"It's Not in the P-I"

My friend Neal has a fantastic review of the newsy play up on his blog. Give it a read here.

Ephemeral Art at the Henry Gift Shop

Today I visited the Henry to see the last night of the installation "I know, I know" by Jenny Zwick and Joe Park. When I arrived, neither of them were around- but their life size cut outs were. Their faces and bodies were projected on to wooden silhouettes and anchored on a boat marooned in the left corner of the Henry gift shop. Below the boat, a strobe light and wind-blown metallic strips simulated a stormy sea.

Jenny and Joe hadn't worked together before this installation. Their names were drawn out of a hat by Gift Shop curator Matthew Offenbacher and then they were given two weeks to come up with a piece to entice gallery-goers.

According to Regina Hackett, the two vendors who ran the Henry's gift shop went belly-up, providing the imputes for Offenbacher's whimsical gift shop project. Offenbacher hopes the exhibitions at the shop will "fall like dominoes: a cascading cavalcade of adventurous, collaborative, celebratory artistic energy."

I dinked around the space, touching the artist's installation drawings on the wall and eating Offenbacher's delicious (and spicy) chocolate cookies.

Jenny and Joe arrived and began to unpack their ukeleles and banjos. "What a beautiful ukele!" exclaimed Betsy Brock, the Henry's communications director. "Did you know that they sell combination ukele-banjos in Seattle?" Jenny said, before unearthing a tiny wind blown piano (called a "melodica").

Jenny Zwick began to strum the banjo and Betsy began to sing. Since the piece was an open installation, any visitor could come in and sing along. Most of the folks who wandered in looked confused - but pleased.

After singing the same song for almost half an hour, Betsy brought out ukelele-versions of songs by Radiohead, the Magnetic Fields and Rihanna. They were a hit.

"I have an urge to drum something" Offenbacher said emphatically. Unable to find a tambourine, he settled for hitting the sides of the marooned boat.

By the time I left the installation, the weather had turned from dreary to dark- but my mind was still somewhere tropical and Hawaiian.

The next artists to be paired up at the Henry are Claire Cowie, Sol Hashemi and Jason Hirata. Their installation launches November 20th. You should go.

"The Last American Virgin"

Last night I had the awful pleasure of watching one of the awfulest of all awful 80's movies with my friend Bettina. The movie was called "The Last American Virgin" (awful!) and you should think of it as the pervy godfather to American Pie, except even more gratuitously insulting towards women. I guess the film was supposed to make me feel wistful about my own adolescence but it just made me feel really shitty about the 1980's, which were obviously the Worst Time Ever to have a genuine human heart and a non-boner-related friendship with a girl.

The plot centered around three high school younguns on their quest to stick their boners in women. The boys hit on a Charo-esque older foreign woman, a bunch of young, giggly nymph classmates and a homeless prostitute. Throughout it all: crotch shots (so many!) and supremely creepy guy behavior.

Even though the film was pretending to be a fable about failed romance with chicks, it was actually a really long movie about "what not to do" to women. Like, "don't stop talking to a girl just because she's pregnant WITH YOUR CHILD!" and "don't 'do' an older lady just because you think it'll be 'funny.'"

As far as the directing goes, must we record every guffaw in emotional slo-mo? Can't we trust audiences enough to recognize a sad face? The 80's obviously didn't trust their child stars enough. This movie makes "The Suite Life of Zack and Cody" look like Sesame Street.

I hereby nominate "The Last American Virgin" for inclusion in this festival for terrible movies.

The Profundity of 'America's Next Top Model'

This blog proves that the secrets to the universe can be found in watching the most crack head moments of ANTM on repeat. Seriously, though, this is a scary universe. Imagine what it would be like to be surrounded by people who were whipping out the craziest, most expressive faces so that their televisual identities didn't end up on the cutting room floor. Imagine if your face = your career. Think about your face right now. Is it doing something a little bit unattractive? Do you maybe look constipated when you're concentrating on something? Do you have an inner life that makes your face occasionally inaccessible? Boom! CUT! I think I would end up crouched in a corner crying, which would then, in a cruel twist of fate, end up in the show.

U.S.E.! (or "All About the Time My Friend and I Crashed the World's Hippest Bar Mitzvah Party")

Last night I went to see U.S.E. at the Vera Project. I really, really liked U.S.E. when I was in high school, and I wanted to see if I'd still like 'em. Would their giddy back-up girls, roboman vocodor piano dude and general Bahamas crack house vibe still gel with me? Or would I feel as old and judgy as the crinkly curmudgeon grandpa in "Up"?

My friend and I started our evening at "The Sitting Room," which is a caramel cube of a space filled with warm theater folks drinking theatrically, and somewhere that's waayy off-limits to most Vera-goers. My friend and I talked about therapy, and careers, and friendship. It was a total "late twenties" kind of talk, and the Vera project felt like a weird place to go to afterward. I felt like I was about to crash someone else's Bar Mitzvah party.

Entering the Vera was like entering a secret club seized by hipster 'tweens. Together we pushed our way through the throngs of kids in the lobby (dressed like peacocks, sailors, robots and sticks of bacon) and entered Vera's main hall: a dark auditorium with large murals and booths to sit and eat. To our left: a trio of skinny Japanese 20-somethings wearing sequined shirts and signing posters. We'd missed the first act.

After a bit of time, U.S.E. flooded the stage with balloons and began dinking around with their equipment. The place was maybe an eighth full, but I didn't care about the lack of warm bodies. I was determined to be transported to some magical, tropical place.

It worked. I was transported, if only for a few minutes. The band played a series of songs from their new album (yawn) before finally giving in and whipping out the classics (yay!). I believe yes, it does suck to have to play the same song over and over again that you probably wrote one night, when you were 17, on a crazy acid trip, but, in the end, looking out at a sea of people shaking their butts and closing their eyes and twirling, because of something you're doing with your fingers and throats must make it all worthwhile.

Everyone was dancing, except for one overweight boy in front of us who looked perplexed by the whole affair. I wanted to grab him by his shoulders and yell at him. "I know you're having a bad time, but DON'T get into blogging, you hear?"

Near the end of the set, I grabbed my friend's hand and decided to be one of those annoying people who snakes their way to the front row. In no time at all, we were staring at a tapping, sequined shoe. It was awesome, and that was before the confetti strobe light storm.

You Know It's True...

The best interview are the ones where no one is getting along.

Getting Over "The Ring"

I saw "The Ring" when I was a Freshman in high school and it scarred me for weeks. My friends and I sat in the fifth row at Oak Tree Cinemas and tried to laugh but ended up crying. We were all haunted by the sickly, crumbling faces of the people who'd seen the killer cassette. We felt dreadful about life afterward. I remember looking out at the dark and wet Oak Tree parking lot and thinking to myself "DOOM." That night, I turned the television away from my bed. I couldn't handle static of any kind.

Today I'm in a different place, and I can intellectually distance myself from most horror films. In the spirit of distancing, I watched parts 1 through 5 of "The Ring" on Youtube. Obviously, it's harder to be emotionally raped by a film on Youtube. You can pause the film, read some of the New York Times, absorb Gawker gossip and watch the Office on Hulu. You can even play "Legally Blonde: The Musical" during the scene in the mental institution. Terror averted, right?

Well, sort of. The smeary photographs taken of the soon-to-die, the goulish child of Naomi Watts, and the Dali-esque images on the killer cassette still manage to send chills up my spine. But this youtube thread helped me put shit in perspective:

EvilgidgitReturns says:

I wonder how Samara would ring someone if they had no telephone or cellphone.

ihateemosafuckinglot says:

How does that hot mama call people?

Does she have a cell phone in her well with her?

Northgambit sets it straight:

well dude, I guess the writer just assumed that if you have a tv n a vcr, u have a phone. n it's nt real life, get over it.

I'm trying to, Northgambit. I'm trying to.

Rufus

Tonight I set out with my shiny blue iPod, out to the streets of Seattle, to the alleys and forested corners of my neighborhood - Ravenna - crying, openly, publicly, while twirling in place and listening to Rufus Wainwright. I looked drunk, possibly insane, and certainly out-of-place, walking with an over-determined gait and crinkly eyes past the Zeek's Pizza and Bagel Oasis.

I started with the instant tearjerker "Do I Disappoint You?" ducking under trees, and past warm houses. I kept my daze fixed, looking out at the world like a camera set to pan. Rufus's tinkling piano swells either provide the impetus to or background for a divine and completely overwrought emotional breakdown. "Why does it always have to be chaos?" he sings as the trumpets swell. "Sensational. I'm gonna smash my bloody skull. Oh baby no you can't save my soul."

The world looked cold and bleak and beautiful, the leaves on the trees volatile, the air brisk and dangerous. "I will never be as cute as you. According to the board of public relations," Rufus confessed. "I will never fly as high as you, according to the board of public citations." These were just the rules and regulations, he explained, the tempo jutting forth, quickening my pace. Suddenly the swells were wondrous, and I joined Rufus in feeling wonder at the world. Even a little bit of flute felt appropriate. "...and I like everyone, yes I like everyone, must follow."

Then came the sullen boy choir which composes the beginning of "Not Ready to Love." "I'm not ready to love, I'm not ready for peace, I'm giving up the dove to the beast," Rufus croons lightly. "I'm not ready to surrender, to another gloved murderer. I'm not ready to love," he says, the vowels escaping from his throat, but just barely. I could feel it, whatever "it" was. I practically tip toed. "I'm not ready to love the way you should be loved...until I'm ready to hold you...the way you should be held." I nearly melted into the sidewalk at that line, my heart felt so warm and full.

I ended the night with "Between My Legs," pitch black in Ravenna park. Instead of walking into the park, I climbed over the wood fence. My Advil Cold and Sinus was wearing off, and I could feel my headache coming back, but I didn't care. "Again I'm afraid of one thing, will I walk away from love knowing nothing, wearing my heart between my legs." It didn't make sense, it doesn't make sense, the lyrics will never make sense. "But all I can say...is I can find, can faaaa--aaaa---aaaake it," Rufus croons, before diving into a jittery, post-apocalyptic story about rocket ships that fall, and finally "packing up the station wagon"

And then....and then....and then, and then, and then...

