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!

Orgy of Tolerance at On the Boards

What can I say that hasn't already been said before? Yes, women give birth to packets of M&Ms and bags of chips. Yes, there is a scene involving shopping carts that you will want to download off youtube and watch on repeat. There are also moments of extreme tediousness, where you will want to rip out your hair. I'm pretty sure that's the point. I loved it.

On the Boards supposedly videotaped this performance, and it should be online soon.

State of Play: A Review

Oh those blogtards! What do they know about real reporting? Why, I bet they couldn't tell a government conspiracy involving a Blackwater-look-alike from a Scarlet Johanassen boob-slip or a rumor involving a closeted TV star. Or could they!?

Rachel McAdams is the yellow-internet "journalist" in this movie, except (shocker!) she actually knows how to report. She accompanies seasoned vet Russel Crowe (scraggly, ailing star of printland) to investigate the death of a sub-committee member in Congress who may or may not have been killed by a gaggle of corrupt politicians hell-bent on murdermoney! As the two get thicker and thicker into the case there are lots of mysterious briefcases, threatening phone calls, and dark window frames which may or may not be hiding sniper shooters (you're going to play that scary music every time someone gets near a window? Whatever. If you need me, i'll be hiding under this chair).

At first, "State of Play's" plot feels like a very standard newspapers vs. police cadets vs. congressmen set-up ('The Wire'...anyone? Anyone?) but the tension generated between blogger and printdude make for some compelling moments (McAdams and Helen Mirren, the editah-in-chief, want to break the story earlier as blog fodder, Crowe, the truthy reporter, doesn't). And Crowe makes quite the improvisational journalist; trading sodas for sources, slipping scary notes to republican blowhards, interrogating an evil bisexual PR man (played by a drunk Jason Bateman) and speaking truth to power like he's trynna blow the next Watergate. Meanwhile, in subplotland, where shit is reallly going down, I've been given a headache by too many plot twists. Basically, Crowe is such a good journalist he almost dies a lot in pursuit of the most balanced story. Oy. So that's what journalism is supposed to look like? Now I feel guilty for not donating to KUOW last year.

Quote of the Day

Liz: "Listen, Jack. I don't have a lot of personal life experiences. But if I have learned anything from my Sims Family: when a child doesn't see his father enough he starts to jump up and down. And then his mood level will drop. Until he pees himself."

Liz Lemon to Jack Donaghy on '30 Rock'.

Birthright Israel: Free Drunken Sexfest? Propaganda Machine? Earnest Secular(ish) Pilgrimage? (All of the Above?)

My friend Neal Schindler has an article up on Jew-ish.com about Birthright Israel. I am quoted.

Of course, not all Birthright participants have quite as positive an experience. Steven Blum, who went in the winter of 2008-09, expected a fun trip that would also help him understand what it means to be a Jew, and might include some discussion of Israel/Palestine. What he found was a maze of “propaganda” that didn’t accommodate critical thinking. In his view, participants were told what to feel at major stops along the way, like Masada, where Israeli soldiers talked about their experience defending the contested land.

This is still how I feel. I wish someone would re-vamp this program and make it more like these programs.

Poetry about Gmail

Debates over whether Tao Lin has ruined writing and /or brought writerly self-obsession to a whole new level miss the point. Lin has found a method of communication that, to a broad swath of alienated young folks attached to the computer, feels more authentic than anything else out there.

Brandon Scott Gorrell, a Seattle writer, read Tao Lin online and knew he wanted to write like him. Through the internet, he found the books and ideas to keep his writing going. In Gorrell's pieces the mundanity of life is explored ("I am moving things around in the backpack. I am despairing,") as is the author's relationship with the internet ("green emoticons have appeared on the walls of my room") as is a sort of delusional magical realism ("the backpack is ominous like a male silver-back gorilla charging at me for trying to introduce a baby female silver-back gorilla into his troup").

