have to go," and I said, "Well, I'll think about it." And then later I said, "You know, I just don't think I can afford it right now."
So, they bought my ticket.
Last weekend we went shopping for our gowns. My rule: I'm not spending more than $20 on a dress that I will never wear again. (Except maybe next year, if this party's any good.) It was harder than I thought it would be.
For one thing, even though Hillary Clinton looks fantastic in red, stores don't seem to be following her lead. There just aren't a lot of red dresses out there. Oh, and then, it turns out, I am what might be termed a big girl. I mean, how many six-foot, 190 pound women do you know?
We hit a couple of stores downtown last Saturday. If you think wearing a dress in public is intimidating, try shopping for one. "Hello, I'd like to try this on," is quite possibly the most difficult sentence I've ever had to utter. But there was hardly anything that was actually red, in my size and in my price range. I found one cute little thing at the Cross Dress for Less on 3rd, and while it fit okay in the waist, my shoulders were too big and we couldn't zip the thing up. "Oh, just go like that, it's fine," said Darren. Yeah, right.
We even went over to Lloyd Center and lived to tell about it. We stopped in at one place that specializes in bridesmaid and prom dresses for women with no taste and the salesgirl was enthusiastic. "Are you going to that party?" she asked. So we knew we had come to the right store. As perfect as some of the gowns might have been (oh, that long strapless number with the sparkly top and the slit up the leg!) and as friendly as the salesgirl was, I had to say, "Honey, I'm sorry, I'm not really in a position to spend $200 on a dress." I struck out.
This morning I decided I would try again. I woke up early, thinking I could get to the stores before most people were out and about, which would minimize the awkwardness, and it was a good call. K-Mart and Target had nothing (WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE AGAINST THE COLOR RED???), but at Kohl's on Canyon Road I found what I was looking for.
This was $8.Now, it's hard to tell from this photograph what the proportion is. It looks like it might fit Jane Eaglen, but in fact, no, it is very, very, very, very very short. But it fits where it needs to and is just long enough. Fortunately, I have great legs. : )
I had no intention of accessorizing, but it occurred to me when I got it home that the darn thing doesn't have any pockets. The wallet and car keys have to go somewhere. (No, not there.) So I guess I have to go buy a purse now.
Crap.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Victory!
You may recall that nearly two months ago I was stopped by a police officer in downtown Portland for having crossed a street against a red light and promptly fined $97 for this egregious breach of civility.
Taking advantage of my superior legal background, I wrote a carefully crafted letter to the judge pleading no contest, but with extenuating circumstances. I submitted a photocopy of my ticket to the opera for the evening, which began at 7:30 p.m., and noted that my citation was marked "7:22 p.m.," which I felt supported the reasonable assertion that I was in a hurry and therefore was somewhat entitled to not have to stand on a street corner and wait for no cars to go by. I asked whether the judge might agree with me that NINETY SEVEN DOLLARS was a tad excessive.
Today I received a refund check in the mail from Multnomah County for $24.
Still, at $73, that was one fucking expensive walk.
Taking advantage of my superior legal background, I wrote a carefully crafted letter to the judge pleading no contest, but with extenuating circumstances. I submitted a photocopy of my ticket to the opera for the evening, which began at 7:30 p.m., and noted that my citation was marked "7:22 p.m.," which I felt supported the reasonable assertion that I was in a hurry and therefore was somewhat entitled to not have to stand on a street corner and wait for no cars to go by. I asked whether the judge might agree with me that NINETY SEVEN DOLLARS was a tad excessive.
Today I received a refund check in the mail from Multnomah County for $24.
Still, at $73, that was one fucking expensive walk.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Go, Hillary!
There's a phrase you probably didn't expect to hear from me. But I mean it, I'm serious: go, Hillary, go! As in, go away. We have some lovely parting gifts for you.
It's time for the media to give Clinton the Ron Paul treatment: play her for laughs, but recognize that the nomination is not and cannot be hers and stop giving her credence she has not earned. She is not a viable candidate for the White House.
Her campaign could be quirkily quixotic, a la Huckabee, but she is neither gracious nor charming nor apparently hanging in for the sake of principle while acknowledging the writing is on the wall. She seems to be fueled by an unnerving combination of of ambition and delusion.
Hillary Clinton is the new Joe Lieberman. The Democrats of Connecticut spoke and told Joe he was done; but he wouldn't take "go away" for an answer, and now he's standing beside John McCain, correcting his foreign policy gaffes. Hillary, America has spoken.
She claims the opposite; she's arguing it's anti-democratic to call a candidate out while there are still votes to count. Tell that to Edwards, Richardson, Kucinich, Dodd, Biden, Giuliani, Huckabee, Brown, Tancredo, and Romney. (Did I leave anyone out?) Sure, Hillary's closer in numbers to Obama than sideshows like Giuliani ever came to McCain, but that's academic. The result is the same: she cannot win the nomination.
Okay, well, sure, she could, if the superdelegates got together and decided to thwart the expressed will of the voters. But let's take a look at the trend. Since Super Tuesday, Obama has won more than twice as many superdelegates as Clinton. The tide is not in her favor. Any way you want to slice this, by any metric, Hillary has lost and cannot win.
Hillary seems to think that the fact that she is "close" (she trails by 700,000 votes and nearly 200 pledged delegates) entitles her to...well, I'm not sure what, exactly. The nomination? John Kerry was "close" to Bush in 2004, but what did that matter? Second place is second place.
Bill Clinton called the media coverage of Obama's anti-war position "the biggest fairy tale I've ever heard." That must mean he'd never heard Hillary's tale of landing in Bosnia under sniper-fire. Meantime, following the Reverend Wright dust-up, Gallup discovers that Obama leads Clinton nationally by a margin-of-error-proof 10%.
Why is anyone still supporting her? She invented the Bosnia story out of whole cloth -- and repeated it on multiple occasions -- to buttress the myth that she has significant foreign policy experience. As one wag put it, "Saying that Hillary has Executive Branch experience is like saying Yoko Ono was a Beatle." She either has a poor memory, is delusional, or is mendacity incarnate. Which of these qualities becomes a president?
Barack Obama was a relative newcomer on the national stage; he came from more than 20 percentage points behind to overcome and surpass a candidate who truly was inevitable, and we are supposed to believe that she's the one with superior judgment and administrative capacity? Did I mention that her campaign has $8.7 million in unpaid bills? I don't understand. What do people see in her?
Last week it was reported that 28% of Clinton supporters said they would vote for McCain insteadif when Obama gets the nomination. This is, I think, more than coincidentally close to the 27% threshhold of the Theory of Crazification. I know; in the past, I myself have entertained the thought -- and may even have spoken aloud the threat -- of voting for McCain if Hillary is the nominee. But then I thought about it. I thought about who would get to fill vacancies on the Supreme Court. I thought about who would appoint the next Attorney General while we have innocent people languishing in undisclosed locations around the world. I thought about the war in Iraq. I thought about universal healthcare and the housing crisis and the environment and civil rights and tax cuts.
And so, while I may believe that Hillary deserves to lose, I believe America does not. America needs to win. America needs to firmly reject the Bush Administration and its supporters and apologists and reclaim its moral standing in the world.
All things considered, Hillary Clinton would probably make a good president. Certainly a better one than John McCain. But Barack Obama is a better choice yet; and the voters have already chosen him. It's time for Senator Clinton to step aside and support the people's decision.
It's time for the media to give Clinton the Ron Paul treatment: play her for laughs, but recognize that the nomination is not and cannot be hers and stop giving her credence she has not earned. She is not a viable candidate for the White House.
Her campaign could be quirkily quixotic, a la Huckabee, but she is neither gracious nor charming nor apparently hanging in for the sake of principle while acknowledging the writing is on the wall. She seems to be fueled by an unnerving combination of of ambition and delusion.
Hillary Clinton is the new Joe Lieberman. The Democrats of Connecticut spoke and told Joe he was done; but he wouldn't take "go away" for an answer, and now he's standing beside John McCain, correcting his foreign policy gaffes. Hillary, America has spoken.
She claims the opposite; she's arguing it's anti-democratic to call a candidate out while there are still votes to count. Tell that to Edwards, Richardson, Kucinich, Dodd, Biden, Giuliani, Huckabee, Brown, Tancredo, and Romney. (Did I leave anyone out?) Sure, Hillary's closer in numbers to Obama than sideshows like Giuliani ever came to McCain, but that's academic. The result is the same: she cannot win the nomination.
Okay, well, sure, she could, if the superdelegates got together and decided to thwart the expressed will of the voters. But let's take a look at the trend. Since Super Tuesday, Obama has won more than twice as many superdelegates as Clinton. The tide is not in her favor. Any way you want to slice this, by any metric, Hillary has lost and cannot win.