...the most beautiful part of the song reveals itself like a clearing in a field. It's all violin and guitar pricks and then...bongo drums help set the stage for the finale. "There's a river, running underground, underneath the town, towards the sea." I'm now climbing on the jungle gym like a teenager on shrooms. Rufus picks up the pace without losing the strain in his voice, "On which from this city, we can flee."

I jump off the jungle gym, and wander dazedly back towards 65th and the rest of civilization. I do one last twirl (a flute begged me to) before returning to a regular-person stride. My gaze is still blurry and all I can see is the light and warmth of the buildings in front of me. But my shoulders have lightened. My headache is gone.

Why Berlin is the Best Place to Be Gay in the Entire Universe

I fart on you Amsterdam, London, Madrid and New York. Berlin is the best damn gay city around. Travel guides don't do it justice. Germany's capitol city is the sexiest, smartest and artiest place to be gay in the entire world. Here are some main points to drill home in your power point presentation:

Berlin's Mayor is a Gay!

Klaus Wowereit, mayor of Berlin, is a sexy bitch. He's also a total 'mo. In 2001, prior to the mayoral elections, he famously said, "I'm gay and that's okay," which is a great line because it rhymes. Previously, the largest city with an openly gay mayor was Manitoba, which doesn't really count. Wowereit is a charming, older gay man who knows how to party- he was once famously photographed drinking champagne from an actress's red pump. In the past two years, he has signed an official welcome message for gathering fetishists that has raised the ire of Christian democrats, but Klaus doesn't give a fuck. "We are proud that people of varied origins and predilections feel at home in our city and celebrate together. The first weekend in September will be marked by pure joie de vivre," he wrote to the leather and latex festival's organizers. When, I ask you, has an American mayor ever even openly considered the concept of "joie de vivre"? Never. Instead of getting down and out about the lack of economic riches in his city (Berlin is poorer than poor) the mayor simply says "we are poor but sexy." Yes, yes, yes you are.

Berlin Has More Than One Hundred Gay Bars and Cafes!

So many! In Mitte! In Schoneberg! In Charlottenburg! In Prenzlauerberg! The Gays have conquered the whole damn city! Walk into any bar in Berlin and you're likely to meet people from Austria, Barcelona, Russia, New York, even Israel. The Gays even have their own frickin museum, in Kreuzberg. What the fuck! On any given night, there are over forty gay events to choose from (cultural, clubbing, snozzing) and the monthly magazine listing these events, Siegessaule, is so thick that it feels like you're opening a September issue of Vogue. Suck it, Ms. Wintour!

Berlin Throws Amazing Parties!

Have you ever wanted to dance on the top floor of a converted office building? Check out NBI club near the Prenzlauerberg station. Technoholics will much appreciate the Berghain: a massive dance club set in a former power plant on the border between Fredrichshain and Kreuzberg. At full capacity, it can hold 1,500 sweaty bodies. The party doesn't stop until 8am, when the shudders open to reveal a burst of sunlight. Those looking for calmer nights might want to check out the pop quiz parties at Hafen or the general awesomeness of Heile Welt- both laid back gay bars that attract a potpourri of different kinds of people.

Berlin is "Intellectual"!

Berlin makes being an intellectual look cool. Wander around Rosenthaler Platz and you're likely to find scores of artists, students, and academic types lounging about drinking coffee and talking about art and music. Mobel Olfe, a bar near the Kotbusser Tor stop, is full of these types of gays. You'll have conversations for days. For a heady dose of post-drag performance art, check out Chantal's House of Shame at Bassy club. Rockstar performance artists like Vaginal Creme Davis provide mindfucking entertainment for a thoroughly enlightened crowd. No pretense, come as you are - Berlin shuns the typical gay caste system (based on looks, not brains!) so oppressive in most mainstream American gay clubs.

Berlin is Cheap As Fuck!

The Circus, an arty traveler's hostel in Rosenthaler Platz, is a fine option for those staying a few nights in Berlin. Rates hover around 20 euros a night, the rooms are clean, smell nice, and many come with private balconies. The hostel is also just a hop and skip away from the subway, and near Augustrasse - by far the best street for art galleries. Wander into Kunst Werke for exhibitions that rival PS1. If you're looking to stay for a while, skip craigslist and go straight to wg-gesucht.de - a local student housing website. There, you can find apartments for as low as 250 euros a month (about 400 dollars). A lot of the cheaper rents these days are in places like Neukolln, which is a Turkish neighborhood still close enough to all the action. If you don't know German and can't understand the website, you can always copy and paste the text on Google translate and see what happens. Usually you'll get at least a rough sketch of what the site is trying to say.

Typcasting the Gays

The New Gay, a hipsterish alt gay blog in D.C., just posted this wonderful D.C. field guide for gay people. Check out "The Capitol Hill Fag":

2. THE CAPITOL HILL FAG
Habitat: Halo, A Happy Hour Near You, The Closet

The Fag most likely to follow dinner with his girlfriend with a night of fevered craigslist dick-shopping, this is the DC Fag that gives all other DC Fags a slightly-worse name. Even when not closeted, their undying ambition for a political future will lead them to conduct themselves in a manner usually reserved for Victorian royalty. They will not so much as speak of marijuana in public or use the group shower at their gym in fear that it will damage their 2024 bid for City Council.

They are often indistinguishable in appearance from regular gay people, and such are most easily identified through their vocal patterns. They will invoke the name of their obscure gubernatorial employer as a pickup line and blanch visibly if you do not recognize the California State Educational Comptroller by name and face. The more buttoned up the outward appearance, the dirtier the creature within. That clean-shaven blonde guy in the seersucker suit will ask you to take a dump in his fishtank while he calls his mother.

I lived in D.C. for two years, met all of the fags on this list, and can tell you with authority that Zack's humorous analysis is spot-on. And the whole blog is great.

Thanks to Eli for the heads up!

Judging College Websites

Ew. Since the dawn of the internet, universities have tried to woo prospective students with official (or anti-official) looking websites. Come: let's judge books by their covers!

The New School:



Are you a college? A sidewalk? Are you Bansky? Do you exist? Where do you hold classes? Out on the streets? What do you learn about? Hot dogs and garbage?

"I love being able to bounce ideas off my classmates," says a pensive Marie Clare Brush, BFA candidate in fashion design. Is that like a head shot? Are you a model?

So, you're on Youtube. And twitter! (sample tweet: 'Tell Us Why You Chose The New School - Enter on our Facebook Page to Win a New iPod Nano!') But you also have a flickr page, like some struggling music photographer.

Is this a myspace profile? Can I date you? You're kinda hot. I'm confused.

The George Washington University:



Scrolling flashy web-updates, messages from Michael Moore, Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama, information on Swine Flu....what is this, the Huffington Post?

Why are you holding paint brushes, Michelle Obama and various children? Do you want to remodel my bedroom? And what does George Washington have to do with all this? Was he particularly good at remodeling bedrooms? Are you his slaves?

What is a foggy bottom? Is that like farting? What's refreshing about it?

Questions! All I have is questions for you, GW! And yet, you remain mysteriously silent. I think I'm going to have to go to CNN and tell them you couldn't be reached for comment.

New York University:



You're an arch in a garden. Are you a monument? A park?

Are there rules for sitting in your park? You seem to have lots of rules.

And where are all the human beings? Everyone's face has been blurred out, except for the man at the very bottom of the screen. Do you like human beings? Or are you more of a monuments kind of place?


Vassar:



Are you a forest? Is there a laboratory in your forest? Do you make hella bombs? Are you a nuclear facility? Am I in Hanford? You're quite a pretty nuclear facility. Do trees make things easier? Is bicycling like reading a book?

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to read you or print you out and tack you on to the wall. Maybe that's the point? Maybe you're a dream?


Brigham Young University:



I think you're trying to be "urban" and "edgy." You have buildings. You have old people and skeletons and soccer. They don't "connect." You are a collection of disparate topics, loosely related and thrown on to a website. You are governmental, bureaucratic, set in stone. Your font is internet 1.0. You're a beta vision of school websites. I want to penetrate your cold exterior, but you're totally weirding me out with all of your mixed signals.

Oxford:



You are an index, a library, a catalog of ideas. You're the kind of museum where everything is in storage. You don't care about the internet. You care so little about the internet that you use pixelated stock photos of wiry people to advertise something as important as a flu vaccine (why are colleges convinced everyone visiting their websites has the flu?) You don't need to advertise yourself, and you want to make it clear that you don't need to advertise yourself, which is kind of like advertising yourself as someone who doesn't care about advertising yourself. Analyzing your homepage just now made me 3% smarter, which was probably you're sneaky goal to begin with.

Oberlin:



You are Facebook, you are Flickr, you are casually dressed, you have children, you have fun, you're a cool mom, you don't care too much about status, you don't try to pose in photos, you don't even change what you're doing when there's a photographer around, you stand in rivers, you like America, you learn through play, you like babies...you're basically a forty-year-old high school Literary Arts teacher who tries to train her students to be cultural relativists. You make me feel excited and also a little bit nervous and unprepared and misanthropic.

We're Filming A Parody of "The September Issue"

...it will debut in the next few days. Stay tuned.

Disturbing Video of the Day

I'm all for helping children avoid sexual predators, but there's something about this video that seems a little ineffective. Maybe it's the fact that the actors seem to be having a little too much fun attempting to sound like child rapists (just check out the shit-eating grin on the balding man in the car who tries to coerce the camera into being in a "movie" with him. Or the middle aged lady who calls out "Le boy! Come help me with my groceries, le boy!" Or the line "I'll kill your dog" delivered in deadpan).

Then there's the unfortunate wording of what to avoid in order to not be raped (getting a job, being a playmate, having fun...) that might be a bit confusing to a child who's told by his parents to do all of these things. Mixed messages, guys, mixed messages.

The video also makes the entire world look like it's crawling with sexual predators (on the streets! in the park! at the store! at YOUR HOUSE!) which, I don't know, might scare the bejesus out of a small child.

The Stranger Smart DVD is available on Amazon.com (check out that five star review!) and can be yours for just one low payment of $1.50! Special narration by Kareem Abdul Jabbar. I'm serious.

Lily Allen Wants to Be Your Fag Hag

Oh My God

Entertainment Weekly's Owen Gleiberman gives Tucker Max's new movie a B+

The film is consistently fun, and Tucker's comeuppance will leave you gasping (if not gagging) with laughter.