In a very, very low-key interview over gchat with the author Chris Killien, ("I'm eating a banana, I'm putting on music") Gorrell writes mostly about his weird relationship with blogs ("they make me anxious") and email ("they make me anxious, too") and his excitement about his new book of poetry ("sometimes there would be something about feeling very sarcastic and then the next one would be about feeling very connected to someone").

This is where someone who hates where our young literatis are going with their words would write something snarky about Gorrell. I got nothing. I think he's pretty funny and I wouldn't mind reading more of his work in the future.

The Story of Stuff

Apropos of Nothing

Daniel
did you see the video mother lover
from snl
11:03pmSteven
nope
amazing?
11:04pmDaniel
i hate andy samberg, but i LOVE him for the 3 minutes of this video
http://www.hulu.com/watch/72434/saturday-night-live-motherlover
watch and respond
11:04pmSteven
is this recent?
11:04pmDaniel
saturday
11:06pmSteven
wait, uh, how did they jump to THAT idea?
hilarious
11:06pmDaniel
cuz their moms are single and lonely
and they are trashy as fuck
11:08pmSteven
well yeah obviously
amazing
11:08pmDaniel
best part is their shirts while they are eating sub snadwiches
and the fact that they are eating sub sandwiches
susan saradon was a pretty awesome cameo too
11:09pmSteven
this is identity politics! you just like this video because it makes you think happy thoughts about your future life eating subs and wearing ridiculous shirts
theres gotta be a word for this kind of artlove
11:09pmDaniel
i do that now!
11:10pmSteven
why dont you just go down to tubs and snag yourself a milf
11:10pmDaniel
ive been trying
i'ma be the syrup, she can be my waffle...
11:11pmSteven
this conversation is going on my blog

HAPPY MOMMA'S DAY

This here's mah momma:

These are the presents I rained down on her pretty head:


One's a book. "Love, Mom: Poignant, Goofy, Brilliant Messages from Home," created by Jessica Grose and Doree Shafrir (of Hipster Grifter fame). I love the blog that inspired this book (Postcards from Yo Momma) but some of the entries here leave a little to be desired.

The purple metallic mound is a lavender shower bomb (because sometimes a bath is laborious). Behind the bomb is this other thing called "Crazy Cat Lady:" a haggard-looking lady in a bathrobe with cat magnets attached. It will probably be thrown out soon, but whatever. There's too much on that table anyway (see: spaghetti stain).

And in celebration of today, here's a son playing a mom:



John's whole ouvoir is here.

I Can Now Be Found, Occasionally, at Seattle MetBlogs

Check out my first post here.

WTF 85th and 15th?

Huh? Sorry, fellow passenger, I can't pay attention to you right now because I'm too busy being BLINDED by TRAFFIC CAMERAS taking my picture. I wasn't even speeding or doing anything wrong. Jesus christ. What am I, Miss California's boobies? Why all the attention?

Jon Stewart to Audience: "What the Hell is Wrong with You People?"

So I know I *just* posted a Jon Stewart video but this clip was just too weird to pass up.

So all night, Jon's havin' the problems with the audiences. They don't laugh at his first segment jokes, they don't laugh at the introduction to a new guest star who dressed up as twenty different people like some sort of comedy monkey. And then, in the middle of an important Fareed Zakaria interview, things get even weirder.

The topic: Pakistan. "The Taliban's there, but they won't tell us where (without bribes)" says Zakaria. Jon responds with the ironic guest-goading that is his trademark, but things go to shit and, well, just cue to 18:20...



That yell was an earnest, "I actually believe what you're saying is not sarcastic" yell. Oh, dear. Condolences to Stewart whom, I hope, will continue to talk to us intelligent folk in an ironic and sarcastic manner.

Why No Gay Bars in Ballard?