Hillary seems to think that the fact that she is "close" (she trails by 700,000 votes and nearly 200 pledged delegates) entitles her to...well, I'm not sure what, exactly. The nomination? John Kerry was "close" to Bush in 2004, but what did that matter? Second place is second place.
Bill Clinton called the media coverage of Obama's anti-war position "the biggest fairy tale I've ever heard." That must mean he'd never heard Hillary's tale of landing in Bosnia under sniper-fire. Meantime, following the Reverend Wright dust-up, Gallup discovers that Obama leads Clinton nationally by a margin-of-error-proof 10%.
Why is anyone still supporting her? She invented the Bosnia story out of whole cloth -- and repeated it on multiple occasions -- to buttress the myth that she has significant foreign policy experience. As one wag put it, "Saying that Hillary has Executive Branch experience is like saying Yoko Ono was a Beatle." She either has a poor memory, is delusional, or is mendacity incarnate. Which of these qualities becomes a president?
Barack Obama was a relative newcomer on the national stage; he came from more than 20 percentage points behind to overcome and surpass a candidate who truly was inevitable, and we are supposed to believe that she's the one with superior judgment and administrative capacity? Did I mention that her campaign has $8.7 million in unpaid bills? I don't understand. What do people see in her?
Last week it was reported that 28% of Clinton supporters said they would vote for McCain instead
And so, while I may believe that Hillary deserves to lose, I believe America does not. America needs to win. America needs to firmly reject the Bush Administration and its supporters and apologists and reclaim its moral standing in the world.
All things considered, Hillary Clinton would probably make a good president. Certainly a better one than John McCain. But Barack Obama is a better choice yet; and the voters have already chosen him. It's time for Senator Clinton to step aside and support the people's decision.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Road to Confirmation: Part III
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. Nothing accursed will be found there anymore....And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.
* * * * *
So having learned that the Book of Revelation is not terrible, but rather, wonderful, and having found that no, it is not in conflict with the gentle, welcoming, forgiving, compassionate Christ of the Gospels, I was ready to say, yes. Unreservedly, completely, yes. I wanted to reaffirm the vows of my baptism and commit myself not just to God, as I had already done long ago, but to the church itself.
I signed up for the confirmation class led by the Rector of St. Bartholomew's on Park Avenue, the Rev. Bill Tully. What a gracious, solemn, wise, marvelous preacher, teacher and leader he is. Though I already knew that I was going to be moving to Oregon, St. Bart's had become an extremely special place in a relatively short time, and I wanted to be confirmed there, in that beautiful space, surrounded by my new friends, so that I would always have a unique spiritual tie.
But, it was not to be. As chance would have it, an opportunity opened up that made April 22nd, 2007, the best possible day for me to hit the road and start the long drive to Oregon.
My confirmation had been scheduled for April 29.
In an odd, convenient coincidence, the rental car place was just one block from St. Bart's, so on the morning of the 22nd I attended one last service there before picking up the van. I was so full of so many emotions, I could barely stand. I was excited and terrified, optimistic and worried, relieved and panicked, all at the same time. I looked out across the sanctuary, I wondered how long it would be before I saw it again and I prayed, "God, when I get to Oregon, just lead me to the right place. Lead me to a place just like this. Lead me to a place with a passion for liturgy and a prophetic voice. Lead me to a place with a diverse, active community, a place where my being gay is simply a non-issue. Lead me to a place that will pull me in the directions I need to go, and a place that will hold me, just as I am."
And He did.
So, here I am, eleven months later, ready for confirmation. Tonight's the night.
Still, having come around to the idea that Revelation is about reconciliation, I realized there was one thing I needed to do: I invited my father to my confirmation, and he's coming.
* * * * *
So having learned that the Book of Revelation is not terrible, but rather, wonderful, and having found that no, it is not in conflict with the gentle, welcoming, forgiving, compassionate Christ of the Gospels, I was ready to say, yes. Unreservedly, completely, yes. I wanted to reaffirm the vows of my baptism and commit myself not just to God, as I had already done long ago, but to the church itself.
I signed up for the confirmation class led by the Rector of St. Bartholomew's on Park Avenue, the Rev. Bill Tully. What a gracious, solemn, wise, marvelous preacher, teacher and leader he is. Though I already knew that I was going to be moving to Oregon, St. Bart's had become an extremely special place in a relatively short time, and I wanted to be confirmed there, in that beautiful space, surrounded by my new friends, so that I would always have a unique spiritual tie.
But, it was not to be. As chance would have it, an opportunity opened up that made April 22nd, 2007, the best possible day for me to hit the road and start the long drive to Oregon.
My confirmation had been scheduled for April 29.
In an odd, convenient coincidence, the rental car place was just one block from St. Bart's, so on the morning of the 22nd I attended one last service there before picking up the van. I was so full of so many emotions, I could barely stand. I was excited and terrified, optimistic and worried, relieved and panicked, all at the same time. I looked out across the sanctuary, I wondered how long it would be before I saw it again and I prayed, "God, when I get to Oregon, just lead me to the right place. Lead me to a place just like this. Lead me to a place with a passion for liturgy and a prophetic voice. Lead me to a place with a diverse, active community, a place where my being gay is simply a non-issue. Lead me to a place that will pull me in the directions I need to go, and a place that will hold me, just as I am."
And He did.
So, here I am, eleven months later, ready for confirmation. Tonight's the night.
Still, having come around to the idea that Revelation is about reconciliation, I realized there was one thing I needed to do: I invited my father to my confirmation, and he's coming.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Thoughts from a Vigil
Last night for the first time I participated in the tradition of maintaining an all-night vigil in the chapel following the Maundy Thursday service. The church had a sign-up sheet for hourly shifts beginning every half-hour, with the idea that there would always be at least two people there. My slot was 1:30 - 2:30 a.m.
The alarm clock went off at 1:00. There was, predictably, that fuzzy moment of, "What the...?" I got up to splash some water on my face, but the cats stayed in bed. I grabbed a Bible, threw on a hoodie, and drove down to the church.
At the conclusion of the somber, solemn evening service that commemorates the Last Supper, our tradition is to wash and strip the altar, leaving the church completely bare. The leftover consecrated communion wafers, the Body of Christ, are kept covered in the chapel surrounded by candles, and we sit with them through the night, in remembrance of the time Jesus spent in the Garden of Gethsemane praying before his arrest, when he took Peter, James and John with him and said, "So, could you not stay awake with me one hour?"
The church was dark except for the candles in the chapel. When I arrived, there were two people praying, a fellow catechumen preparing for his baptism and an older woman. There was just silence, only the subtlest nod of the head in greeting. I still felt bleary-eyed and confused and cold, so I just sat and stared at the candles and thought pretty much nothing at all for several minutes.
After a time I opened my Bible, and decided I would read all four Gospel accounts of the Last Supper and the arrest in the garden. In my body and mind I still felt foggy and sluggish, yet I was amazed at the clarity of the thoughts that came to me as I read. I had known, in a kind of "Bible Trivia" way, that what we call "the institution of the Eucharist" -- the sharing of bread and wine, done in remembrance of Christ, as begun at the Last Supper -- is found in Matthew, Mark and Luke, but not in John; similarly, the scene on this last evening of Christ's life where he washes the feet of his disciples is found only in John. I had known that, but never really noticed it before, if that makes any sense.
I read about Judas, and contemplated all the many ways I betray Christ every day for money.
I didn't read straight through; a word or phrase would jump out at me, and my mind would ponder it as I continued to stare at the candles, occasionally tilting my head back to gaze up toward the ceiling lost in the darkness. I noticed that the beautiful stained glass window behind the altar had gone completely black, so that the outlines of the figures could be seen, but not their faces.
I noticed the variations between the accounts, small and enormous. I noticed that in all the Gospels after the meal Christ talks to his disciples about what is coming next, about the kingdom of God, etc. But in John, this discussion is long. (And amazing.)
At one point it began to rain, and what started as a soft gentle murmur quickly became a roar as water pelted the chapel roof; it was so loud, I found myself unable to read, so I sat and listened to the rain instead, and then recalled Revelation 1:15, "and his voice was like the sound of many waters."
* * * * * *
May the peace of God, which surpasses understanding, be with you today and always.
The alarm clock went off at 1:00. There was, predictably, that fuzzy moment of, "What the...?" I got up to splash some water on my face, but the cats stayed in bed. I grabbed a Bible, threw on a hoodie, and drove down to the church.
At the conclusion of the somber, solemn evening service that commemorates the Last Supper, our tradition is to wash and strip the altar, leaving the church completely bare. The leftover consecrated communion wafers, the Body of Christ, are kept covered in the chapel surrounded by candles, and we sit with them through the night, in remembrance of the time Jesus spent in the Garden of Gethsemane praying before his arrest, when he took Peter, James and John with him and said, "So, could you not stay awake with me one hour?"