What. The fuck.

President Obama Includes Gay Parents in Family Day Speech

"Our family provides one of the strongest influences on our lives. American families from every walk of life have taught us time and again that children raised in loving, caring homes have the ability to reject negative behaviors and reach their highest potential. Whether children are raised by two parents, a single parent, grandparents, a same-sex couple, or a guardian, families encourage us to do our best and enable us to accomplish great things. Today, our children are confronting issues of drug and alcohol use with astonishing regularity. On Family Day, we honor the dedication of parents, commend the achievements of their children, and celebrate the contributions our Nation's families have made to combat substance abuse among young people."

Thank you, Towleroad.

Why Fraternities Are Historically Homophobic

From an essay on Salon:

...Once dating came about, being popular with the ladies meant you were a big man on campus. And to attract more of these big men, the frat brothers had to identify the would-be campus hunks in their applicant pool. You know, without other dudes thinking they were queer.

Thus frat boys overcompensated for their "shared living, bathing, sleeping and erotic hazing practice," which "might be perceived by outsiders as either feminine or gay behavior," by promoting a culture "that takes aggressive heterosexuality as one of its constitutive elements."

I never realized that a fraternity rush is basically America's Next Top Model for straight dudes. Of course, times have also changed the ways guys look at each other, and there's more of an acceptance now that even straight men can appreciate another man's hotness. And many are now smart enough to link "aggressive heterosexuality" to closeted homosexuality.

Gay Kiss-In Staged at Parisian Shopping Center

Beautiful:

Facebook: The Movie

Starring Justin Timberlake. Seriously.

Windows House Party: Come Get it!

Black Man: Oh man am I having fun in this hizz-ouse. What's that you got over there?

Grandma: Why it's this computer doo-dad thingamabobber.

Black Man: What do you do with it? Stick it in the oven?

Grandma: Ahahahahahahaha! No.

Forty Year Old Woman: Hey dudes! I am home now!

Black Man, grandma: Hey girl! Go on get it! Strut that stuff!

Grandma: Check out this thing I bought! It has a screen and makes me want to party!

Black Man: I love to party. And by that i mean: do drugs.

Grandma, Forty year old woman: Ahahahahaha!

Black Man: I'm serious. I need help.

Grandma: I like this piece of technology because it has a screen with things called windows where you can plan games and stuff.

Forty year old woman: That's cool. I like...stuff.

Grandma, Black man: Ahahahahaha! Thats sooo funny, so do we!

Forty Year Old Woman: Ahahahaha!

Grandma, Black Man: Ahahahaha!

Grandma: Man. Talking about technology is fun!

Forty Year Old Woman: I know, right? This piece of technology is a real party in a box.

Black Man: I hear you, girl.

Grandma: Fo-shizzle.

Forty Year Old Woman: Wait. What are we even talking about?

Grandma: If you're having friends over, make sure they stroke the machine and touch it all over. It's really important.

Forty Year Old Woman: That sounds a little strange.

Grandma: ...and stroke your nipples while touching the screen. Otherwise, what will guests do when they come to your party? Talk to each other? Talk is cheap. Cheaper than your mom.

Grandma: Ahahaha!

Forty Year Old Woman: Ahahahaha!

Black Man: AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA! I win.

Grandma: Can you believe how fun it is to talk in the kitchen about the launch of new technologies that will forever change the way we party and play games forever?

Forty Year Old Woman: When I die, will you record a little video on that piece of technology and send it over the internet to my parents? I think they like to party with this thing, too.

Grandma: Of course I will, sweetheart.

Black Man: This is fun.

Grandma: We are fun.

Forty Year Old Woman: Life is fun.

Black Man: I am a man.

Forty Year Old Woman: You ARE a man.

Black Man: A REAL man.

Grandma: Sing it, son!

Forty Year Old Woman: I'm really glad they picked us, a bunch of weirdos, to film this commercial. It really says a lot about this company that they picked us.

Grandma: I agree. We're all registered sex offenders, too! It was really quite the gamble.

Forty Year Old Woman: Sometimes, gambles really pay off.

Grandma: You said it.

Black Man: Cheers!

Grandma: L'chaim!

Black Man: Buy Shutters! It will change your life forever!

Grandma: Ha ha ha ha! Shut up, black man. Don't oversell it. I will cut you.


Have you been inspired by the Windows commercial from hell? My friend, Anna Roth, is compiling a fan fiction blog with works based on the characters from the Windows house party. Her blog is here. Send her your ideas and she'll put 'em on a website. Bonus: she's an amazing editor.

Now Playing at Western Bridge

A family drama set in multiple Ikea showrooms:



Israeli artist Guy Ben Nur makes Ikea living rooms look like foreign lands we enter into. In his film "Stealing Beauty," now playing at Western Bridge, he comments on the stark reality of remaining an immigrant in your own bedroom (your bed frame designed in Sweden, assembled in China, and sold just off I-5). He wants us to see the ridiculous dreams we attach to furniture. But Ner isn't content to simply satirize the American dream home. He also weaves in Marxist speeches, hilarious camera faux-paus, and visual gags into his work (check out the giant price tags and alien-like stock photos in the picture frames). The results transcend typical consumerist critiques.

Now playing at Western Bridge as part of a series of installations on the relationships between parents and children.

Michael Moore's New Film

It's a stinker, says Slate:

...As soon as Moore takes on larger and slipperier issues, his gray-area-free moral clarity starts to feel like a dodge. The opening titles take place over security-camera footage of bank robberies, making clear Moore's opinion of the financial bailout: In his eyes, Henry Paulson and his former Wall Street cronies are stickup artists, pure and simple. However outraged one may be about the corporate greed that led the banking system to the verge of collapse, it seems disingenuous to imply that the collapse would not have happened had nothing been done. Even left-leaning economists argued for the necessity of some kind of rescue package, a reality that Moore ignores entirely. (By chopping up her interview into unfairly small sound bites, he even makes Elizabeth Warren, the tireless watchdog who heads the Congressional Oversight Panel, look like a do-nothing bureaucrat.)

In the movie's most painfully redundant scenes, Moore approaches the Manhattan headquarters of Goldman Sachs and other investment banks and stands outside with a bag, asking the doorman to let him in to reclaim America's money. Now that 20 years have passed since his first film, Roger and Me, can we all just agree to tap into our collective memory of these moments when Moore is refused entry into corporate high-rises by polite and embarrassed doormen (all of whom belong to the working class he so loves to champion)? We get it, Mike: The head of GM will not see you. The chairman of Goldman Sachs will not see you. The secretary of the U.S. Treasury will not see you. Waste any more footage on this tired gag, and your loyal fan base may start to feel the same way.

...Once again, Moore's goodhearted aims come into direct conflict with his bludgeoning tactics.

Glee's Football Team Puts A Ring on It

Who hasn't looked out at a boring football game and wondered what it would be like if all the players started freak dancing together? Not you? You haven't had this fantasy? Well, aren't you great. Aren't you fantastic. But this has definitely been a fantasy of mine. And now my fantasy has come true (suck it, Disneyland!) because Glee has finally infected the straight men, too. This show is fast becoming the most ridiculous, nonsensically funny thing on teevee.

Are We Really Still Having This Conversation?

Emily Gould has a post up about the fearful relationship between old-guard writers and "the Internet."

T Cooper fears that unedited, ill-thought-out online reading and writing is crowding out the curated, edited writing that appears on the printed page. He doesn’t, he says, want to see a review of Keith’s book next to a picture of your cat. He is uninterested in kitty pix in general. The idea of a Twitter novel makes him want to “kill himself.” He said that he didn’t understand why people thought other people wanted to hear about what they ate for breakfast, clearly expecting a laugh from the audience that only sort of came. (That was when I started to cringe and think of Angie Tempura.) Nunez nodded vehemently: “I always tell my writing students that your first draft is like vomit — it doesn’t smell good and no one should see it but you!” she said. Both authors shook their heads in saddened disbelief about why anyone wants to spew their vomity rough drafts all over the internet for the world to see. They complained about being encouraged by their publishers to blog, to Tweet. They resisted the undignified idea that they would be forced to be available to their readers via online presences that they themselves would have to participate in creating. At this point, an audience member asked all the panelists how involved they had been in their books’ marketing campaigns. I don’t remember exactly what Cooper said but he seemed to regret that he’d had to be involved at all. In general the idea seemed to be that book marketing ought to be something that an omniscient, dogged employee of one’s publisher does while the author remains behind the scenes, unsullied by hustling.

What is the problem here? I just can't seem to wrap my head around this one. Blogs are good....stream-of-conscious journaling is good.....sharing your writing is good....more writers in America processing their shit online is good. What, exactly, is so goddamn shameful about a blog?

30 Rock Will Be Back on Air in Two Weeks

And if you're as obsessed as I am, you will surely appreciate this segment about the drunk, heroin-addicted improv coach who guided Ms. Fey (as well as Jim Belushi, John Candy, Rachel Dratch, Amy Poehler, Gilda Radner and Andy Richter) towards fame via self-humiliation.

Have You Seen the Newish Justice Music Video?

Take it away, LA Times:

There are plenty of gasp-worthy moments in the French electronica duo Justice's video for "Stress": when one of its becrucifixed teenage bangers, all notably black, Middle Eastern or North African, gropes a woman in a train station; when another smacks a cafe owner in the face with a bottle; when the whole gang whales on a police officer with his own baton. But the most telling moment is its one instance of levity; the gang steals a car and, supremely annoyed by Justice's hit "D.A.N.C.E." on the radio, kicks the dashboard to pieces.

It's a clever, self-deprecating gag, but entirely symptomatic of the spirit of this horrifically compelling video from director Romain Gavras, which debuted two weeks ago to instant controversy on Kanye West's blog. The clip's merits lie solely in the aesthetic power of its allusions and references. In this case, the video gestures at the 2005 riots that swept through the Parisian suburbs and painfully underscored the deep division of race, class and religion in what many outsiders saw as a model society.

The duo admitted in a press release about the clip that "we have neither the intention nor the legitimacy to express ourselves, in any in-depth way, on social issues." If that's truly the case, then Justice has made an irresponsible and intentionally thoughtless video that does nothing to further understanding, empathy or clarity of the issues they gesture at here. That makes "Stress" a powerful but truly failed piece of art. "Opening up debate" is a good start for a piece of art's goals -- it's the height of laziness to call it an end point.