According to Questionland, the gays are too old, too boring, too hip, too jaded, they actually all live in West Seattle and only like to cheat on their "husbears" on Capitol Hill, they don't actually exist, they only exist in a metaphorical sense as spirits who haunt a certain smoke shop, they've been driven away by boring straight people, they don't have the right to have a bar because they're all "douchebags," and one should simply traipse down to "Changes" in Wallingford from Ballard.

None of these answers satisfies me.

Ballard deserves a gay bar.

Lost Lady American Cantina is Dead

From Bethany:

The place met with critical crickets, and Stranger reader-reviews were split down the middle between terrible and weirdly glowing, indicating something weird was going on.

I bet any positive reviews were from Dave Wamstad's staff. Here's what I had to say about the place for Blackbook.

Chichi Mexican for suits and out-of-towners. Seems like a rushed job with unintentional kitsch abound: huge art-deco stained glass chandeliers reminiscent of a hotel conference room in Phoenix, scratched tables, Word Art menu. Prices cuh-razier than a minuteman on border patrol: nearing twenty dollars for Mexican lasagne, forty for steak. At least the bar is all shiny and welcoming.

Video of the Day!

You know, call me a moron, but sometimes I don't realize how idiotic our congress is until I hear Jon Stewart riff on 'em. Take the most recent piss-ant legislation meant to defend gays, queers, trans folk against discrimination and violence. Yes, congress passed the legislation, but over 100 congressmen voted it down. Their reasoning? Watch Jon Stewart tear, effortlessly, into their bigotry with funny words:



How anyone could watch this show and not immediately want to work for this man is beyond me.

Other thoughts: Dennis Leary was weirdly not funny. Maybe don't go on a rival's comedy show if you're still a little bit jealous of him. Jealousy is only funny on teevee if it's a joke, and, for some reason, it didn't seem like Dennis was joking.

Thanks Google Ads!

<---------advertising fail.

"It."

I've been coughed on by a five year old at the library, ate Challah touched by sickly people, ate bacon strips served by sweaty gay men, sat in a classroom, sat in a confined space, sat next to a fluish Asian woman who yelled into my face, sat in an unventilated Subway shop without a gas mask, sat in a library, touched the computer keyboard, touched my face, scratched my head. I should have it by now.

Parks and Recreation: Anatomy of a Failure

When little moments are given big weight in a pseudo-documentary, they better be funny. Otherwise you're just watching a boring, not funny documentary about stupid little things happening to actors who are trying to play regular people. In some ways, it's worse than watching a sitcom with crazy scenarios and larger-than-life personalities. It's cinema verite minus the interesting.

What Will You Be Wearing Tomorrow Night?

I was thinking bacon strip mustaches over surgical masks. It would be confusing!

Jackie Hell at "Baconstrip!"

Hey you. How have you been? I've been in an alcohol-induced haze for days now. I've been doing gayer things than I've done in forever. First there was the Comeback last week, or was that the weekend Bea Arthur died? Again, it's all a haze. Things are more confusing than ever to remember. One thing I do remember: tonight was Bacon Strip at Re-Bar. Conclusion: drag is dead. No it's alive! No it's actually dead. Okay. Can we agree to disagree? It's half dead. It's a half limp penis. Or something.

Jackie Hell was a highlight tonight, but she was the only one. Old raccoon eyes. I know she was so-so at the Comeback, but when all the actors surrounding you are awful, you tend to stand out. She looked like a walking hot air balloon with teeny tiny legs. She sang "the Eyes of the Beast" (same as at Comeback) with a dude who was painfully elated to be on stage. They did a back and forth and Jackie barked out the lyrics with a sort of ironic detachment that usually drives me batty, but for some reason didn't. "Jacky is a shrewd performer." I distinctly remember telling myself something along these lines. She was the only reason I smiled for approximately five seconds.