The church was dark except for the candles in the chapel. When I arrived, there were two people praying, a fellow catechumen preparing for his baptism and an older woman. There was just silence, only the subtlest nod of the head in greeting. I still felt bleary-eyed and confused and cold, so I just sat and stared at the candles and thought pretty much nothing at all for several minutes.
After a time I opened my Bible, and decided I would read all four Gospel accounts of the Last Supper and the arrest in the garden. In my body and mind I still felt foggy and sluggish, yet I was amazed at the clarity of the thoughts that came to me as I read. I had known, in a kind of "Bible Trivia" way, that what we call "the institution of the Eucharist" -- the sharing of bread and wine, done in remembrance of Christ, as begun at the Last Supper -- is found in Matthew, Mark and Luke, but not in John; similarly, the scene on this last evening of Christ's life where he washes the feet of his disciples is found only in John. I had known that, but never really noticed it before, if that makes any sense.
I read about Judas, and contemplated all the many ways I betray Christ every day for money.
I didn't read straight through; a word or phrase would jump out at me, and my mind would ponder it as I continued to stare at the candles, occasionally tilting my head back to gaze up toward the ceiling lost in the darkness. I noticed that the beautiful stained glass window behind the altar had gone completely black, so that the outlines of the figures could be seen, but not their faces.
I noticed the variations between the accounts, small and enormous. I noticed that in all the Gospels after the meal Christ talks to his disciples about what is coming next, about the kingdom of God, etc. But in John, this discussion is long. (And amazing.)
At one point it began to rain, and what started as a soft gentle murmur quickly became a roar as water pelted the chapel roof; it was so loud, I found myself unable to read, so I sat and listened to the rain instead, and then recalled Revelation 1:15, "and his voice was like the sound of many waters."
* * * * * *
May the peace of God, which surpasses understanding, be with you today and always.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Obama and the Race Speech
I think we need to cut Senator Obama some slack.
After all, for the past seven years our nation has been led by a gifted, silver-tongued orator of unparalleled abilities. President Bush has combined a gift for eloquent rhetoric capable of soaring high above pedantic realities with a folksy, approachable, down-to-earth charm. I mean, even after all this time, whenever I hear the man speak I think, "Gosh, I'd like to have a beer with him."
The voters have gotten spoiled. We've just grown unrealistically accustomed to a chief executive able to grapple with immensely complicated subjects and deftly deflate them to sound-bite length talking points. We've been so blessed to have a President who can just dispense with the kind of confusing, obfuscative nuance that makes it hard to know when we're being pandered to or demonized for political gain. He reassures us that he's sustained by his faith, without boring us with details about just what it is he believes. He never has to defend his pastor, because he doesn't go to church. He doesn't get bogged down in wonky grammar, wasting energy making sure of his verb agreement; no, that kind of intellectual elitism sends the wrong message and emboldens the terrorists. Bush knows that his job is to tell us whom to fear today.
And so Americans, naturally, are a bit bewildered by the spectacle of a politician offering up single sentences containing as many as 73 words. (Yes, I counted.) What to make of a presidential candidate who gives a lengthy address on divisive issues during which he never once utters either the word "Republican" or "Democrat"? I mean, how are we even supposed to know where this man stands?
Yes, we've been lucky to have George W. Bush as our president. Who knows how the primaries and the general election will turn out? We may just have to resign ourselves to the prospect of being led by a circumspect, diplomatic legal scholar, one who doesn't even own a ranch.
After all, for the past seven years our nation has been led by a gifted, silver-tongued orator of unparalleled abilities. President Bush has combined a gift for eloquent rhetoric capable of soaring high above pedantic realities with a folksy, approachable, down-to-earth charm. I mean, even after all this time, whenever I hear the man speak I think, "Gosh, I'd like to have a beer with him."
The voters have gotten spoiled. We've just grown unrealistically accustomed to a chief executive able to grapple with immensely complicated subjects and deftly deflate them to sound-bite length talking points. We've been so blessed to have a President who can just dispense with the kind of confusing, obfuscative nuance that makes it hard to know when we're being pandered to or demonized for political gain. He reassures us that he's sustained by his faith, without boring us with details about just what it is he believes. He never has to defend his pastor, because he doesn't go to church. He doesn't get bogged down in wonky grammar, wasting energy making sure of his verb agreement; no, that kind of intellectual elitism sends the wrong message and emboldens the terrorists. Bush knows that his job is to tell us whom to fear today.
And so Americans, naturally, are a bit bewildered by the spectacle of a politician offering up single sentences containing as many as 73 words. (Yes, I counted.) What to make of a presidential candidate who gives a lengthy address on divisive issues during which he never once utters either the word "Republican" or "Democrat"? I mean, how are we even supposed to know where this man stands?
Yes, we've been lucky to have George W. Bush as our president. Who knows how the primaries and the general election will turn out? We may just have to resign ourselves to the prospect of being led by a circumspect, diplomatic legal scholar, one who doesn't even own a ranch.
The Road to Confirmation: Part II
So, fast-forward about twenty years.
I ended up in the Episcopal Church, and while there still remain for me questions and uncertainties on issues relating to sex and sexuality, I've at least progressed as far as discarding the silly notion that church isn't for sinners. After all, to paraphrase Jesus, healthy people don't need a doctor.
Lent, the traditional six-week liturgical season of repentance and introspection, begins with Ash Wednesday, at which time many Christians choose to observe a fast. But last year, as I listened to the homily, the priest encouraged us to try something different. "Instead of giving something up," he said, "try taking something on." One thing he suggested was going to the Bible or the creeds and spending the season wrestling with a concept, passage or idea that had always given us trouble.
I decided it was time to confront Revelation.
Part of what made that possible was the felicitous discovery of my favorite blog, Slacktivist. I don't remember how I stumbled across it, but I became addicted immediately. Written by a progressive evangelical Baptist who grew up indoctrinated in the literalist Rapture-believing wing of American Christendom, among many other delights the blog contains a weekly Friday column wherein he painstakingly -- and hilariously -- dismantles both the artless hackery and the theological inanity of the best-selling Left Behind novels, page by page.
Thus it dawned on me that the reason neither the Lutheran nor the Episcopal Church had bothered to explain "the Rapture" to me was that they don't believe in it. This was shocking to me; I had always assumed that we avoided it because it was scary and unpleasant, and so we'd rather concentrate on the Social Gospel. But no, we avoided it because it's not there.
Slacktivist whet my appetite to dig deeper, and I was pleased to come across the book The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation, by the Lutheran pastor Barbara Rossing.
Talk about a "revelation."
The "literal" reading of Revelation that "predicts" an imminent tribulation period of death, disease, destruction, natural disaster and ultimately nuclear holocaust isn't literal at all. Moreover, it's not the orthodox, historical understanding of the Christian faith. If you want to take Scripture literally, you can't believe in "the Antichrist" because John's epistles speak of "Antichrists" and categorically state that they are "already in the world." Not "already" as of 1985 or 2008, but "already" as of the first century. And as for "the Rapture"? We are not going up, up and away to meet Jesus; rather, Jesus is coming down to us, bringing Heaven with him. We stay where we are. (Revelation 21:1-5.)
But of course, The Revelation of Jesus Christ According to John wasn't meant to be taken literally; not even at the dawn of the second century. It is full of symbols and metaphors. Some dismiss metaphorical readings of Scripture as a cowardly, modern, "liberal" way of tap-dancing around what's actually written. On the contrary: reading these words and recognizing them for the style of literature they were intended to be yields what's really there.
John's Revelation isn't a one-off; indeed, there is an entire genre of apocalyptic literature, most of it Jewish, dating from the same period, the awful days of Roman occupation, especially after the destruction of the Temple in 70 A.D. Modern "tribulation" theology has led many people to conceive of "apocalypse" as a synonym for "cataclysm," and to assume "the apocalypse" is the final disaster. But no; it's from the Greek word that means, simply, "unveiling" or "revealing," i.e., "Revelation." Not disaster. Like any literary genre, these different works utilize a common language, especially a repertoire of common symbols.
This is kind of a lame example, but if I say to you, "The Big Apple," you know I'm not referring to an unusually large fruit, but rather the City of New York. But imagine, if you will, some future civilization coming across a reference to "The Big Apple" without knowing its widely understood meaning. They might draw some odd conclusions about what this "Big Apple" is. In the same way, the recurring images in first-century apocalyptic literature all point to another city: Rome. [I may have borrowed this example from another writer but I couldn't find it again to give credit. Or, I could just be brilliant.]