But, as my friend Emma Tupper pointed out, isn't the whole point of the video to make the audience simultaneously attracted to, and repelled by, their own racism and obsession with violence? And if putting audiences through that kind of mental torture is somehow lazy art, what does that say about movies like "A Clockwork Orange"?

This Looks Amazing

The Spin on Obama's Foreign Policy

...is, of course, complete and utter hogwash.

Obama's promise was and is a re-branding of America (which was the primary reason I supported him). Of course, if you are a neocon, you see no need to rebrand after Gitmo, Iraq, Bagram and Abu Ghraib. Torture and pre-emptive wars waged on false pretenses are things to be proud of. But if you are capable of absorbing complicated reality, you realize that such a re-branding was essential if the US were to dig itself out of the Bush-Cheney ditch and to advance its interests by defter means than raw violence and occupation.

The neocons still think the world is a wretched place and America is the only salvation. They deplore diplomacy. They think diplomacy is akin to "being weak." Andrew Sullivan tears into that argument:

Confidence is not the same thing as weakness. It is better understood, I think, as a rational attempt to seek self-interest through international cooperation, to see the US less as the hegemon than as the facilitator. If it works, it will be a breakthrough. If it works.

Seattle Could Use a Superintendent Like Michelle Rhee

Washington needs to begin to objectively assess the skills of our teachers. Michelle Rhee, the bad-ass, earth-scorching, unapologetic new superintendent of D.C. public schools has been firing all the district's bad teachers, and is now looking to create a system that will provide monetary incentives for good teaching. She looks down at the ways we let teachers off the hook. Just listen to this bad-assery:

"People come to me all the time and say, 'Why did you fire this person?'" she says..."'She's a good person. She's a nice person.' I'm like, 'O.K., go tell her to work at the post office.' Just because you're a nice person and you mean well does not mean you have a right to a job in this district."

Why haven't we already fired all the bad teachers from our schools? Because parents at failing schools aren't invested and principles are too scared to cause of conflict:

"What I'm finding is that our principals are ridiculously--like ridiculously--conflict-averse," Rhee says. "They know someone is not so good, and they want to give him a 'Meets expectations' anyway because they don't want to deal with the person coming into the office and yelling and getting the parents riled up."

Good teachers, few and far between, are not "normal people." They are great seducers. They lull you into learning. Forget the backs of their heads- they have eyes in their shoulders, too, and ears that hear every piece of chatter. They demand complete and utter absorption:

Most of all, they are in a hurry. They never feel that there is enough time in the day. They quiz kids on their multiplication tables while they walk to lunch. And they don't give up on their worst students, even when any normal person would.

In essence: you have to be an egomaniacal, audaciously hopeful, ridalin-popping stress junkie to be one of the good teachers. And how much should these superhumans be rewarded?

Earlier this year, [Rhee] proposed a revolutionary new model to let teachers choose between two pay scales. They could make up to $130,000 in merit pay on the basis of their effectiveness--in exchange for giving up tenure for one year. Or they could keep tenure and accept a smaller raise. (Currently, the average teacher's salary in Washington is $65,902.)

I love this idea. $130,000! Now that's a competitive salary. Seattle's schools aren't in quite as deplorable condition but why not start creating a meritocracy here? Bad teachers will complain and, if we have any guts whatsoever, we'll refuse to listen.

Being Out in High School is Still "Provocative"

The New York Times cover story this week is all about how gay people are coming out younger and younger. That's not to say that there's anything perfect about being a 13-year-old gay boy.

Here's a Mom talking about the homophobic bullying at her son's school:

“...I spent the entire year in the principal’s office trying to get them to protect my son. But they would say things like, ‘Well, what did he do to provoke them?’ We live in a very conservative area with very vocal parents, and I believe the school didn’t want to be seen as going out of their way at all to protect a gay student.”

What could a gay person do to "provoke" a homophobe? Just about anything. That's the thing about homophobia: it's all about shifting blame from you, the homophobe, to someone who's "provoking" you. You're not anti-gay, you just don't want to be provoked by the gays into, oh, I don't know, wearing cone boobs and singing Mariah Carey, or whatever it is fags do.

By far the most common usage of the word “gay” in middle schools is in the expression “that’s so gay,” a popular adolescent phrase that means that something is dumb or lame. The phrase has become so ubiquitous in the culture of the average middle school that even friends of gay students sometimes use it. Still, the expression is offensive to many, and last year Glsen and the Ad Council embarked on a media campaign to combat it. (Glsen would have preferred to go after more incendiary language, “but broadcasters would be very reluctant to let us say the word ‘faggot’ on television,” Eliza Byard, Glsen’s executive director, told me.)

The problem with fighting the expression "That's So Gay" is the fact that many things are, in fact, pretty gay. We shouldn't ban people from saying gay as if it's some kind of swear word. If a book is pink, and that reminds you of homosex, you should be able to say that it's gay. It's a colloquial term, and I agree it's ridiculously offensive when used negatively, but banning it from usage will just make it seem hipper and funnier.

Still, the ending killed me. This is the author talking about a dad who took his young son to their city's pride parade:

"He doesn’t totally understand why Austin is gay, or how he can know for sure at his age, but he’s trying to be there for him. And he’s rarely seen Austin happier than at the parade. Austin warned his dad, ‘You can’t get mad at me when I scream at cute guys in Speedos!’ And boy, did Austin scream. He was in gay teenage heaven.”

Aw, shoo. Straight dads taking their gay sons to pride parades? You done made me cry a little bit, NYT.

On Tavern Law

What's behind the speakeasy trend? Tavern Law's upstairs looks like a set for a 50's movie, and not in a good way. It's long on ostentation, short on charm. Knee High has good intentions, but the space is overly spartan. Why do we want to pretend drinking is illegal? There's nothing particularly sexy about old America's hypocritical relationship to alcohol.

Mount Vernon is Giving Glenn Beck the Keys to the City

Who's going to throw the first shoe?

Guide to the Citizens of Seattle

Inside the Heads of the People You See on the Street

Monotonous Barista at Cafe Ladro

This man emigrated from the land of Northern Idaho where he was taught that the Dodo birds died off because they practiced sodomy. Now, he's often quiet because there's just too much to say and he doesn't want to scare people away by being "too much". Better to be a quiet, humble barista warming up snickerdoodles in microwaves for soccer moms wearing Patagonia. He longs to express more emotion, preferably while playing guitar in front of a cute girl. Sadly, he cannot be surgically attached to a guitar so that every time he gets sad he has an "outlet" available immediately, with no searching around. Things that haven't adequately provoked emotions: stream-of-conscious journaling, RomComs and trying to picture dead puppies. He genuinely enjoys helping people, and doesn't understand why some of his coworkers can be so cynical about their jobs. He believes newspaper take the fun out of going to concerts. He used to feel all romantic and longing while staring at the Seattle skyline on the drive to downtown, but now he just sees a collection of buildings. This reflects a generally expanding malaise, and he's still not sure if it's something he should be worried about.


Young Man Wearing I-Pod with Sports Wristband at U-Village

This man just read Ekhart Toll's new book and went to the Landmark Forum and read "The Secret" so you'd better watch what kind of energy you send out around him or he might classify you, vaguely, as "negative". If you were a demographer for an advertising agency, he'd probably fall into the category of middle-aged, middle-class woman because he also appreciates Oprah, eats cupcakes and is excited that Project Runway is now on Lifetime. You can tease him about his "self-help addiction" but he's really just trying to find a way to love his depressing Mom and shitty (okay, "unenlightened"), emotionally distanced room mates.


Excitable Musical Theater Girl Talking with her Friend at Espresso Express

All this girl wants to do is share a few youtube videos with you, okay? This one will be funnier, really. In all seriousness, though, this girl appreciates the Glee remix of "Gold Digger" better than the original. There's just something so pure about a Carnegie-Mellon-trained vibrato. This girl is convinced that, astrologically, she's meant to be having more exciting experiences than the ones she's having right now. Can't things just be a little more exciting? That's why she has 2,000 photos on Facebook. Not because she's an egomaniac, but because it's important to have an exciting life. And maintain eye contact. Even with cats. Researchers have proven this.

Teenage Girl at Urban Outfitters on the Ave

Past friends have charged that this girl "sticks her head in the sand" when the going gets rough. You could say she doesn't always know what to do when people around her are upset. But, what the hell, she's only in high school. And who really knows who they are in high school? She's buying a kitschy book in the front of the store just because she's had it in her head since 9am today that she'd feel productive if she just bought something from Urban Outfitters. Things she doesn't understand: her brother's copy of Adbusters and why a friend called her needy. She likes the way time collapses when she's on the phone, and the way her boyfriend teases her, gently, when she gets really upset about something.

4'7", 80-Year-Old Woman Walking Around Greenlake

Doctors said she couldn't, but she is. She actually kind of likes the way the air fills with the smell of goose poop right around the Bath House theater. She misses her son, who left for Baltimore, and her dog, who died of cancer. She doesn't really understand why talking about someone is considered gossiping. Nobody ever thought that way in New York. Why do they feel that way here? She's just curious. She wishes her daughter would at least pretend to be interested in the things she talks about on the phone. That way, she'd know that she cared about her feelings, if not the things themselves. Sometimes she gets scared that the stories she's constructed about her husband might actually be true. But it's been a while since he acted that distanced, and maybe some sex on the side would actually be good for him. None of her friends would understand, but she's actually okay with the idea of him cheating. As long as they aren't watching movies together. She's the one who gets to watch movies with him. That's important.


Old Man Wearing Biking Gear at Safeway

This man is distracted because he's about to meet with his life coach. Every thought he's been having, he now thinks, just a second later, "I wonder what my life coach would say?" and it's kind of ruining moments for him, and his ability to cope with things on his own. Friends have called him "over-analytical" but he thinks he's just being helpful, shedding light, bringing clarity, etc. He's okay with the fact that things aren't incredibly happy at home because they're comfortable, and they could be a lot worse. Some people have nothing, and it's hard to feel bad about yourself when, really, you do have something. There was a point in his life when he was able to just sit and write and be totally absorbed for hours. He wishes, more than anything, to feel that way about something again.

