Oh My God Berlin

"Scares Away the Rats" ....Pt. 2!

2010-07-18T09:01:00.000-07:00

First, I have to tell you about the plane ride. Glory of glories, I was sitting next to someone with post-nasal drip. The term "post-nasal drip" has never made sense to me. When did "pre-Nasal drip" happen? Now we're suddenly over it?

Anyway, if you ever find yourself sitting next to someone who feels the urge to snort his snot back up into his nose every couple minutes, don't make the situation more frustrating for yourself by counting the time that has elapsed between each snort. Just do the normal thing and listen to music on your iPod really loudly for seven hours or until he falls asleep.

By the time the digital version of the plane is hovering over Dusseldorf, I am comatose. When we arrive in Berlin, I am practically dead. Suffice to say, It takes me a bit of time before I settle into my life in Berlin. I am SO jetlagged. Not like the kind of jetlagged where you go to sleep really early one night and wake up really late the next morning and feel groggy but drink an espresso and get over it, but the kind of jetlagged where you lay incapacitated in your hostel bed for almost three entire days, only taking little breaks to down a gatorade and grab a croissant.

The short Italian man in the bunk above mine seems to share my restless sleepy temperament. With every twist and turn, every change from cadaver to fetal to cadaver and back again, he seems to move in a synchronized fashion. We are like the Naavi in Avatar, communicating through bedspreads and steel springs instead of hair. It is uncomfortable, and awkward, to see him in the morning, standing above me and putting on deodorant, his crotch in my face, knowing he'd heard me whimper a little bit the night before as my exhausted body continued to refuse to fall asleep.

The hostel room smells like dudes who smell like rotting Subway sandwiches. And halitosis. And death. The first thing I do after I've roused myself into consciousness is go and get a drink. It's 9 am but I can hear bleeps and bloops emanating from a locked wooden door about fifty feet away from the hostel entrance. I sit down in the bar and order a vodka orange juice from the supermodel bartender. She pours half a glass of vodka into my drink, mixes it with orange juice, asks me for three euros and then runs off to dance suggestively with a woman who looks like her sister. Then someone offers me acid. It's 9 am! This is, weirdly, the moment when I fall back in love with Berlin.

I wander dazedly out of the bar and spot two gays kanoodling over espresso. I stare at them as I'm walking and almost trip over a bike. There are old ladies schmoozing, tatooed hipsyers locking up their bikes, tall, skinny women riding bikes with little wooden carts filled with screaming children attached. I welcome myself to Europe.

I sit down at a restaurant and order a salad. "Salad? Do you speak English?" I ask the waitress with the requisite amount of shame one should feel for not knowing the language in a place you have flown thousands of miles to live in. "No, I don't speak any English," the woman says to me in perfect English. Then she smiles. "What do you want?"

I'd bought a German to English translation book written by Rick Steves- a proud monolinguist -but half the book was about beer. I could ask for an obscure lager but was still at a loss when it came to telling someone they looked sexy. However, I was actually enjoying not knowing the language. Life is so much more exciting when all you have to work with are the wild gestures and emotive facial expressions of an out-of-commission mine.

After ordering, I look at the pictures in a German newspaper sitting next to me. "La la la," I think to myself as I stare at the pictures.

The man next to me feels around his butt. It suddenly occurs to me that I am not reading some newspaper left to the population by a benevolent cradle-to-grave socialist country for general perusing, but this man's newspaper that he bought with his own cash money. I apologize and give it back to him, miming the universal expression of regret.

My food arrives but instead of eating it, I stare into the crowd of people sitting lazily about, munching on croissants, talking, laughing. "This is the life!" I think to myself and renounce all the epiphanies I'd had in New York about the importance of hard work and dedication.

I end up staying at the hostel for over a week. Staying in a hostel for such long periods of time is kind of like enrolling yourself in an international speed-dating service. Everyone starts with the typical questions ("Where are you from? What are you doing here?") but eventually you find yourself courting new friends and romanticizing their home countries. "France, wow, such a beautiful country," you say, attempting to conjure memories of the trip you took with your family when you still claimed you were straight.

Eventually, I meet two Israelis who seem fun.

"Hey, you're a gay right?" one of them asks me.

"What do you think of this shirt?"

"I think it's fucking ugly. Wear that one," I say.

"Hey, all right! That was a good tip, man! Yeah, you're good!"