The Book of Revelation isn't some secret code detailing the countdown to the end of Time. It seems inscrutable now because we aren't familiar with what at the time was very common imagery. But to early Christians, it wasn't such a mystery. Essentially it was a fantastic vision of divine retribution against Rome.
When you stop to consider that within just a couple of centuries the pacifist cult of Jesus became the official religion of the empire that executed him, you begin to see the amazing prescience of Revelation and the true power of the Lamb over the Beast.
I ended up in the Episcopal Church, and while there still remain for me questions and uncertainties on issues relating to sex and sexuality, I've at least progressed as far as discarding the silly notion that church isn't for sinners. After all, to paraphrase Jesus, healthy people don't need a doctor.
Lent, the traditional six-week liturgical season of repentance and introspection, begins with Ash Wednesday, at which time many Christians choose to observe a fast. But last year, as I listened to the homily, the priest encouraged us to try something different. "Instead of giving something up," he said, "try taking something on." One thing he suggested was going to the Bible or the creeds and spending the season wrestling with a concept, passage or idea that had always given us trouble.
I decided it was time to confront Revelation.
Part of what made that possible was the felicitous discovery of my favorite blog, Slacktivist. I don't remember how I stumbled across it, but I became addicted immediately. Written by a progressive evangelical Baptist who grew up indoctrinated in the literalist Rapture-believing wing of American Christendom, among many other delights the blog contains a weekly Friday column wherein he painstakingly -- and hilariously -- dismantles both the artless hackery and the theological inanity of the best-selling Left Behind novels, page by page.
Thus it dawned on me that the reason neither the Lutheran nor the Episcopal Church had bothered to explain "the Rapture" to me was that they don't believe in it. This was shocking to me; I had always assumed that we avoided it because it was scary and unpleasant, and so we'd rather concentrate on the Social Gospel. But no, we avoided it because it's not there.
Slacktivist whet my appetite to dig deeper, and I was pleased to come across the book The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation, by the Lutheran pastor Barbara Rossing.
Talk about a "revelation."
The "literal" reading of Revelation that "predicts" an imminent tribulation period of death, disease, destruction, natural disaster and ultimately nuclear holocaust isn't literal at all. Moreover, it's not the orthodox, historical understanding of the Christian faith. If you want to take Scripture literally, you can't believe in "the Antichrist" because John's epistles speak of "Antichrists" and categorically state that they are "already in the world." Not "already" as of 1985 or 2008, but "already" as of the first century. And as for "the Rapture"? We are not going up, up and away to meet Jesus; rather, Jesus is coming down to us, bringing Heaven with him. We stay where we are. (Revelation 21:1-5.)
But of course, The Revelation of Jesus Christ According to John wasn't meant to be taken literally; not even at the dawn of the second century. It is full of symbols and metaphors. Some dismiss metaphorical readings of Scripture as a cowardly, modern, "liberal" way of tap-dancing around what's actually written. On the contrary: reading these words and recognizing them for the style of literature they were intended to be yields what's really there.
John's Revelation isn't a one-off; indeed, there is an entire genre of apocalyptic literature, most of it Jewish, dating from the same period, the awful days of Roman occupation, especially after the destruction of the Temple in 70 A.D. Modern "tribulation" theology has led many people to conceive of "apocalypse" as a synonym for "cataclysm," and to assume "the apocalypse" is the final disaster. But no; it's from the Greek word that means, simply, "unveiling" or "revealing," i.e., "Revelation." Not disaster. Like any literary genre, these different works utilize a common language, especially a repertoire of common symbols.
This is kind of a lame example, but if I say to you, "The Big Apple," you know I'm not referring to an unusually large fruit, but rather the City of New York. But imagine, if you will, some future civilization coming across a reference to "The Big Apple" without knowing its widely understood meaning. They might draw some odd conclusions about what this "Big Apple" is. In the same way, the recurring images in first-century apocalyptic literature all point to another city: Rome. [I may have borrowed this example from another writer but I couldn't find it again to give credit. Or, I could just be brilliant.]
The Book of Revelation isn't some secret code detailing the countdown to the end of Time. It seems inscrutable now because we aren't familiar with what at the time was very common imagery. But to early Christians, it wasn't such a mystery. Essentially it was a fantastic vision of divine retribution against Rome.
When you stop to consider that within just a couple of centuries the pacifist cult of Jesus became the official religion of the empire that executed him, you begin to see the amazing prescience of Revelation and the true power of the Lamb over the Beast.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Road to Confirmation: Part I
I was born into a non-religious household. My parents, however, wanted me to have some exposure to religion so that I could make up my own mind about it, but they didn't feel qualified to offer that on their own.
My first brush with organized Christianity came when I was about 4 or 5, when our kindly elderly next-door neighbors offered to take me to visit their church. That ended pretty quickly after I reported to my family that during the sermon the minister had pointed directly at me and said (I still remember it clearly), "Children are as black with sin as the inside of a pumpkin after Halloween." My atheist grandmother promptly raced me over to the World Book Encyclopedia and showed me the pictures of the inside of the human body on those transparent, overlapping sheets of plastic. "See," she said firmly, "no black, no sin."
A couple years later, my mom was willing to try again, so she sent me to church with a good friend of hers from work. Now, at 7, I was a painfully shy, socially maladjusted child. I was really uncomfortable around other kids -- I greatly preferred adults -- and hated new social situations where everyone and everything was unfamiliar. And yet, when this kind woman left me in the Sunday School classroom with a bunch of strangers, even though I remember feeling awkward, I felt welcomed. So at the end of the day when my mother asked me if I thought I'd like to go again, I said, "Yes."
Three years later, my Sunday School class was preparing for first communion, but when I revealed to the pastor that I had never been baptized he said, "Uh-oh, that's a problem." So on April 3, 1985, four days before Easter, my recently-divorced parents and I awkwardly gathered in the church with my sponsors (the parents of my best friend, who on that date gave me a Bible that I still treasure) for a private ceremony.
In the Lutheran church -- or at least, in that particular church -- Confirmation was usually part of the Sunday School curriculum for graduating high-schoolers. (For you non-churchy types, confirmation is basically the re-affirmation of your baptismal vows done when you are old enough both to understand them and to personally make the decision. [Oh, no, I just split an infinitive, Faustus is going to send me an email.] I decided I was not ready.
You see, following my parents' divorce, my father found himself led to the Baptist church, his paternal family's faith. (My great-grandfather was a minister.) He was born-again, big time. The Southern Baptists and the Lutherans have pretty different eschatologies; I had a vague notion that we expected Jesus to drop in again someday, but my father was convinced that the Rapture Clock was ticking. I had never even heard of "the Rapture," so on a camping trip in eastern Oregon my father sat me down with the Book of Revelation and explained it all to me, that all these "prophecies" had already been fulfilled and that Jesus was coming again any second to take away all the good Christians and lift them straight up to heaven. Everyone else was going to be left behind to deal with the Beast, seven years of literal Hell on Earth, culminating in Armageddon.
I knew I wasn't going, because I was gay.
As a teenager, I wasn't theologically sophisticated. I knew that my church and my father's church had different worship styles, but I didn't understand that we actually believed different things. And as my church had never broached the subject of Revelation with me, I had no basis for thinking there might be an alternate way of understanding these words, nor had I any tools to refute what my father told me. All I knew was that for the past several years, I'd been praying to God about a hundred thousand times a day to make me not gay anymore, because I didn't want to go to Hell. But now, for the first time, I "understood" that there was an imminent deadline. If I didn't de-gay myself in time for the Rapture, I'd have to sit and wait it out and be killed in the nuclear holocaust "foretold" by the Bible. And probably go to Hell anyway.
I couldn't talk to anyone at my chuch about it, because it would have meant coming out, and I'm not sure how that would have been received. So when the subject of confirmation came up, I just said I wasn't ready, because I was sure it must be some kind of horrible blasphemy for a homosexual to be confirmed; I was sure that far from making me a genuine member of the denomination, it would be signing my own ticket to damnation. And so I even left the church; not because I was thrown out, but because I felt like a fraud being there. A failure as a Christian, because despite all my prayers, I kept having those dirty thoughts. I felt so awful about myself that I decided it must make God angry to have people like me, dirty awful perverted sinners, showing up in church, pretending they're something that they're not. So I just quietly disappeared.
My first brush with organized Christianity came when I was about 4 or 5, when our kindly elderly next-door neighbors offered to take me to visit their church. That ended pretty quickly after I reported to my family that during the sermon the minister had pointed directly at me and said (I still remember it clearly), "Children are as black with sin as the inside of a pumpkin after Halloween." My atheist grandmother promptly raced me over to the World Book Encyclopedia and showed me the pictures of the inside of the human body on those transparent, overlapping sheets of plastic. "See," she said firmly, "no black, no sin."