Slightly Morose Recent Bryn Mawr Graduate on the MacBook at Stumptown

You spend four years, and they're the best years, and you feel like it all makes sense and then, ugh, even the way you want to describe it to someone feels cliche. This girl (err, woman, sorry) is now living at home with her Mom and her asthmatic dog. Every day feels a little bit worthless (to be completely honest!) after the past four years. Don't even bring up grad school: it's just not going to work out right now. You find a way of being in the classroom, and when you're high, and when you're tripping on shrooms and talking, excitedly about "the future" and then, you know, it's just so cliche about having to give all that up for the temp job with the employees who seem perfectly satisfied with their dissatisfaction. Berlin is a maybe, but then she'd need to buy a Rosetta Stone or jack it from a website. Woofing in France? No, remember that Buddhist book and stay present, stay present. Picture Enya stroking a kitten. Or a river. Something that helps.

Inside the Heads of More People on Seattle Streets


Baby-Faced Dude Locking His Bike in Front of Cafe Presse

This dude likes to watch Degrassi High while he's stoned out of his brain. It's not that he's laughing at it ironically: he actually thinks it was a pretty socially and culturally innovative show for its time. They dealt with lesbianism and handicapped characters before any show would touch that kind of thing. Sure, the acting is waayy off, but that's because they're teenagers playing teenagers. Sometimes, when he's watching shows like Degrassi, he'll act out scenes for his friends and end up matching the tone and nuances of the show perfectly, even making up lines that hilariously deconstruct the director's intentions. He's not sure if that means he should go back to acting school. He just doesn't know if he's really that competitive. And the whole idea of creating a constellation of completely unique character traits and then not taking it personally when hundreds of people say they don't like your character...well...doesn't that kind of kill people inside? He likes working at Cafe Presse because, even though people can be snobs, he can be a snob right back to them.

Woman Wearing Coldwater Creek at Musashi's

Radical teaching pedagogies really get under your skin. Now, even eating sushi among the general population, this woman can't help but think about the "potential" of that young man wearing Fubu and pouring soy sauce on his sushi. Downside: she's now aware of every single racist thought in her head (kind of depressing and discouraging, but helpful when you work at public school). Her therapist says she needs to stop expecting to have meaningful experiences with everyone she meets, but sometimes she can't help it. Like the store owner: what's her life been like? She probably has a wonderfully interesting story to tell. Would the students listen if she brought her in? She's doing it again. "Wanting things." Whatever. Maybe the therapist is wrong. Her tone was a little bit patronizing, anyway. And what do therapists know, if all they see are people like her day in and day out? It's fine to want things. It's fine to be a romantic.

Downtown Librarian Eating a Muffin on Lunch Break

There's something that happens when someone refuses to meet you on your level. You say something revealing and honest to them, and maybe they laugh in the wrong pitch, or too quickly, or after too much time has passed, or maybe they end up saying nothing at all. Maybe they do the worst thing ever and say something like "awww" or "I'm sorry to hear that" in the sound of a self-help robot. In any case, you're left with the same feeling you had before you talked to them, plus a gnawing sense of alienation and dread for the human condition. These are the people who end up shutting you down, replacing your organs with steel and turning your body cold. They're worse than mean people, really. You can at least fight with mean people. Their brand of awfulness is fully recognizable. But these other people, the walking dead, are so sly, yet so deadening, that they render you emotionally vacuous while appearing to do nothing at all. There's a cumulative effect when these are the people you work with day in and day out. This woman cannot help but wonder what life would be like without these people. She's waiting for all of them to leave her alone, yet depressingly aware that they may never. Short of running away and living in a cabin, she's just not quite sure what to do. Sometimes she just wants someone to yell. At her. A good yell in the face: it might actually feel nice.

The Best Place in the Seattle Lonely Planet

It's charming, mouth-watering, theatrical, stylish, painstakingly selected, affordable, authentic, classy, cozy, hand-made, helpful, make-your-friend-drool, worth a pilgramige, totally reasonable, original, kitschy, cool, stylish, rough-hewn, educational, welcoming, dark, divey, roomy, comfortable, sophisticated, prestigious, atmospheric, gritty, cheap, traditional, authentic, spacious, jazzy, scenester-approved, generous, crowded, frenetic, gay, and, above all, unpretentious.

The Gayest Song I've Ever Heard

(Wait for the chorus).

.......Oh god. Cats.

I don't know what to do right now.

....I'm sitting a few feet away from a manic cat.

This cat...this insane creature who likely believes she is hunting in the Serengeti but is actually in a living room - just leaped off the table, ran down the hall, clawed her way up a bookcase, and then, as if nothing had happened , sat and licked herself. Then she leaped again, this time off the bookcase, climbed up the blinds and sat, and licked herself. You'd think that'd be enough, right? That all that leaping had satisfied whatever weird urge cats get to suddenly fly through the air, but no, no, because then this cat leaped off the blinds and landed on the table, which, it turns out, is also a place where one can sit and lick oneself. Maybe the table was too shiny, or maybe she felt 'on show' like a banquet food, or maybe she saw God in a recess peanut butter cup, but, whatever it was, she then felt compelled to jump (legs flailing, eyes wild) on to the ledge above the fireplace where she is currently- you guessed it- sitting and licking herself (Hair is obvs delicious. Have you tried?)

Any small movement could potentially set her off, so I'm trying to type as discreetly as possible.

The vet told my friend that her cat was the worst-trained cat she's ever seen. I think that's a little judgy. See, cats were not meant to live with humans. Cats are in a completely different world where blinds are trees, tails are rats and humans are annoyances who randomly serve tunafish. We kid ourselves by thinking that these hedonistic, poorly-domesticated miniature lions are actually enjoying their time in our boring houses. I think this cat would rather be a manic depressive character in a soap opera. Or the world's most intimate hair-stylist, har har.

Oh. My God.

I think she just heard that.

I have to go now.

RavennaBlog!

By now most folks in the journalism world are ready to kill themselves. Ad revenues are still down. The internet is filled with folks who want to break news faster than us / want our jobs and tend to murder us in the comments section. But there is one field that seems to be hiring: Seattle neighborhood blogs. Yes, neighborhood blogs. Apparently, the creator of West Seattle Blog makes thousands in ad revenues each month, and both Komo4 and the Seattle PI have already been infected by the neighborhood blogging pandemic. So...what kind of news breaks in neighborhoods? Yesterday, I set out to see for myself...

7am:
Weather is a balmy 76 degrees. It looks like Bagel Oasis is open, and there's some music coming from the Ida Culver retirement home. Wanted to do an "Arts and Culture" feature on the band but realized it was just one woman's very loud gramophone.

10am:
Someone just yelled at a man at Bagel Oasis for taking too long shmearing lox on his poppyseed bagel. Victim described man as a "rude ass" about "five foot seven with dark hair." Decided to investigate by getting a bagel shmear of my own but then gave up after waiting 25 minutes.

11:30am:
BREAKING NEWS:
Someone just drove really, really fast down 70th and 15th. Tried calling the police but they were all "do you have the license plate number?" Am now banned from calling 911 for the year.

11:40am:
Moan / cry heard from the therapy office on 65th and 20th. Went to investigate, but door was locked.

12:00am:
A very self-assured man just walked by wearing a tie-die t-shirt that was clearly too large for his frame. Asked him why he felt so confident wearing something so hideous, but he waved his hands and said "no comment." Could tie into recession-era clothing story. Come back to this later.

12:45am:
Tried to interview a child at the Ravenna Eckstein playground but child's mom ran up and grabbed his arm before I could offer him a candy treat.

3:00pm:
Tried to cobble together a meal at the Whole Foods at Roosevelt Center using only free samples. Was able to eat 6 cheese flakes, 4 cracker slivers, 3 cherries, a crum of a snickerdoodle and a hair of lobster. Potential food lead.

3:01pm:
The man selling "Real Change" kind of looks like my Dad.

3:05pm:
People seem to be snorting mysterious potions at the Herbalist on 65th and 20th. Tried to talk to a man about it but he just told me my posture was bad and asked if I would like to drink some corrective chamomile-based liquid. Potential crime story. Will look into later.

14/48

Joke time. How many Seattle-based drama nerds does it take to create fourteen plays in forty-eight hours? Who knows? What I witnessed tonight were not "plays." "Plays" are surely not collections of inside jokes wrapped around mock-plywood-bedroom-stage-pieces and set to the tune of "earthy" vibrado housebands. No, I would call that a depressing and alienating dinner party (in an IKEA showroom), or a night spent in an abandon warehouse with 200 people who don't know me but know each other. That is not "THEATAH"...that is inspiration drained from my face, that is high school, that is just. fucking. painful.

'Hensani Sefari' consisted of an erotic moth, three hikers and a fishnet. The moth was sensual. This, I suppose, was the joke, since moths are not usually sensual. This play made me feel bad. It hurt me. The words coming out of the characters mouths came too fast, like someone who rushes through life, barely noticing who or where they are or the affect they might be having on people. Actors relied on cliche character constructions, that maybe reflected a minute of intelligent thought. Nothing surprised me. It was like watching a clip reel of all the times I've ever been fake and awkward around people. I can just go and do that in my real life, thank you very much.

'When I Slip Out to Play.' This play contained the only funny line in the entire first act. A fairy was talking about how she gets high off her own pixie dust by snorting it up her nose. I had the feeling: hmm. Wow. Maybe I can laugh now, a little bit, at life. This feeling was incredibly rare, and so I tried to soak it up by laughing a little bit louder than the way I felt inside. The rest of the piece was just a mess, and weird, and sad, and stupid. I guess it was meant to be a play about "the secret lives of toys" a la Toy Story, but didn't that come out over a decade ago? Yes, yes, I'm pretty sure it did. The audience was so rapt, so in love with their own friends, that certain characters didn't even have to do anything to get a laugh. All they had to do was like, stand up, or sit down, and boom: laughter. I wish that was my life. No, wait, I don't. I'd hope people wouldn't laugh at the dumb things I do, because then I couldn't trust them. I'm worried about these people. Do they realize they're not funny? The idea that they've been living under this false reality is totally scary to me. Jesus.