The crowd gave some half-hearted hoot and hollars (god, isn't that just the worst?) and I drank 3 rum and cokes just to feel mildly socially motivated. It's hard to socialize when you're being fed terrible acting. Note to drag queens: just because you're dressed like a woman doesn't mean you're funny. Just because you're talking about safe sex doesn't mean you're an activist. Just because you've got huge-ass hair and long curly eyelashes and cone boobs doesn't mean I have to hug you. There is nothing interesting about what you're doing, unless, of course, you're doing something interesting. So, thanks Jackie. You almost saved the night.

Dept. of Advertising

Allergies

My allergies are not extreme. I usually don't even notice them for really long periods of time, until I get cranky and the headache is even worse and then I realize, fuck!, I'm so snotted up I can't concentrate. Today was one of those days, it just creeped up on me. I went shopping downtown for a bit after I got my paycheck and I just hated everything and everyone around me. So, I'm sorry lady at T-Mobile. You weren't actually that bad of a person, even though I treated you like you were the walking embodiment of annoying salespeople. And dude at Deisel: I, too, wish I was in Europe. It's cool. Nordstrom lady, I'm sorry I didn't try to create a moment with you. I'm not even a wealthie bitch. Just one of those days.

Last Night's 30 Rock

I know I'm late but I'm going to livetwitter it tomorrow from Hulu. Watch and respond here.

Best Website for Finding Out the Newest Restaurant Openings

The guys and gals at Voracious are currently covering this beat better than anyone else in Seattle.

Garbage

How is this news?

Underground Girl Knowledge

A few weeks ago, I recorded a podcast called "Money Where Mouth Is" at Publicola; Josh Feit's new political blog. The premise was: interviews with non-profit all stars. My first interviewee was Stacy DeLong, field organizer for Planned Parenthood votes. Check it out here.

On Regina

Some journalists at the PI embraced the online medium a long time ago. A prime example is Regina Hackett, who's "Art To Go" was never a clearing site for old youtube videos and other transparent ploys to lure readers to all the print material. Her blog is now called "Another Bouncing Ball" and you can find it here. Regina, in many ways, is perfectly suited for blogging. Like Charles, she's not afraid of writing something impenetrable, but she's also a populist. My only advice to her would be to find someone who knows html and get it looking sharp.

Quote of the Day

My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out.

- Joan Didion

Thx Anna Roth

Dick.

Mr. Obama has repeatedly repudiated the Bush administration; in the interviews, Mr. Cheney has hit back. Speaking to Politico in February, he warned of a “high probability” of another terrorist attack. On CNN, he suggested that Mr. Obama was using the economic crisis to justify a big expansion of government. On Fox, he agreed when Mr. Hannity asked if Mr. Obama was “telegraphing weakness.”

This man has lied himself into a hole. I think he truly believes we're under attack. I think his paranoia is genuine and not a political ploy. He is looking out at a completely different country than you and I. He is looking out at the world through the eyes of a paranoid, aging fascist-nationalist.

Go See "The Goonies" at Re-Bar

I haven't laughed so hard at a single performance this year.

YouTubed Insanity

"We were endlessly self-reflexive individuals who had been marked by dabbling in drugs and semiotics; the media world we inhabited made life feel squalid, disposable, and fearful; we could hear, when we opened our mouths, the culture industry's language and not always our own. We were trapped inside ourselves—and in there wasn't even a "self." More like an empty lot crisscrossed by gusts of addictive compulsion, and littered with cultural debris. The situation made you feel ashamed. It bankrupted concepts like "dignity."

-Benjamin Kunkel

The Newest New Yorker

The newest New Yorker is a bit of a goldmine, no? We've got a solid historical piece on Earth Day, a feature on Ivy Leagers who abuse Adderal, Sasha praising Lady Gaga, a hilario Roz Chast cartoon about Spring Cleaning. Also: emails from Yo Mamma, and shouts and murmers about an ex-gay on finding Jeebus. Significance aside, I can't remember being so entertained by this mag. It's all here, for free: www.newyorker.com.