A couple years later, my mom was willing to try again, so she sent me to church with a good friend of hers from work. Now, at 7, I was a painfully shy, socially maladjusted child. I was really uncomfortable around other kids -- I greatly preferred adults -- and hated new social situations where everyone and everything was unfamiliar. And yet, when this kind woman left me in the Sunday School classroom with a bunch of strangers, even though I remember feeling awkward, I felt welcomed. So at the end of the day when my mother asked me if I thought I'd like to go again, I said, "Yes."
Three years later, my Sunday School class was preparing for first communion, but when I revealed to the pastor that I had never been baptized he said, "Uh-oh, that's a problem." So on April 3, 1985, four days before Easter, my recently-divorced parents and I awkwardly gathered in the church with my sponsors (the parents of my best friend, who on that date gave me a Bible that I still treasure) for a private ceremony.
In the Lutheran church -- or at least, in that particular church -- Confirmation was usually part of the Sunday School curriculum for graduating high-schoolers. (For you non-churchy types, confirmation is basically the re-affirmation of your baptismal vows done when you are old enough both to understand them and to personally make the decision. [Oh, no, I just split an infinitive, Faustus is going to send me an email.] I decided I was not ready.
You see, following my parents' divorce, my father found himself led to the Baptist church, his paternal family's faith. (My great-grandfather was a minister.) He was born-again, big time. The Southern Baptists and the Lutherans have pretty different eschatologies; I had a vague notion that we expected Jesus to drop in again someday, but my father was convinced that the Rapture Clock was ticking. I had never even heard of "the Rapture," so on a camping trip in eastern Oregon my father sat me down with the Book of Revelation and explained it all to me, that all these "prophecies" had already been fulfilled and that Jesus was coming again any second to take away all the good Christians and lift them straight up to heaven. Everyone else was going to be left behind to deal with the Beast, seven years of literal Hell on Earth, culminating in Armageddon.
I knew I wasn't going, because I was gay.
As a teenager, I wasn't theologically sophisticated. I knew that my church and my father's church had different worship styles, but I didn't understand that we actually believed different things. And as my church had never broached the subject of Revelation with me, I had no basis for thinking there might be an alternate way of understanding these words, nor had I any tools to refute what my father told me. All I knew was that for the past several years, I'd been praying to God about a hundred thousand times a day to make me not gay anymore, because I didn't want to go to Hell. But now, for the first time, I "understood" that there was an imminent deadline. If I didn't de-gay myself in time for the Rapture, I'd have to sit and wait it out and be killed in the nuclear holocaust "foretold" by the Bible. And probably go to Hell anyway.
I couldn't talk to anyone at my chuch about it, because it would have meant coming out, and I'm not sure how that would have been received. So when the subject of confirmation came up, I just said I wasn't ready, because I was sure it must be some kind of horrible blasphemy for a homosexual to be confirmed; I was sure that far from making me a genuine member of the denomination, it would be signing my own ticket to damnation. And so I even left the church; not because I was thrown out, but because I felt like a fraud being there. A failure as a Christian, because despite all my prayers, I kept having those dirty thoughts. I felt so awful about myself that I decided it must make God angry to have people like me, dirty awful perverted sinners, showing up in church, pretending they're something that they're not. So I just quietly disappeared.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Isoldilocks and the Three Tristans
Oh, actually, wait, I think it's up to four Tristans now.
I miss opera. Most of you probably haven't been keeping up on the Metropolitan Opera's current Tristan und Isolde travails, so I'll fill you in.
Beloved diva Deborah Voigt (the soprano who made headlines a few years ago when she was released from her contract with the Royal Opera Covent Garden in London to sing Ariadne auf Naxos because the director wanted someone to fit in a slinky black cocktail dress; at the time Debbie was sort of a cocktail mu'umu'u size, but since then she's had gastric bypass surgery and has lost well over 100 pounds) was singing her first Isolde at the Met this season, and they'd paired her up with reigning heldentenor champ Ben Heppner.
Well, Ben came down with a viral infection, so he was replaced on opening night by some guy named John Mac Master, who apparently...well...wasn't quite up to the job, if the reviews are to be believed. So last night was the second performance, this time with tenor Gary Lehman, in his Met debut, singing the demanding role for the first time in his life. Then toward the beginning of Act II (it's three acts), Voigt reportedly "lurched forward" and ran off stage; the curtain was brought down and it was announced that she had suddenly taken ill. Within ten minutes (!), they had understudy Janice Baird -- also making her Met debut -- onstage in costume to launch into the famous love duet. They apparently received a rapturous standing ovation at the end of the long night (about 12:30 a.m., according to La Cieca).
Next Saturday is the Met's live Hi-Def broadcast of Tristan into movie theaters around the globe, for which tenor Robert Dean Smith has been engaged and presumably Ms. Voigt will recover in a week to sing....
Meantime, sadly I am missing today's Hi-Def broadcast of Britten's Peter Grimes. My car is back in the shop. Transmission again. Ugh.
I miss opera. Most of you probably haven't been keeping up on the Metropolitan Opera's current Tristan und Isolde travails, so I'll fill you in.
Beloved diva Deborah Voigt (the soprano who made headlines a few years ago when she was released from her contract with the Royal Opera Covent Garden in London to sing Ariadne auf Naxos because the director wanted someone to fit in a slinky black cocktail dress; at the time Debbie was sort of a cocktail mu'umu'u size, but since then she's had gastric bypass surgery and has lost well over 100 pounds) was singing her first Isolde at the Met this season, and they'd paired her up with reigning heldentenor champ Ben Heppner.
Well, Ben came down with a viral infection, so he was replaced on opening night by some guy named John Mac Master, who apparently...well...wasn't quite up to the job, if the reviews are to be believed. So last night was the second performance, this time with tenor Gary Lehman, in his Met debut, singing the demanding role for the first time in his life. Then toward the beginning of Act II (it's three acts), Voigt reportedly "lurched forward" and ran off stage; the curtain was brought down and it was announced that she had suddenly taken ill. Within ten minutes (!), they had understudy Janice Baird -- also making her Met debut -- onstage in costume to launch into the famous love duet. They apparently received a rapturous standing ovation at the end of the long night (about 12:30 a.m., according to La Cieca).
Next Saturday is the Met's live Hi-Def broadcast of Tristan into movie theaters around the globe, for which tenor Robert Dean Smith has been engaged and presumably Ms. Voigt will recover in a week to sing....
Meantime, sadly I am missing today's Hi-Def broadcast of Britten's Peter Grimes. My car is back in the shop. Transmission again. Ugh.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Terrible Twos
Happy Birthday, Rocky & Starbuck!
I'd been thinking about getting a cat. A friend of mine told me about the Kitty Kind adoption program that was run out of the PetCo on Union Square and so one warm, sunny June Sunday after church, I strolled down just to take a look. You know, not to get a cat, just to look, and think about it some more.
They had some beautiful animals; some of the older cats looked so noble, sitting there calmly surveying the world. "If I get a cat," I thought, "I probably want one who's about two or three." But then I thought, "Oh...but wouldn't it be fun to have a kitten?"
Then I thought about how I'm usually gone during the day and how lonely the cat might be, so I started to think maybe it would be better to have two. I asked the attendant if they had any kittens who could not be separated and was shown to a cage holding two of the cutest little babies I'd ever seen, a brother and sister: the boy was a dark, striped tabby and the girl was a fuzzy little ball of marmalade. They opened the door so that I could introduce myself. The boy arched his back and hissed, and when I picked up the girl, she slashed my ear with her claw.
"Hmmm...I'm not sure the chemistry is there, " I said politely, blood dripping onto my shoulder.
"Well, we do have one other pair," said the woman. "The girl has a cold so she doesn't look so good right now and you probably shouldn't handle her, but you can look." And indeed, she led me to a tiny dark grey and white kitten, with snot running out of her nose and thick, crusty gunk clogging her eyes. The boy looked fine, though, and when I picked him up he let out a tiny squeak of a meow, then buried his face in my neck and began to purr while he did that kneading thing with his claws. "Well, hello there, " I said.
"So, what do you think," asked the attendant. "Are you interested?"
The boy purred. I looked in his tiny yellow eyes and couldn't imagine saying to that sweet little face, "No, thank you." So instead I said, "Oh, yes, please."
I'd been thinking about getting a cat. A friend of mine told me about the Kitty Kind adoption program that was run out of the PetCo on Union Square and so one warm, sunny June Sunday after church, I strolled down just to take a look. You know, not to get a cat, just to look, and think about it some more.
They had some beautiful animals; some of the older cats looked so noble, sitting there calmly surveying the world. "If I get a cat," I thought, "I probably want one who's about two or three." But then I thought, "Oh...but wouldn't it be fun to have a kitten?"