'Wilderness' was a play about a bunch of high schoolers who go out camping. One girl played a very loud cheerleader type character, while another was the classic nerdish girl. The cheerleader had a very loud voice. That was her "thing." She said everything really, really loudly and the crowd erupted in laughter. One time, she threw her cell phone down on the stage, and it bounced, and she got more laughter. I tried shooting her evil eyes but it didn't work: she was still soo loud. The other girl gave the only felt performance in the entire night. I could semi-believe the words coming out of her mouth. They maybe reflected a few hours of thought rather than five seconds of thought. She knew this character. It was close to her. Maybe it was her. Maybe she asked to play "herself."

'Just Drink it' was the worst play of all. It simply made no sense, had no coherent plot, no believable characters. It was loosely about lesbianism: this is somehow still a taboo, I guess (although it's really, terribly not). It was also about 'space landings' and weird magical potions that may or may not do anything. People in the audience "aw, awwoood" the lesbian scenes (you know, like with a whistle) which made me feel like the playwright could have simply slipped a boob FTW with this audience. I mean, it was just such a bad, dumb audience. You really could have done anything, and they would have laughed. Bad acting = more laughs. Stupid plots = cheers, yelling, applause. A boob slip would have likely brought the house down.

I can't tell you about the second act because I left after the first.

The Pile of Inspiration

I'm looking for answers...



Is it possible to write with the 'sensitivity' and 'alienation' of Miranda July, the 'bracing sexual candor' of BUTT magazine and the 'pithiness' of David Sedaris, all at once?




















(no.)

Kelly O's Upcoming Photo Show!

Kelly O knows drunk people. As creator of the Stranger’s “Drunk of the Week” column, she has faithfully captured Seattle’s inebriated since 2006. Her boozy, woozy photos have the tinge of 35mm film strips developed in vats of PBR, and her oft-hilarious captions read like the charming barfly who’s desperately, sometimes frustratingly, attempting to articulate the theory of the universe in between shots of Jager. The world represented in O’s photos is the ideal drunken Capitol Hill situation: everyone’s passed out, nekkid, sharpied with a penis on their forehead, and wearing something absolutely ridiculous. I absolutely cannot wait for this show.

Opens Saturday, August 15th, 7pm at Gossamer Collective. 1406 18th Avenue. Through September 17th.

Insane Story Pitch of the Day

Attn: freelancers. Does anyone have time for this story? It seems like it might take years to write..

I need to contact a reporter, I'm thinking maybe The Stranger would be appropriate ...

The story involves DSHS, illegal immigrants, domestic violence, Guatamalen gang wars, Native American (Mayan indian) rights, custody wars, family dynamics, a mother abandoning her children, anger issues, passive aggressive parenting, emotional abuse, gay parenting, grandparents' rights, bad practices naturopathic physician, HIPAA violations, interstate child custody laws, child kidnapping and abuse, and much more.

Any recommendations?

Thanks everyone,

More to Love: A Review

Down the red runway they came, clutching their handbags and flipping the hair away from their faces self-consciously. The fat women of "More to Love" were looking to get hitched, preferably tonight, and preferably to the fat man at the end of the runway. They cried to the cameramen about their terrible dating lives, their nights spent watching skinny bitchez get the men they deserve, and affirmed that they were "ready! right now! for love!" This moment will never happen again, they said, they will never have the opportunity to meet another person ever in their lives, it was now or never, never ever, just now, on camera, to-night, just this moment, a moment like this, never again.

And they were talented, and deserved of our attention, and this was very important to clear up in the beginning, just so we don't get the wrong idea and think these women were in-any-way-average. Why, one could even speak in Spanish, but only sort of, and another knew how to jump and straddle her legs and foist herself into a lighted pool. Yet another was an excellent shit talker and could shit talk a storm about that woman who just wants to foists herself into pools. There was also a nanny, a waitress, a teacher, and a...rocket scientist?

"Yes, I'm a, UHMMMMMM, rocket scientist" this woman said to blonde man. "Wow!" he exclaimed, but then she looks scared, like her chances had been dashed. "I hope that's not toooo scaryforyou!" "I'm actually a garbagewoman," she wanted to say, but it was too late, her five seconds were up, her time in front of America had expired, and she was the weakest link, goodbye.

"What will happen to these women?" we're forced to inquire. Will blonde fat man just pick the skinniest one? "What is he looking for?" the fat women cry. It's all just so terribly scarily unclear. And there will never, ever be another time for love except tonight, right now, in front of the cameras, where all can see every rumple, every tear, every wispy hair, every nervous, jittery movement. Because love is not about any of the things we think it is, it's actually about projecting your emotions on stage, and revealing your battered soul to an anonymous audience of millions, and begging them for acceptance. And it's not love unless this man says the feeling is mutual, and is willing to kiss you beneath a palm tree, in front of a lighted pool.

Glee: A Review

What is this? There are girls spinning in the air to rap music. Why are they in the air? Things aren't explained. The one thing we do know is that their coach is the forcible lesbian from 'Best in Show' who speaks like a drill sergeant. She compares everything about cheer leading to something dire and awful like waterboarding, guilting her players into more and more ridiculous poses and formations.

Where are we? Oh, right. The proto-typical all-American high school, with all the usual social hierarchies. You see, Glee choir is the lowest of the low; they are so beneath the hierarchy they are actually gnomes living in the high school's water pipes. Instead of Glee, they should be Gloom, because that's how they live: in a gloomy doomy subterranean social strata that shares space with rats and those who play Magic cards.

Cut to the young, impressionable teacher who just wants to make a difference in the world. He's given the opportunity to re-vamp the high school Glee club and goes about setting up a registration list. The candidates include a gay boy who wears Marc Jacobs and sings like a fifty year old woman, the world's most stereotypical black teenage girl who says things like "Hell to the No" (I'm still not sure whether this character is commenting on black characters or if this is FOX and I should just shut the hell up) and a wheelchair-bound boy whom characters push around and then just let go. There's also a pretty young thing who's meant to represent the Myspace generation, and who's obsessed with her own youtube channel.

But that's not enough! The Glee teacher must have a sexyface to represent the club, someone who will transgress social rank and provide sweet, sweet sexual tension on stage, someone like, like a football player! Yes, yes. Except all the football players think Glee's for fags (and they're oh so right about that, so deliciously right), but what about that one football player? The one singing in the shower? Oh sure, he's a bit bulky and tone deaf but look at that face, look at those muscles, look at that effortless air of masculinity! Weelchair boy and Marc Jacobs boy just won't do!

So. Jockboy is snagged from the locker room and dragged, naked, kicking and screaming, to the theater practice room where he is forced to sing Billie Holiday, or something. Together, we watch Glee go through the motions of their first rehearsal; a bumbling thing that would shame a community theater stage.

But they have ambition. And beneath those clothes are diaphrams of steel, and a steely resolve for soaring new versions of pop music standards.

But first the team must suffer through a rival's remix of Amy Winehouse's "Rehab," set to a jazz-pop tempo and choreographed like a Broadway showstopper: big, brash, hip. The players drop and fall to the ground and twirl their partners and tap dance and snap their fingers on either side of the stage like one long compilation of every musical theater number ever performed.

The Glee folks are shocked, terrified by their competition. "What is this alternate universe where Glee is actually a popular way to spend time?" they ask themselves, looking utterly humiliated. As the lone jock in the club walks out of the theater, a steel brass quartet provides the soundtrack to his befuddlement.

The next day, jock boy is cornered by his fellow football players. See, Glee is for fags, and he's not a fag, right? Of course not, he missed practice because he was busy, helping his, uhm, mom, with her, uh, prostate surgery. There were no sequins involved, no singing, no calls and response. Just prostates. He's off the hook, prostate surgery, plain and simple, right?

But here comes the real test of Jock boy's allegiance to musical theater geekdome. A handicapped member of the Glee team has been locked up in a portapotty. He's yelping. Team members are laughing, like evil hyenas bent on gay domination. It is the test.

Jock boy releases handicapped boy from the stinky fingers of the portapotty and sticks it to his team mates, telling them they live in bumbfuck nowhere and why don't they just lock themselves in a portapotty because that's where their lives are going to end up anyway - in a cloistered, miserable stinkhole. The team members look shocked. Jockboy has switched ranks. He's obvs a fag.

But, to us, it is clear Jockboy is going to carry Glee to fame with his adorable face and sweaty jersey and easily-styleable hair. It's obvious: he's the winning ingredient.

Jockboy and Myspacegirl have their first duet, to "Don't Stop Believing." Black girl, gay child, and handicapped boy provide back up doo wops and such. Of course, people from the school - rivals, teachers and randoms - are in the area and stop by and hear how amazing they sound and shake their heads and mutter to themselves about how it's not fair that their talent knows no bounds. And the emotional bonds of the club are strengthened the way folks are always strengthened when they inspire jealousy in other people.

But there's a problem with music teacher. See, music teacher don't get paid fer shit. And his wife, well, she wants the Crate and Barrel, Crate and Barrel or at the very least Pottery Barn, and all he can provide is Ikea or maybe dollar store Mexican candy, which isn't furniture at all! So what will he do? Will he quit teaching? Will he quit Glee club? But they just sang a cover of "Don't Stop Believing!" It was such a bad song, and now it's been sparkled with gay pixie dust.

And what of Myspace girl? Will she stop having drinks thrown in her face? Will her myspace page acquire nicer comments or maybe even online "buddies"? Just WHAT will happen? Will Marc Jacobs boy buy a new Marc Jacobs shirt? Will jockboy take his shirt off again, preferably on stage and while making out with a boy? Will lesbian drill captain have a change of heart and decide she wants to join Glee, and take off her shirt and embrace them all with sweaty abandon? What? That could happen! Oh yeah? WHAT THEN?! WHAT WILL HAPPEN?!

Thai Tom: an Obituary

Thai Tom has apparently been shut down by food inspectors, which is sad. The cramped, hot and probably even-dirtier-than-I-could-tell restaurant will be remembered for its excellent Swimming Rama dish - a bed of spinach flooded with spicy peanut sauce and topped with chicken - as well as its traditional Pad Thai - which tasted like it contained some sort of secret mix of spices that made it more authentic and delicious than any other Pad Thai I've ever tasted. The owners were always efficient, if a little rushed, and I'd argue the blaring Thai pop music was tolerable, since the food was just that good. While walking down the Ave past Rudy's and past the disgusting Jack in the Box, the smell of Thai Tom always meant you were nearing the better parts of that over-crowded, overwhelming and dangerous street. Thai Tom, you will be missed (if indeed you are actually closed and this is a permanent thing, if not...hi!, see how much you would be missed if you were actually closed!? Get yo shit together!)