Quote of the Day

"the drama bug seemed to strike hardest with jews, homosexuals, and portly girls whose faces were caked with acne medication. these were individuals who, for one reason or another, desperately craved attention. i would later discover it was a bad idea to gather more than two of these people in an enclosed space for any length of time. the stage was not only a physical place but also a state of mind, and the word audience was defined as anyone forced to suffer your company. we young actors were a string of lightbulbs left burning twenty four hours a day, exhausting ourslevs and others with our self-proclaimed brilliance."

David Sedaris, Naked

This sucks.

WOW, WHAT A CATCH!

From Craigslist.

Do you like feeling resented by your house mate? Do you maybe want internet but probably not? Do you usually feel like a human? If so, etc!

Hi, I have a room for rent, furnished, in a two bedroom apt. that is a couple blocks from major bus lines. I'm a gay male, I'm very unconventional and though I don't really want a roomate because of the potential stress, times are tough and if I can find somebody and we can both get along, both feel like humans, both be ourselves, well, I thought I'd test the waters to see if I can find a super cool easy going gal, guy, or trans-gender person who is respectful, cleans up after themselves, is low key and can live with a very unusual gay male.

My ideal roomate would be a quiet person who'll let me be in charge, not that I want to be, it just works out better that way, somebody who just needs a decent place to stay with affordable rent and who wants go about their biz. Please, no smokers, heavy drinkers, or heavy drugs, weed is okay if it does not control your life.

Internet is a possibility, deposit/first/last months rent required. Drop me a note, tell me a little about you, thanks. Sorry, no photos. This room would be for one person only, and management doesn't allow cats or dogs, but maybe we could sneak by with smaller critters.

First Day of Summer!

"Open my windows so you can see God's glorious light," said my car. "And do it now!" I pressed down on all the window buttons at the same time while driving down a hill towards Magneson beach. The windows were stuck, they wouldn't roll down. I had been, essentially, driving in a hermetically-sealed coffin filled with dust, an old can of Yoo-Hoo, and, occasionally, people other than me. "Ffffttt," the windows said as they tried to disengage from the ceiling. "Fttttttt!" they said again as I continued to hold down the buttons. And then, all of a sudden, they were down.

Ahhh. Air. And the sun shining gloooooriously into my eyes. The wane of the air-conditioning dissipated and I could hear life, people yelling, butterflies a-flappin, Americaflags a-wavin (Helloooo Laurelhurst!). "Beep beep! Are you there, Sunshine? It's me...Mr. Pasty Face. Are you gonna make me hella tired?"

Magnason beach was a sight to behold. Bald man pushing baby in stroller. Grown baby pushing grandmother in wheelchair. Yappy dog defending picnic table. Women debating with her friend about the benefits of Green-Tea-infused drinks. People, people, people. I knew you existed before, but now you're all jumpy and in my face.

It was essential I escape from my cell phone, my ipod, everything. I threw them into the car, practically shaking my coat off of me. I thought "leave me alone." It had become a matter of life and death...I wouldn't hear a word more from anyone. For the next hour, it was about the twinkling water, the snowcone mountains, enduring uncomfortable pebblewalking for the hell of it, and not slipping on algae slime or stepping in Goose poop.

The Unfortuante Past of the EMP's New Director

I liked this article by Jen Graves and I'm hoping when Christiana Orr-Cahall gets around to responding to the charges against her, the Stranger will print her response.

Hipster Runoff Is Garbage

This has got to be one of the stupidest blog posts I've ever read.

The whole idea is that no band really cares about making music. They care about striking it big and getting lots of praise from self-important bloggers. This is vast, vast, meaningless existence crapola...resulting from the over-competitive nature of the American art world. Who the fuck cares about getting blogged by pitchfork? If that's what you and your band really care about, maybe you shouldn't even be in this scene.

So, this new "Bruno" Movie...