Then I thought about how I'm usually gone during the day and how lonely the cat might be, so I started to think maybe it would be better to have two. I asked the attendant if they had any kittens who could not be separated and was shown to a cage holding two of the cutest little babies I'd ever seen, a brother and sister: the boy was a dark, striped tabby and the girl was a fuzzy little ball of marmalade. They opened the door so that I could introduce myself. The boy arched his back and hissed, and when I picked up the girl, she slashed my ear with her claw.
"Hmmm...I'm not sure the chemistry is there, " I said politely, blood dripping onto my shoulder.
"Well, we do have one other pair," said the woman. "The girl has a cold so she doesn't look so good right now and you probably shouldn't handle her, but you can look." And indeed, she led me to a tiny dark grey and white kitten, with snot running out of her nose and thick, crusty gunk clogging her eyes. The boy looked fine, though, and when I picked him up he let out a tiny squeak of a meow, then buried his face in my neck and began to purr while he did that kneading thing with his claws. "Well, hello there, " I said.
"So, what do you think," asked the attendant. "Are you interested?"
The boy purred. I looked in his tiny yellow eyes and couldn't imagine saying to that sweet little face, "No, thank you." So instead I said, "Oh, yes, please."
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Still Here
I'm still around. All is well.
Frantic week at work; just haven't had anything on my mind worth blogging about. ("What else is new?" some might say.)
I'm off to a seven hour meditation today.
Peace.
Frantic week at work; just haven't had anything on my mind worth blogging about. ("What else is new?" some might say.)
I'm off to a seven hour meditation today.
Peace.
Monday, March 03, 2008
No Comment
The previous post has been deleted, never to return.
Just too much ugliness going on there, for no reason that I can see. I want to thank those of you who offered comments in my defense and the others of you who emailed me directly to express your support.
I felt I had to respond to the initial comment that set off the storm because it attacked my credibility, baldly laying out a claim that my blog is some kind of hoax, but in hindsight it was wasted effort and energy.
Going forward, I will have a new policy regarding comments. As always, differing opinions will be welcomed, but I will take advantage of my right to delete any comment that is off-topic or a personal attack.
I have decided to disable comments for this post; if you want to communicate with me about it, you can email me directly.
* * * * * * *
Last week's nastiness came at a bad time.
As regular readers know, I resolved at the start of the year to learn a new piece and sing it for my church, and was scheduled for this coming Sunday, March 9th.
I felt ready and excited. I had chosen the aria "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein" from Bach's St. Matthew Passion, which is ideally suited to me. It was memorized and I was just continuing to polish and perfect it, while my voice continued to re-align and strengthen and open up back to its old self.
It's been five years since I last sang in public; at 33, I am just hitting what should be my vocal prime as a baritone, and the new physical maturity I heard in the sound was encouraging; the top notes, especially, had a new luster and ease. I could not wait to get out there; this was going to be fun.
And then suddenly, about two weeks ago, it all started to fall apart. Once again, it seemed my voice couldn't quite warm up all the way, and it would tire quickly. Though my throat was open, my jaw relaxed and my breathing solid, the warm, round sound began to fade, becoming fuzzy, reedy or thin-sounding in various parts of my range. Intonation began to go off-kilter. There was no longer a smooth transition in the passaggio; instead, it was like driving a car with a bad transmission. At first I thought, "Oh, it's just one of those days," but it began to be persistent and I had to admit to myself that this is exactly what happened to my voice in 2002.
This was infuriating, because for the last several years, I have had no problems with acid reflux at all. I felt ready to try again, and I would never have asked if I could sing if I hadn't been 100% confident that I was okay. I immediately made some radical changes in my diet and started going through some of the routines that had been helpful the first time around, but after a few days I began to sense that I probably could not fully recover in time. It wasn't going to be enough to just "get through" the piece; I needed to triumph, I needed to nail it, or it wasn't going to be worth it.
So on Saturday I told the music director that I was having problems again and that I would temporarily need to withdraw my offer to sing.
I am going to kick this. I want to say a special word of thanks to two friends who have given me invaluable advice this week. I wasn't going to say anything, because it is too painful and, frankly, humiliating, but both of them are encouraging me in a new direction, toward being more in touch with my feelings and what's going on inside me and more willing to reach out and be honest and ask for help with things.
So, that's all, for now. I could just use your friendship and support, and if you're the praying sort, I would appreciate a word or two on my behalf.
Just too much ugliness going on there, for no reason that I can see. I want to thank those of you who offered comments in my defense and the others of you who emailed me directly to express your support.
I felt I had to respond to the initial comment that set off the storm because it attacked my credibility, baldly laying out a claim that my blog is some kind of hoax, but in hindsight it was wasted effort and energy.
Going forward, I will have a new policy regarding comments. As always, differing opinions will be welcomed, but I will take advantage of my right to delete any comment that is off-topic or a personal attack.
I have decided to disable comments for this post; if you want to communicate with me about it, you can email me directly.
* * * * * * *
Last week's nastiness came at a bad time.
As regular readers know, I resolved at the start of the year to learn a new piece and sing it for my church, and was scheduled for this coming Sunday, March 9th.
I felt ready and excited. I had chosen the aria "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein" from Bach's St. Matthew Passion, which is ideally suited to me. It was memorized and I was just continuing to polish and perfect it, while my voice continued to re-align and strengthen and open up back to its old self.
It's been five years since I last sang in public; at 33, I am just hitting what should be my vocal prime as a baritone, and the new physical maturity I heard in the sound was encouraging; the top notes, especially, had a new luster and ease. I could not wait to get out there; this was going to be fun.
And then suddenly, about two weeks ago, it all started to fall apart. Once again, it seemed my voice couldn't quite warm up all the way, and it would tire quickly. Though my throat was open, my jaw relaxed and my breathing solid, the warm, round sound began to fade, becoming fuzzy, reedy or thin-sounding in various parts of my range. Intonation began to go off-kilter. There was no longer a smooth transition in the passaggio; instead, it was like driving a car with a bad transmission. At first I thought, "Oh, it's just one of those days," but it began to be persistent and I had to admit to myself that this is exactly what happened to my voice in 2002.
This was infuriating, because for the last several years, I have had no problems with acid reflux at all. I felt ready to try again, and I would never have asked if I could sing if I hadn't been 100% confident that I was okay. I immediately made some radical changes in my diet and started going through some of the routines that had been helpful the first time around, but after a few days I began to sense that I probably could not fully recover in time. It wasn't going to be enough to just "get through" the piece; I needed to triumph, I needed to nail it, or it wasn't going to be worth it.
So on Saturday I told the music director that I was having problems again and that I would temporarily need to withdraw my offer to sing.
I am going to kick this. I want to say a special word of thanks to two friends who have given me invaluable advice this week. I wasn't going to say anything, because it is too painful and, frankly, humiliating, but both of them are encouraging me in a new direction, toward being more in touch with my feelings and what's going on inside me and more willing to reach out and be honest and ask for help with things.
So, that's all, for now. I could just use your friendship and support, and if you're the praying sort, I would appreciate a word or two on my behalf.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Senator Clinton on Iraq, February 2003
I always opposed the invasion of Iraq.
Like many -- because of the "information," if we want to call it that, that was provided by the Bush administration -- I believed that Saddam Hussein possessed a WMD arsenal in 2003. Still, I opposed invasion and occupation, because I absolutely thought it was the wrong solution. I did not believe that simply removing Saddam Hussein was going to result in the formation of a model democracy in the heart of the Middle East; instead, I feared it would create an opening for the sectarian and ethnic divisions of the country to explode into civil war, and I greatly feared what would happen to the weapons I believed were there in the ensuing destabilization of the country. I did not believe that the inevitable deaths of innocent Iraqis and American soldiers were going to be worth the head of Saddam Hussein. I did not believe we were going to be in and out in six months or year, and I was not convinced we had a plan to put Iraq back together again.
I knew enough about Al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden's geostrategic goals to know there was no possibility of collaboration with Saddam Hussein.
Okay, so I was wrong. Iraq didn't have any WMD's, at all. But other than that, I was right on the money.
As the Bush Administration continued to attempt to make its case for war, I wrote to Hillary Clinton, who was my senator, to urge her to oppose military action in Iraq. This was her response to me.
Like many -- because of the "information," if we want to call it that, that was provided by the Bush administration -- I believed that Saddam Hussein possessed a WMD arsenal in 2003. Still, I opposed invasion and occupation, because I absolutely thought it was the wrong solution. I did not believe that simply removing Saddam Hussein was going to result in the formation of a model democracy in the heart of the Middle East; instead, I feared it would create an opening for the sectarian and ethnic divisions of the country to explode into civil war, and I greatly feared what would happen to the weapons I believed were there in the ensuing destabilization of the country. I did not believe that the inevitable deaths of innocent Iraqis and American soldiers were going to be worth the head of Saddam Hussein. I did not believe we were going to be in and out in six months or year, and I was not convinced we had a plan to put Iraq back together again.