The Four Steps to Creating a Political Blog in Seattle

Publicola gets written up in a Harvard journalism publication.

Buchanan on Maddow

Isn't it nice when all of your values are affirmed by a cable news show host? Who'd have thought I'd even be able to write that sentence five years ago?

Rachel Maddow spent part of last night's show addressing the hateful diarrhea that spewed out of Pat Buchanan's mouth the last time he was on her show.



Conservative pundits constantly lie about things like this and get away with it. It's nice to know Maddow, for one, won't take it.

Up, Up, and a Gay

Ever wondered what your flight attendant was thinking? Now you know.

WebMd

Remember the time when you actually had to call up a doctor and ask him what was wrong with you? I don't. These days, every twitch, every stomach pain, every day of feeling le tired has a cause which can be found online.

Which brings us to...THE SYMPTOM CHECKER. This hypochondriac's wet dream can be found by clicking on a corner of the WebMd home page. Click, and up pops thousands of symptoms. Are you confused? Perhaps you have dimentia from a head injury. Tired? Chronic kidney disease. Hungry for ice, dirt, or paper? Wait...what?



Maybe you have...crazymouth?

Real cause in the comments thread.

Quote of the Day

The funniest thing about this show is kind of what's universally funny about teenagers: that they like to pretend they're a lot older than they are. That the experiences of short days and fleeting months compounds for them into years' worth of torturous drama. Their newly formed, Bambi-legged personalities are given such weight and consideration. Kelli is This, PC is That. These kids don't seem to realize that basically everything in them is malleable at this point, that they'll be entirely different people—aside from a few core things—by the time they wake up tomorrow morning. So watching them be so steadfast and sure of Who and What they are, with all these things that they've done, is both silly and sad. Just like being young!

Richard Lawson on "NYC Prep"

The Greatest Youtube of Our Generation is Back Online

Are you the type of person who sits by the television and narrates, with a loopy sense of interpretation, the subtext of everything (reality tv, soap operas, etc)? This woman is the master of doing this! Behold: "Welcome to my Home"! Back online, after being pulled by Ms. Brenda Dickson herself!



My friend taught me how to save youtubes to your hard drive by adding the word "kick" before "youtube." This video is now on my hard drive forever. Take that, Brenda Dickson!

Currently Blowing My Mind..

"Finally, an Honest Bar Mitzvah Invitation"

Have you ever been to a bar mitzvah? That "coming of age" ritual every Jew undertakes at the tender age of thirteen? Often ostentatious, long, and as expensive as a "Super Sweet Sixteen" episode, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs place an especially onerous burden on parents. Who were silent. Until now...

Behold: "the Honest Parent's" Bar Mitzvah invitation!

"It is with great stress, emotional and physical fatigue and incredible financial sacrifice beyond comprehension,that we invite you to join us as our wonderful son

Jacob Adam

is called to the Torah as a Bar Mitzvah.

Saturday, May 12th - (yes we realize its Mother's Day Weekend)
Temple Israel
14 Coleytown Road
Westport, Connecticut 06880

at the ungodly hour of 9:00 am even though you don't really need to be there until 10:20am to catch the real action. If you make it through the 3 hour service, please skip the kiddush (its just cookies and cake) and join us instead for an overly large and ostentatious Kosher (my husband's idea) evening meal, which starts at 7:00 PM,(not 8:00 PM.. or you will miss out on the 2000 canapes).

Birchwood Country Club
25 Kings Hwy S
Westport, CT 06880 (which we had to join just for this event and you would not believe the initiation fees)

You will be in the presence of lots of boisterous and expensive entertainment and 60 to 70 unruly pre-teens wearing expensive dresses, funny hats, fake bling and brand new white ankle socks...as well as 80-100 middle aged+ adults, some balding, some with bad toupees, most will be professionally coiffed, designer attire galore, lots of REAL bling, and most "tootsed" to the nines. At least 1/3 will be hormonally challenged and some will act stupid while under the influence. Some will not even know where or who they are. Some will complain about the food. Blah Blah Blah.

Please have the courtesy of showing up if you RSVP that you are attending, or you will be billed for $210.00 a plate if you are a no-show. Please RSVP as soon as you get this and not a day before the cut-off date. I can't take the stress. The gift of choice is either green, or contains a routing and account number. "Off the top of your head" gifts and Gift Cards are a waste of your time and ours.

Hope you can make it! Lisa and David Miller

Dress: Black Tie optional
Theme: 007 James Bond

BYO yarmulke. I don't have the strength.

That last line is my favorite.

Thanks, Neal.

My First Poem

Do we enter into an implicit agreement not to judge when someone invites us to comment on their blog? Do bright colors really make us eat faster? Is the beginning of a relationship supposed to feel like pushing a boulder up a mountain? Does good writing ruin relationships? Cities? Does it leave a path of destruction in its wake? Is it not good writing unless you're terrified of it sitting out there, naked, exposed, your ego crucified? Is the fuzz on that plant supposed to make you think 'pretty'? Is there something universally satisfying about eating mac and cheese? Would an Indian man appreciate mac and cheese? Does the sky remind you of a dentist's office? Does it make you want to cry? Can millenials do anything unironically? Does my voice remind you of a self-help book on tape? Would you like to be known as more than just the person who leaves out dishes for other people to clean up? Are certain words intrinsically bouyant? Am I breathing correctly? Is there a violence inherent in editing someone's work for publication? Did you stop reading serious novels because you felt too many painful pangs of recognition? Are you an old man? Do you know how to use a computer? Did you fart when you were climbing the stairs? Is that why it smells? Is the power of language seperating us? Can you tell I bought this from IKEA? What if we had been born in a war-torn country? Is your personality immune to self-help books? Does art give a fuck about anything but art? Is there such a thing as a passive audience? Am I thinking in binaries? Can I get some soy sauce? Can you raise your hand more dramatically and with more wrist bending? Can you tell the others to stop giggling? Can you read this again but less gay and less jewish? Did you just spend an hour trying to write that email? Is it art if you can define it? Can you teach me how to fight unfairly? Did you have a perfect childhood or something? Can you make my house into a home? Can you pretend to be a media expert? Is plagarizing when you attempt to inhabit the brain of another writer? Does one of us want to turn this into a script for one of those sad movies about dysfunctional families? Have you been reading too much Franzen? Have you been watching too much Wes Anderson? Would Seattle be a better city if it gave up trying to intellectually distance itself from the national conversation? What did you expect when you asked me how my Passover was? You know that moment when you decide a thought isn't worthy of writing down? Why do you stop yourself? Why is it so hard for the things we say to really make people feel better? Will white people ever 'get it'? Is it art if you 'crack the code'? What are you doing up so late? Seinfeld? Which one? The pilot? The one where Jerry gets annoyed or the one where Kramer opens the door theatrically? Are you George? Are you George's mother? Why are you wearing that? Is your voice lower because you got a massage? Are you like Vice Magazine but seven years ago? Are you one of those angry people who just sits next to the computer? Do you ever comment on comments? Do you ever give non-inane, non-batshit criticisim? Am I a small dose friend? Are you one of those people who hates sports but also hates people who hate sports because god, what a cliche? Are you working on developing your 'personal brand'? Why do we encourage writers to be drunk loners by telling them they are so? Why do we encourage young children to get over their questioning phase? Why do we edit? Is it possible to stop asking questions once you've begun? Can I liveblog the restlessness of your leg? Would you help me create a performance piece about my addiction to online pornography? Are we really what we read? Or are we the cliches we buy into? Who is my audience? Why do we ask this question? Nevertheless, are they smart? What's smart? Are they suicidal? What's suicidal? Are they alienated from society? Which society? Aren't we all a bit alienated? Do they hate reading? Don't you hate reading? Will they pay attention to me? For how long? Did you know I've been noticing all your weird tiks? Did you know I've been canibalizing every experience we've had together? Did you know I've been exploiting every person I meet? Did you know I've noticed all the ways you try and hide how sad you really are? Did you know you're my main character? Did you know you're my omnicsent narrator? Did you know you're the dog? Did you know you're the quote I falsely attributed to the new york times book critic? Did you know you're the gist for all the drama? Did you know you're the reason I became a writer? Did you know you're the reason I hate writing? Did you know you're the moral backbone? DId you know your life provided the story arc? Did you know you're nothing? Did you know I only write fiction?

Quote of the Day

"...here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it JC or Allah, bet it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and [unintelligible -- sounds like "displayal"]. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing."

-David Foster Wallace, 2005 Kenyon Commencement Address

Read the whole thing here.

Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell

The song that won't leave me alone.

Adrian Ryan Is a Gay Man Who Just Wrote a Big Gay Book

WARNING: Israel-Palestinian-level-of-conflict-of-interest. Adrian Ryan is a friend. We've hung out. I cannot objectively review a friend's book! Also: how do journalists do this? This seems very hard. Thanks be to god I am not a journalist! Instead, I am publishing an interview with this very, very funny and cunning young man.

Adrian Ryan recently spent months cooped up in his basement smoking the marajuana plant and penning a bible for all the gays of Seattle who are lost: who don't know how to eat / drink / fuck / live / be in Seattle. They're out there. These gays must be saved from boredom, and who better to save them than the OG of the Stranger: Adrian Ryan? The writer who splooged on our newscasters, took a giant hilarious poop on the UW frat system, and eulogized a certain someone once upon a time. He also wrote a column about whenever a celebrity slipped a boob while climbing the rock wall at the downtown REI.

His new book is called "Adrian Ryan's Way Too Gay Seattle Field Guide," and you can buy it here.

But, really, Adrian Ryan needs no introduction. If you don't know who this man is, you are retarded and should stop reading my blog at once!

We met at Cafe Presse; a place I am completely sick of writing about. Insert atmospheric details here (the cheese smells). He was funny and charming, blah dee blah. Get to the questions, I can hear you asking. Okay, okay.