Soo, basically, the liberal media world is going to praise Bruno for exposing our homophobia, just as Borat was praised for exposing our racism and general geographical stupidity. But I'm expecting to have the same internal debate about whether or not Sasha's caricature (and it really is an over-the-top, cliche-ridden character) is actually re-enforcing the bigoted perception of gay people. I mean, the leather gear? Really? The obsession with Sex and the City? CLICHE CLICHE CLICHE. Fighting with dildos? Making stupid and bizzare fashion choices? Bringing a gay slave to a mall? A gay slave. To a mall. Religious people running away from the gay. It's like attack of the gays!

Hmm, let's see. Gays are obsessed with orgies and bad fashion and inserting things into their asses and scaring the bejesus out of religious people. What is this movie telling me that I couldn't already learn by reading the emails from the American Family Association?

People are going to laugh when they see this movie, but they're going to be laughing for different reasons. Stupid American homophobic teenagers are going to be laughing because "Dude, what a fag," (and I'm sure this is the sort of insight that's already filling up the Youtube comment section) and other, more tolerant folks, are going to laugh because Sasha's "exposing our nation's homophobia." Whatever. There's nothing artistically innovative about what Sasha's doing. He's not exposing anything. This movie is an act of recycling.

I'm Trying Out for a Gay Soccer Team

hello there...

my name is steven blum and i'm interested in playing soccer with ripple effect.

i was referred to you by my friend, who told me this would be a great team to begin soccer with, since i don't know much about the game.

my previous experience with sports involves pretending i'm a newscaster on the sidelines, talking to an invisible cameraman (this was in elementary school) and since then, i have played junior varsity tennis for half a semester.

i am scared but i think i need to run around more and be generally less stressed out by life.

how can i try out?

sincerely,

steven blum

Two College Sophomores at Bus Stop in Ravenna

"Wait, there's a goodwill outlet?" "Yeah. But that's in industrial Seattle." "I kind of want to live in industrial Seattle." "No, you don't." "You'll be able to catch the lightrail soon there. You can, you know, go to the airport." "That doesn't appeal to me."

Follow My Twitters!

I'm now livetwittering when different things happen to me: like when I watch 30 rock, when I see weird things that were dropped into the toilet at the Seattle Public Library, when I see men who look like older lesbian women, when I'm watching movies that should have never been made...I have no idea what I'm doing, but twittering is fun! Follow me here: twitter.com/stevenblum.

The H Word

I agree, Chas. We should own this word the same way we own "fag."

I'm Back.

First impression at Chicao O'Hare was "fuck all these warning signs."

At O'Hare, a sign warns me not to open a door that obviously leads to a sharp drop, and then pavement (this is the door that will eventually open to those accordian-like people tubes that connect buildings to airplanes). Thanks, O'Hare, for the block letters and the screaming font and exclamation points. You really saved my life with that. It would have been impossible not to notice the fact that that door leads to thin air and death.

At Le Pichet, a laminated sign in the bathroom warns me not to flush paper towels down the toilet.

You get the picture.

These signs simply don't exist in Europe.

I'm in that writerly place where everything feels fresh and new and weird, and it'll only last a few days before people asking "would you like room in that?" becomes a common enough occurance that I stop registering it in the "new and different" lobe of my brain.

The rest of my thoughts revolve around loss and despair. I want to shake people on the streets of Seattle and say things like "you don't have to live like this!"

(to the waitresses) "You can be a bitch to me if you're having a bad day, I don't give a fuck."

(to the gay men) "go have sex with a german for god's sake!"

(to everyone else) "give up, smoke a cigarette and get back to me when you've come up with something pithy and honest to say about life."

The Eiffel Tower

The Eiffel Tower is an old rusty piece of latticework that is improbably beautiful close up. It also looks like an alien robot leg from this angle. At night it's a cluster of strobe / search lights in the shape of a tower, sparkling over Paris with the intensity of a fireworks finale.

It's also an ingenious tourist trap, luring folks from motherfucking everywhere onto its massive two-tiered elevator-pods. (It would also be the world's most dangerous dildo if it appeared in toy form (which it does)).