I knew enough about Al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden's geostrategic goals to know there was no possibility of collaboration with Saddam Hussein.
Okay, so I was wrong. Iraq didn't have any WMD's, at all. But other than that, I was right on the money.
As the Bush Administration continued to attempt to make its case for war, I wrote to Hillary Clinton, who was my senator, to urge her to oppose military action in Iraq. This was her response to me.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Analyze This
When I look at the crowds of supporters in shots of Obama, Clinton and McCain, it's the McCain crowd in which I find all the hotties.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Turbangate
Boy, just when you thought you couldn't possibly manufacture a political dust-up dumber than the Obama "plagiarism" thing, someone on Hillary Clinton's staff goes and provides The Drudge Report (!!!!!) with an old photo of Obama on a diplomatic visit to Kenya in which he is seen donning some local garb, including a turban-like head-thingy. Sub-text: "See, he really is a secret Muslim!"
The Obama campaign responded by saying, "Hey, can we get back to what matters to the American public, please?" (that may be a paraphrase) and then the Clintonites accused Obama of using the photo to create a distraction from the issues.
Amazing.
People, it is perfectly normal for Americans visiting foreign lands to try on local costume as a diplomatic gesture. To wit:
Ogaki, Japan, 1990.
The Obama campaign responded by saying, "Hey, can we get back to what matters to the American public, please?" (that may be a paraphrase) and then the Clintonites accused Obama of using the photo to create a distraction from the issues.
Amazing.
People, it is perfectly normal for Americans visiting foreign lands to try on local costume as a diplomatic gesture. To wit:
Ogaki, Japan, 1990.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Sunday Photo Blogging: Andy & Glenn Do Yachats: Fin
On our last morning down at the coast, instead of walking on the beach behind the hotel, I decided to walk into town. It was so quiet and peaceful, and there are some really cute little cottage-y places in the little "neighborhood" between 101 and the sea.
Here's a shot of the cabins where we stayed.
Check out these gulls hanging out at the Yachats State Recreation Area.The Green Salmon is closed on Mondays, so we went back to the place where we'd had dinner the night before; I had french toast with marionberry compote. Love those marionberries! Then it was back to the hotel to check out and head down the road.
Glenn was on his way back to San Francisco and was planning on getting as far down 101 as Eureka, so we needed to get moving. We decided we'd stop at the Sea Lion Caves just north of Florence and then say our goodbyes.
Check out this weather! Hard to believe this is mid-February.
The cave itself is pretty spectacular. The echoes of the sea lion bellows are so loud it sounds like the den of some horrible beast. Some horrible, foul-smelling beast. Phew, what a stench! But still, fascinating.
Back up top, we wandered down a small path to view the rocky outcrop where the sea lions go to sun themselves.
We made one last stop together at the Fred Meyer in Florence (had to show Glenn the pride of the Northwest!) for snacks, diet Coke and discount gas. Then with a hug and a wave, Glenn headed south and I turned east toward Eugene. No meandering country excursions for me this time; I was eager to get home and see the cats, so I booked it to I-5 and sailed back to Portland.All in all, an amazing, much-needed weekend. Glenn's pics are here.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Best Argument Against Same-Sex Marriage
Isaac Davis: I got a kid, he's being raised by two women at the moment.
Mary Wilke: Oh, y'know, I mean I think that works. Uh, they made some studies, I read in one of the psychoanalytic quarterlies. You don't need a male, I mean. Two mothers are absolutely fine.
Isaac Davis: Really? Because I always feel very few people survive one mother.
-- from Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979)
Mary Wilke: Oh, y'know, I mean I think that works. Uh, they made some studies, I read in one of the psychoanalytic quarterlies. You don't need a male, I mean. Two mothers are absolutely fine.
Isaac Davis: Really? Because I always feel very few people survive one mother.
-- from Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979)
Andy & Glenn Do Yachats, Day Two
After a restful night's sleep in our cozy cabin, the first order of the day was the obligatory quiet, solitary walk by the sea behind the hotel.
For breakfast we went to the Green Salmon Cafe, where in addition to a fantastic cup of rich, strong coffee I had an amazing marionberry and blueberry bear claw. The clientele is an odd mix of eccentric locals, cruchy-granola Portland liberals on vacation and slightly concerned-looking mainstream Americans just passing through.
Then it was off to the Oregon Coast Aquarium in Newport, one of my favorite places. It's small, but very pleasant and always fascinating; it's comprised entirely of local animals.
For lunch we headed into "downtown" Newport and walked up and down the main street, but didn't really shop for anything. It's mostly kitschy tourist crap.
Glenn wanted to see a lighthouse, so I took him up to Yaquina Head. We waited in line for probably 20 minutes at least, and were then told it was going to be another half-hour yet, so Glenn decided the lighthouse looked just fine from the outside. Having seen all kinds of neat animals behind glass this morning, I was eager to show him the real deal, so we went down to the tidepools at Smelt Sands State Park, just north of Yachats. The tide was extremely low and the ocean fairly calm, so the waves weren't spraying up into the air as they usually do, but this allowed us to go pretty far out and see live animals like sea stars, anemones, crabs, chitons and tons of mussels.
As it was late in the day, we decided to stay and sit on a park bench and watch the sun disappear over the horizon. Glenn was really missing his boyfriend.
We went to dinner at a local place and then Glenn went to hang out in the hotel's hot tub. (I forgot my suit, and it's not that kind of hotel, so I stayed in by the fire and had evening prayer and finished the pinot noir.)
For breakfast we went to the Green Salmon Cafe, where in addition to a fantastic cup of rich, strong coffee I had an amazing marionberry and blueberry bear claw. The clientele is an odd mix of eccentric locals, cruchy-granola Portland liberals on vacation and slightly concerned-looking mainstream Americans just passing through.
Then it was off to the Oregon Coast Aquarium in Newport, one of my favorite places. It's small, but very pleasant and always fascinating; it's comprised entirely of local animals.
For lunch we headed into "downtown" Newport and walked up and down the main street, but didn't really shop for anything. It's mostly kitschy tourist crap.
Glenn wanted to see a lighthouse, so I took him up to Yaquina Head. We waited in line for probably 20 minutes at least, and were then told it was going to be another half-hour yet, so Glenn decided the lighthouse looked just fine from the outside. Having seen all kinds of neat animals behind glass this morning, I was eager to show him the real deal, so we went down to the tidepools at Smelt Sands State Park, just north of Yachats. The tide was extremely low and the ocean fairly calm, so the waves weren't spraying up into the air as they usually do, but this allowed us to go pretty far out and see live animals like sea stars, anemones, crabs, chitons and tons of mussels.
As it was late in the day, we decided to stay and sit on a park bench and watch the sun disappear over the horizon. Glenn was really missing his boyfriend.
We went to dinner at a local place and then Glenn went to hang out in the hotel's hot tub. (I forgot my suit, and it's not that kind of hotel, so I stayed in by the fire and had evening prayer and finished the pinot noir.)
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Not a Fluke
Starbuck is doing that yoga-pose in front of the fire again, so apparently that works for her. Too lazy to take a picture and upload it for proof. Sue me.
* * * * *
I enjoyed the Texas debate tonight. We all know I'm no huge fan of Senator Clinton, but I've said it before and I'll say it again: we could do worse. What a relief to know the days of the Bush era are truly numbered and regardless of how the nomination process turns out, the next president is going to be confident, articulate and on the right side of the issues. (No, I don't think McCain has a prayer, and for the record, based on its content so far, I think this New York Times story is about the most ridiculous and transparent thing I have ever seen and I am tremendously disappointed in their decision to run with it. If they have more, they'd better show their hand right quick.)
I remain impressed with Obama. He could have made an attempt to seal the deal tonight, to put nails in the coffin Clinton's campaign has built for her, but he wouldn't kick her when she was down. When she tried to play hardball and go negative, you could feel the audience cringing. After he neatly dispatched her accusations of plagiarism by reminding her that Deval Patrick is his national campaign co-chair and that Patrick encouraged him to use the phrase in question, she doubled down and said, "I just think if you're going to give speeches, your words ought to be your own." At which point she was hissed by the audience.
She also dug herself a hole with her spin that Obama's healthcare plan leaves 15 million people uninsured. That actually taps in to my own dissatisfaction with his plan: studies show that even if healthcare insurance is "affordable," people who live paycheck to paycheck and are generally healthy aren't likely to pay for what they don't perceive that they need. Making healthcare "affordable" won't really address the big problem, but neither will Clinton's plan to assess fines on poor people for not having insurance. The answer is genuine universal healthcare. Free healthcare. For everyone. But neither of them are ready to go there so we have to pick from what we've got, and while neither plan is perfect, at least Obama isn't going to penalize poor people.