Your book contains a lot of your old Celebrity I Saw U columns, full of dishy tidbits one could only get by asking lots of people lots of questions. Did you also have to kiss a lot of ass to get that info? If so, honestly, how sick are you of kissing Celebrity Ass?

Short answer: I'm not. And I don't. I never feel that way. Okay?! Publicists call me and ask "do you want to interview this person?" When they come across someone who wants to talk to me, they approach me. I love meeting people. Usually celebs don't disappoint me because they are all so beautifully flawed.

How hard was it to fill 8" of text every week with celebrity gossip when there are really, like, only eight or so Seattle Celebrities?

It's actually not that difficult because there's always someone coming through town and I always get the information about them ahead of time. Our transient celebrity population is not insignificant. And, of course, the Seattle International Film Festival brings even more celebrities to places like the W hotel.

How has the notion of fame changed in these internety days? Someone in a movie I saw said "20 years ago, everyone wanted their 15 minutes of fame, but the internet makes us think we deserve 15 minutes of fame every single day"? Do you think that's true?

Oh yes. Fame is definitely the ultimate American currency and it has been desperately cheapened by the internet and reality television. We're all so available, but fame is marked by a certain level of inaccessibility. And on reality TV, people are famous for doing nothing. When I used to hang around with Danny from the Real World, he would just get mobbed everywhere we meet. But that sort of fame is very specific to his time. I doubt that bitch from Project Runway gets that sort of attention in West Seattle.

Who would your ideal reader be? Sometimes I'm not sure if you're after the gay teen who just moved here or the budding gay literati already here.

The book is for both. People who have been here a long time will definitely appreciate it; the 80s and 90s in Seattle definitely play a part in the book. Today we sort of take for granted the fact that there's less of a gay ghetto [stories of which are heavily accounted for in the book]. When I traveled to Lewis County for a reading, they told me that the folks there get hundreds of death threats when they try to throw a pride parade. I think we bitch a lot about gay Seattle when we have a lot to be thankful about.

Like bath houses! (makes barfing noise) Lonely Planet doesn't seem so interested in our bath houses. But you are.

Local guides don't attempt to cover this amount of gay history. There's really nothing like this book. I'm not competing with anyone. And it's a light / breezy read, too.

What didn't make it into the book?

There were tons of things that didn't make it into the book. Mark Finley is one. There are lots of people in the book who have their secrets but Mark Finley made his secret his public persona. I saw what he did myself. It's not something I take a joy from seeing.

After sifting through Seattle's big gay personal record and writing the fuck out of it, do you find yourself feeling closer or further away from this city?

I think closer. I feel the same way everyone does about Seattle sometimes. I get frustrated. But writing a book about the city made me realize, Jesus Christ, there's just so much to mythologize! There's so much gay history here.

Do you think this book will encourage more young, smart gay folks out there to settle here?

I hope so. I think so. My book is blatant propaganda. People will read this and it'll hopefully re-create the idea of the gay mecca. Portland's gay neighborhood has been demolished. It does not exist. San Francisco is really a ghost town. If Portland, Seattle and San Francisco were brothers, San Fran would be a Scorpio, Portland would be Pisces and Seattle would be a Virgo.

Do you hear that? Come to Seattle, Virgo fags!

Adrian is reading at Traveler's tonight. On the eve of getting fucked up the ass by the Obama administration (and not in a good way), this seems like an especially pertinent time for some fierce Seattle Gay Pride. It's at 7. Did he not facebook invite you? Here. You're welcome.

"The Artist's Way"

Reading and re-reading "The Artist's Way" drives you insane after a little while. You start to look out at the world and imagine everything as a potential story. "What sort of creative risk am I avoiding right now?" you ask yourself, after waking up with a hangover and stumbling over to your computer. You go outside on the porch and write "Here I am, sitting on the porch. I am drinking tea," but somehow that doesn't seem like enough to carry a story. It just doesn't seem marketable. "EVERYTHING IS MARKETABLE!" screams the voice of Julia Cameron. "YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!! GO TAKE YOUR ARTIST'S CHILD FOR A WALK!"

So you go for a walk, looking at all the neighbor's foliage and imagining this as a story. Except it's not a story. It's just a motherfucking walk. "SOMETIMES OUR BEST IDEAS COME TO US DURING WALKS, NAVIGATING FREEWAYS OR SIMPLY SHOWERING!" says Julia. "Julia, I am taking a motherfucking walk and nothing is happening to me," you say back to her. Then, Zadie Smith interjects, "Uhm, excuse me Julia but bookwriting is a complicated and labor intensive skill. It actually makes me physically ill to think about it. I want to vomit right now because the words I just wrote down make me feel so anxious. Books take years." Julia and Zadie duke it out, and by the end of the walk, you never want to write another word.

A few days ago, I found myself at the Ballard Safeway at 2am with a friend. Two meth addicts walked in. "YES, FINALLY!" I thought to myself, like a terrible person. "A story!" I sat down by the empty and closed Starbucks and started writing on my notepad. "She looks like she's accepting an Academy Award made of Wheat Thins" I said re: first addict. Her accomplice, a greasy-haired man with burn marks up and down his arms, grabbed TV dinners and platters of hummus and vegetables and threw them into his shopping cart with the speed and fervor of a contestant on Supermarket Sweeps. They walked to the checkout counter like they were walking down a runway, like the whole world was a stage.

But I think it ended up not the best idea for a story, since I seem to lack that amazing body-and-soul transporting power real Novelists have. I can observe, I can write down details and moments. But as far as figuring out how these meth heads were actually FEELING about the Safeway? I've got nothing. I can tell you how I felt, but how did it feel for them to be the walking embodiment of a drug's desire? And that's how 'The Artist's Way' fails. Or, rather, why it's not enough. It can get you out of the house and on to the page, sure, but it can't make you into one of those amazing, perceptive people who just "gets" their characters. I think you actually just have to read a lot of books to learn this. Or live life. Or both. How do you do both?

Jewish Racism

These students are an embarrassment to Judaism, even if the filmmaker's intentions are suspect. I am sad that Jewish people- drunk, stoned, American, Israeli, young, dumb, whatever-would respond this way to a documentary filmmaker. I also encountered a fair amount of bigotry in Israel that shocked me. However, I encounter a fair amount of bigotry in America...every day...and even in Seattle. Bigotry is awful, unsettling, disgusting wherever you find it. And it's everywhere.

More About the Puppet Show at the Frye

A picture of a housewife who appears to be in some sort of hell populated only by Muppets. A room full of wooden ventriloquist puppets dancing on the floor, their clomping so intense it sounds like an earthquake. Wooden furniture giving birth to baby furniture, dressed in Baby Gap. A video of the Harvard Arts Building, expanding and contracting and expanding, as its marionette architect looks away in distress.

The idea for the Puppet show at the Frye initially came from the play "Ubu Roi." In a program leaflet, it is said that Ubu provided the perfect "allegory of grotesque government and acts of puppet transgression". The idea of puppet transgression is quite apparent within the exhibit; the clomping marionettes by Dennis Oppenheimer look like they're transgressing the line between human and puppet. In another room, with a picture of Meryl Streep, it seems as if the puppets (the Muppets) have taken over the soundstage, transgressing their role as that which is to be controlled by humans.

There are also other, broader, political allegories. As Jen Graves wrote in the Stranger about the show, "what better way to further the questions of pop and minimalism (and the entire political situation of the 20th century) than puppetry? It's the oldest question—which parts of us do we control and which parts belong to systems that pull our strings?—asked another way." Puppets, metaphorically, could be seen as the us within our political system, or the identities we create online in our increasingly mediated world.

I was happy to see Ubu Roi and the Truth Commission presented on the television sets in the back room. Here is a play that makes perfect use of puppets. The alligator, Niles, represents Pa Ubu's denial. As he stuffs the alligator full of papers, things Pa would love to forget, the alligator shudders and groans. He has trouble digesting the information, the same way the audience has trouble digesting such grim tales of Apartheid violence. Later, puppets are used abstractly to represent various witnesses to the atrocities of Apartheid. These puppets haunt Pa Ubu, they call out to him from their wooden mouths. Pa would like to think of them as complete abstractions, as the unreal. It would be easier for him to imagine them this way than to imagine them as human beings. Through the use of puppets, theatergoers can fully understand the extent of Pa's denial.

Pure Bliss

Thanks, Terry.

Avenue Q Alums Producing Dan Savage's "The Kid"

And it's going to be a musical! From USNewswire, and oddly missing on the Slog:

The season concludes with "The Kid," a musical based on Dan Savage's book "The Kid: What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant," with book by Michael Zam, music by Andy Monroe and lyrics by Jack Lechner. New Group Artistic Director Scott Elliott directs this world premiere. The authors were honored with the 2009 BMI Foundation Jerry Bock Award for Best New Musical. This marks The New Group's return to musical theatre after producing "Avenue Q," which received the Tony Award for Best New Musical in 2004.

Dan hates it when I congratulate him for anything, so, CONGRATS DAN!

I Would Like to Start My Own Daily Show Where I Make Fun of Evening Magazine

Too bad this guy's gone:

What I Saw at The Puppet Show at the Frye

A picture of a housewife who appears to be in some sort of hell populated only by Muppets. A room full of wooden ventriliquest puppets dancing on the floor, their clomping so intense it sounds like an earthquake. Wooden furniture giving birth to baby furniture, dressed in Baby Gap. A video of the Harvard Arts Building, expanding and contracting and expanding, as its marionette architect looks away in distress. Go see it!

The Jack in the Box on 85th and Aurora

Do you ever get hella hungry at night? I know you do. And if you're out and about late at night, chances are good you probably think about getting some fast food at one of those all-nite drive thrus (Gross, I know, SHUT UP!) This is important: if you EVER find yourself at the Jack in the Box on Aurora and 85th at 4:45 in the morning, after a certain indescribable personal experience on the hill, DO NOT LOOK INTO THE DRIVE THRU WINDOW. I REPEAT: DO NOT LOOK INSIDE. The sight you will see will make it hard to eat your curly fries and spicy chicken burger in shameful silence in your car. It may make you throw up, violently, all over yourself. You've been warned.

Are You Going to the Comeback, er "Physical," Tonight?

No cover charge!