Today, after buying the world's most delicious cookie* from a shop down the street from my hotel, I ventured down the five blocks it takes to get to the tower.

Fuck all the haters, waiting in line is actually the bomb. It makes you about 5,000 times more excited about whatever you're about to do. Next time I have to do something terrible, I'm going to make myself wait in line first.

One of my favorite things was the restaurant on the second floor that had been overtaken by pigeons. Here you see them, claiming the islands of various tables and basically freaking everyone the fuck out (people are not pictured):



The top was freezing and made me cry unintentionally all over myself (does this happen to anyone else in cold weather?) and a little Italian woman took pity on me. I counted five gay people.

Also, views bore me after .5 seconds of staring. See:



"..................'night.

Okay, there was a rainbow, which actually was mildly exciting.



And if you're a film buff, there's also a film on the first floor of the tower which is anti-lingual, meaning it has no languages, it was just music and pictures of the tower and people pretending to fall off the tower and climb the tower and dropping their glasses off the tower (and on to other people's eyes). You can also buy a Kit Kat bar which may or may not taste like complete crap.

To summarize, the Eiffel Tower is a great place for counting gay people, crying due to cold temperatures, meeting friendly pigeons, watching a movie that has no language, pretending you're on a roller coaster, enjoying things more after waiting long periods of time and counting gay men ( I suppose you can do this anywhere).

(*Seriously-it was like the ingredients for the cookie all met under a communism . No one ingredient overpowered the other. It wasn't too sweet, too buttery, too strawberry-y, it just was, it simply existed. I'm making a gross orgasm face while I explain this to you but you can't see it because you're just reading this online).

Le Tour Official De Cannes

Hello and welcome to Cahhhness. Shhhh. You must say it "under your breath." These sunglasses are pour vous. Please put them on. QUICKLY QUICKLY! Ahh, now you can see. Hello! I wave to you. Ahaha! Everyone is le color de caramel, no? It's no surprise. We actually melted gold lame marbles into the ground. Oui oui! Le color reflects off le faces of le peoples until they glow like, ay, uhm, Academy Award. This is how you make an award face. Okay, I'm sorry but you're time is up. You must be a costume designer. We do not want to hear about your mother.

Come with me, I want to take you to the city center. Tom Cruise's Centre Control pour le Rhinoplasticity is down the block. Can you see it? We must be careful. Careful. Sometimes, he leaps from le corner and he will steal your depression medication if you are not careful. Oh, we just passed it. It's too late now. Je suis desolee. There, okay, if you look quickly, you can see Nicole Kidman's artificial intelligence program for young alien beauty queens! QUICKLY! It's gone now. I can't slow down. But we must be very quiet, still, even dans le vicinity. One time, ehhhmm, someone interrupted Ms. Kidman's rehearsal. It was so bad! She turned one lady's face into. An. Award face. No, FOREVER! Oui, ce'st vrai. She is not allowed to leave le burger king parce que it makes the employees there especially quite happy. Every meal, she thanks each person who helped to create it.

If you look to your left (QUICKLY!), you'll see our version of McDonald's. Here burgers come with foie gras. Oui! And pickled cabbage! On delicious gold lame bread. Oui oui! You have to go wee wee? Oh, it was me who said that. Sorry, je confuse myself.

Down the road we find the druids. Yah. Ce'st une cult of lost Palm Beach Jews. They decidehh to, uhm, settle here apres le GRAND retirement home food riots of the late 1980's. Now they've become quite successful! And you can come to Yom Kipper services led by Dustin Hoffman. Oui, ce'st vrai.

QUICKLY!

You look, eeehhhmmm, not so good. Here, take this packet of Nivea. Yah. Uhm, that is not enough. You must, ehhm, slather it? Oui, all over your body, merci. There, that's, well, it's still not so good actually. Actually, maybe you are not ready pour le lifestyle parijen. C'est triste. Mais, still, you can make your face of the award? No? Oh, je suis desolee. I cue music now.