I don't understand how people can see the two of them up there side by side and come away with the impression that Obama is somehow substantially vaguer on policy and specific solutions. They seem equally competent to me in this regard; the question, then, is who is best equipped to implement the changes needed? And I'm sorry, but I think unfortunately for her, Hillary comes laden with baggage -- not all of it her fault, but some, for sure -- that Obama doesn't have. I think he will have superior success with identical proposals because he hasn't been engaged in partisan trench warfare for the last sixteen years; he has spent that time making change while she made enemies.
* * * * *
I enjoyed the Texas debate tonight. We all know I'm no huge fan of Senator Clinton, but I've said it before and I'll say it again: we could do worse. What a relief to know the days of the Bush era are truly numbered and regardless of how the nomination process turns out, the next president is going to be confident, articulate and on the right side of the issues. (No, I don't think McCain has a prayer, and for the record, based on its content so far, I think this New York Times story is about the most ridiculous and transparent thing I have ever seen and I am tremendously disappointed in their decision to run with it. If they have more, they'd better show their hand right quick.)
I remain impressed with Obama. He could have made an attempt to seal the deal tonight, to put nails in the coffin Clinton's campaign has built for her, but he wouldn't kick her when she was down. When she tried to play hardball and go negative, you could feel the audience cringing. After he neatly dispatched her accusations of plagiarism by reminding her that Deval Patrick is his national campaign co-chair and that Patrick encouraged him to use the phrase in question, she doubled down and said, "I just think if you're going to give speeches, your words ought to be your own." At which point she was hissed by the audience.
She also dug herself a hole with her spin that Obama's healthcare plan leaves 15 million people uninsured. That actually taps in to my own dissatisfaction with his plan: studies show that even if healthcare insurance is "affordable," people who live paycheck to paycheck and are generally healthy aren't likely to pay for what they don't perceive that they need. Making healthcare "affordable" won't really address the big problem, but neither will Clinton's plan to assess fines on poor people for not having insurance. The answer is genuine universal healthcare. Free healthcare. For everyone. But neither of them are ready to go there so we have to pick from what we've got, and while neither plan is perfect, at least Obama isn't going to penalize poor people.
I don't understand how people can see the two of them up there side by side and come away with the impression that Obama is somehow substantially vaguer on policy and specific solutions. They seem equally competent to me in this regard; the question, then, is who is best equipped to implement the changes needed? And I'm sorry, but I think unfortunately for her, Hillary comes laden with baggage -- not all of it her fault, but some, for sure -- that Obama doesn't have. I think he will have superior success with identical proposals because he hasn't been engaged in partisan trench warfare for the last sixteen years; he has spent that time making change while she made enemies.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Andy & Glenn Do Yachats, Day One
I love road trips.
I have been dying to get out to the Oregon Coast for a weekend for months, but the winter weather makes the mountain passes tricky and I wasn't feeling inclined to spend money just to sit in a hotel room in the rain, even though storm-watching on the Coast can be spectacular. So when Glenn called and said he was pondering taking a detour up to Oregon following a business trip to California and proposed meeting in Yachats, I jumped at the chance, even as I warned him it was likely to be cold, dark and wet.
I needn't have bothered, apparently: our weather was freakishly awesome.
Because I had plenty of time and love to tool around in the boonies, I opted for possibly the least-direct route to the coast I could have chosen. I never once got on the freeway, and instead took the main road right behind my house far out into the country until it connected with Highway 99W, and then took that south all the way to Junction City, just north of Eugene, where I headed off on Oregon 126 to Florence, passing through the megalopoli of Blachly, Swisshome and Triangle Lake. (And right now I am counting my lucky stars that the starter didn't conk out and the timing belt didn't snap until after I got back home.) In Florence I had a quick stop for a snack and then lazily headed north on 101 the 26 miles to Yachats, stopping for a stretch and some photos at Washburne State Park.
I was eagerly anticipating a hot cup of excellent coffee at the Green Salmon Cafe in Yachats, which unfortunately closed at 2:00, just a couple of minutes before I rolled into town. I spent the next hour or so wandering around until meeting up with Glenn at our rental cabin.
If DJ ever tires of his bohemian Manhattan lifestyle, he can settle into this ready-made gift shop and massage parlor on the Oregon Coast.
As it was low tide, we hurried quickly down to the beach behind the hotel, but it wasn't super spectacular. After splashing around there and introducing ourselves to an older gay couple there for Valentine's Day weekend, I took Glenn a few miles south to Cape Perpetua for some more dramatic views in the twilight.
After that we went back into town for dinner and retired to the cabin to sit and read and talk next to the fire. I gave myself special dispensation to break my Lenten fast and enjoyed a bottle of Eola Hills 2006 Special Reserve Oregon Pinot Noir. Mmmmmm.
Following deep conversation (e.g., did "time" exist before the big bang? and mutually lamenting growing up with "pre-trib" fathers) we settled into our respective beds for deep, peaceful sleep.
I have been dying to get out to the Oregon Coast for a weekend for months, but the winter weather makes the mountain passes tricky and I wasn't feeling inclined to spend money just to sit in a hotel room in the rain, even though storm-watching on the Coast can be spectacular. So when Glenn called and said he was pondering taking a detour up to Oregon following a business trip to California and proposed meeting in Yachats, I jumped at the chance, even as I warned him it was likely to be cold, dark and wet.
I needn't have bothered, apparently: our weather was freakishly awesome.
Because I had plenty of time and love to tool around in the boonies, I opted for possibly the least-direct route to the coast I could have chosen. I never once got on the freeway, and instead took the main road right behind my house far out into the country until it connected with Highway 99W, and then took that south all the way to Junction City, just north of Eugene, where I headed off on Oregon 126 to Florence, passing through the megalopoli of Blachly, Swisshome and Triangle Lake. (And right now I am counting my lucky stars that the starter didn't conk out and the timing belt didn't snap until after I got back home.) In Florence I had a quick stop for a snack and then lazily headed north on 101 the 26 miles to Yachats, stopping for a stretch and some photos at Washburne State Park.
I was eagerly anticipating a hot cup of excellent coffee at the Green Salmon Cafe in Yachats, which unfortunately closed at 2:00, just a couple of minutes before I rolled into town. I spent the next hour or so wandering around until meeting up with Glenn at our rental cabin.
If DJ ever tires of his bohemian Manhattan lifestyle, he can settle into this ready-made gift shop and massage parlor on the Oregon Coast.
As it was low tide, we hurried quickly down to the beach behind the hotel, but it wasn't super spectacular. After splashing around there and introducing ourselves to an older gay couple there for Valentine's Day weekend, I took Glenn a few miles south to Cape Perpetua for some more dramatic views in the twilight.
After that we went back into town for dinner and retired to the cabin to sit and read and talk next to the fire. I gave myself special dispensation to break my Lenten fast and enjoyed a bottle of Eola Hills 2006 Special Reserve Oregon Pinot Noir. Mmmmmm.
Following deep conversation (e.g., did "time" exist before the big bang? and mutually lamenting growing up with "pre-trib" fathers) we settled into our respective beds for deep, peaceful sleep.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
What Do Hillary and My Car* Have in Common?
Remember the last time I drove to Yachats and the car broke down?
This time Mabel the Sable waited until I got back to Portland to die. Wasn't that thoughtful of her? A weekend at the beach with a good friend and great weather? Priceless. Trip to the mechanic? $464.
On the plus side, we continue to edge closer to that bright future when someone randomly puts down their martini and says, "Hey, what the hell ever happened to Hillary Clinton?"
Today basically sucked up one side and back down the other, and not in a good way, so I'm retiring to bed early with some gentle music, a candle and a nice escapist book and two cuddly cats. In the meantime, here's a couple of photos to "tide" you over. (Ah, beach puns.)
(* Though, to be fair, I doubt Hillary has an "Obama '08" bumpersticker on her ass.)
This time Mabel the Sable waited until I got back to Portland to die. Wasn't that thoughtful of her? A weekend at the beach with a good friend and great weather? Priceless. Trip to the mechanic? $464.On the plus side, we continue to edge closer to that bright future when someone randomly puts down their martini and says, "Hey, what the hell ever happened to Hillary Clinton?"
Today basically sucked up one side and back down the other, and not in a good way, so I'm retiring to bed early with some gentle music, a candle and a nice escapist book and two cuddly cats. In the meantime, here's a couple of photos to "tide" you over. (Ah, beach puns.)
(* Though, to be fair, I doubt Hillary has an "Obama '08" bumpersticker on her ass.)
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