Text Message from Barcelona

Just so you know, I am a registered mute here. I wave my hands and make sad and happy faces. And sit on invisible chairs. (aka where is movie theatre???)

HOME!

HELLEOWWWW! I've missed you all, and soon the missing will end because I'll be HOME! HOME! Where my thoughts escape me! Home! Where the music aches me! Home! HOOOMMMEEE!

I wish I remember the words, but the spanish music playing in the background is ruining my thinking and analyzing abilities.

I love you all.

Everything is So Amazing and Nobody is Happy

Thanks Francisco and Eddie, my new favorite Facebook linkers!

My Life's Goal Has Been Fulfilled

So I can die now. I can officially die!

Check it:

The whole point of this blog hasn't been to talk about being Jewish or being in Seattle or being young and beautiful and well-traveled. Or to score brownie points with other journalists. No no no no no no!

The whole point of this blog has been to knock Major H Steven Blum (US Commander of somethingoranother in Iraq) off the first page of Google search, and re-instate MY name. The voice actor Steven Blum, whatever, he'll always be there, but Major H Steven Blum was supposed to go.

And, well, if you google my name now. Well, Major H Steven Blum is still there. But so am I! Right under him. On the first page. It's like we're making love. Which we probably wouldn't do. Since gays can't join the army. And he went to University of Baltimore (which is like, what? why would you do that to yourself?) But, anyway, I'm under him. Help me put myself over him. Tell everyone that Ohmygodseattle.blogspot.com is the best place for essays on modern life and straight porn.

Ohmygodseattle. It's for the children.

How Do You "Double Back"?

This is an expression I've heard over and again. But what does it look like? Is it like falling over your chair when someone tells you something? Or is it like gasping dramatically and putting your hand on your heart? And wouldn't doing it TWICE just look really supremely retarded?

Don't Click That Link!

Or do! Do click that link! Apparently, my site has been linking to porn again (on accident)! I've become a porn aggregator. A blog unknowingly endorsing porn. And it's not even gay porn. In any case, today will be the last day you can click on "my current wardrobe" and find porn. So sorry. I guess I need to find someone new with a hideous outfit I can link to. A Talbots catalogue perhaps? Or Coldwater creek? Or maybe I'll just link to a picture of a clothes bin at goodwill. I can never find anything good there. My apologies to the newly homeless, and Daniel Frum.

I LUUUUURRRVVV Postcards From Yo Mamma

This is, well, this isn't even one of the best emailed correspondence I've read on the site. But I like it, so here it is:

Backstory: My fiance and I spent the weekend at my parent’s lake house, and evidently left behind a CD that I burned for him to listen to in the car, a long while back.
Mom: I found a CD on the bureau in the third bedroom that had “I (heart) you” on it. Looks like your writing.

Me: Oh. Sry. We must have left that by accident.

Mom: Is that your lovemaking cd?

Me: What? NO! Did u LISTEN 2 it?

Mom: No, I did not want to think of you and Jason making sweet love on that new mattress that I just bought, tainting it.

Me: MOM! It’s a CD with rock music on it. Seether, Three Days Grace, Breaking Benjamin, Shinedown, etc. I highly doubt that we would be hittin’ it to that!

Mom: I have never heard of those bands. Is that what Denise calls “Kill Your Mother Music”?

Me: Knowing her, probably.

Mom: Well, it could be possible you use it for that. Some people like rough sex.

Me: OK Mom, that’s enough. But no, it is not our “lovemaking” CD.

Mom: Ok….I’ll mail it. Wait! Does it have any music on it from that Kahnyay person? A nurse at the hospital was having a fit her daughter was listening to his music????????? I wanted to hear some.

Me: NO, there is no KANYE West on there.

Mom: Okay, well maybe you should check him out. He might make some good music to sex to.

Me: Ok, mom. Enough.