I feel comfortably bitchy around them. The boys have a series of catch phrases they repeat, probably because they don't feel like coming up with actual English sentences around me.

"I don't give a fuck," is stated was frequently and emphatically as in a reality television show. South Park episodes were quoted with reverence. This was going to be a long night.

One of the first things we do is visit Alexanderplatz, home of Berlin's television tower. Soaring much higher than the space needle, but crowned with an orb that looks like Epcot, the building initially looks like a piece of space junk that just happened to land in the capitol of Germany.

TO BE CONTINUED!!!

Oh, By the Way...

2010-07-17T19:30:00.000-07:00

The reason I haven't been writing here is because I've been writing over here. Come read about art!

Hallo, Vas Is Up?

2010-07-17T04:42:00.000-07:00

i cannot stop trying to sound like bruno here.

it all started with a music poster which said "vas is worldmusic?" i thought the poster was so silly (because, uhm, world music is world music, aka "music of the world" aka "music made by non-white people") so i started thinking in my head "vas is worldmusic" like all day long because it was bizzare and also i'm trying to learn german so i could file it under the part of my brain that was reserved for "new and exciting information". but i can't stop thinking in bruno's accent. which is actually a fairly accurate depiction of a flamboyant gay german accent.

besides old people and babies (such classics) there are many other things i enjoy laughing at here. i was horrified to find german country music at a gay club, but after i'd sat around for a while i just found it funny. it's amazing to hear the german accent in a dolly parton type song.

some things also get amazingly lost in translation. there's an asian restaurant here called "rice queen" which, in america, is a derogatory term for an older gay man who likes younger asian boys, though i doubt the owners have realized that. the restaurant (i kid you not!) is right next to another restaurant called "papa no." it kills me.

people from every corner of the planet live here. french people are probably my favorite. watching french children eat food is hilarious. they are so dainty with their forks! such cultured children, even at a young age. how do they know how to hold their knives. christ, they even rest the fork and knife on the plate after they're done. when i try doing that, the fork and knife fall to the ground and i laugh because this is what american people do: we fuck up and laugh. these kids are something else, though.

there are sex shops EVERYWHERE. there are like five gay saunas next to my apartment. i went once and stared at the porn on the walls and left. good story right? another time i asked the man behind the counter if i could buy a bottle of water and he looked at me like i was an alien. i want to think of a good gay sex club joke. i want to find something funny about sex shops, but maybe theyre actually just kind of sad? yeah, that might be true.

germans LOVE techno. everywhere sounds like a gay club. i'll be eating falaffel at a schwarma shop and have a gay club flashback mid-bite-of-chicken because the turkish owner of the shop is in lurv with an obscure lady gaga remix.

germans are lazy. relatively speaking. either that or americans are workaholics. i oscillate between thinking one is true, then the other, then both.

germans are effortlessly creative. this is what i've decided. at some point in their lives, some representative from MOMA sat them down and told them how to decorate their living rooms, then they traded a blowjob for excellent fashion advice from michael kors, and then they decided they were "over" all that and created living rooms and wardrobes that were somehow even more sophisticated than anything in america. seriously, i walk into apartments and i feel like i'm a model in a catalogue. i want a life.

germans roll their eyes when you say you're an american, but there's still a lot of love there. you just have to talk about obama and the differences between red states and blue cities. then you're in.

i need to learn german.

i miss u!

Scares Away the Rats

2010-06-24T23:12:00.000-07:00

"A gay," the woman chewed the word over for a minute. "A Jew. A gay Jew."

"You are Jewish, but you are also a gay," she explained to me. A lengthy pause. "Vow."

The drunken elderly lady stared deeply into the infinite and confounding space between her face and mine.

"Vas is innn your book bag?"

"A book."

"Vow."

I resisted the urge to feel flattered. Usually, when people remark on my specialness, I blush, thank them, and try to impress them with more fun facts (most people won't press if you tell them the third nipple is on your butt). But I was a tough New Yorker now. I didn't divulge my life story to just anyone.

My childhood friend, now behind the bar, made a bug-eyed face at me. I could tell she was debating over how much she wanted to help me out and how much she wanted me to experience the crazy she deals with every day.

"Izzz zhaatt soccherr?" the woman asked, pointing at a screen depicting men kicking balls on a field. She threw her body against the back of her chair in mock shock. "Is Spain in zee orange shirts?"

I went back to reading my book and when I turned around, she was slumped in her chair, almost falling off. I shot her a concerned look and she laughed at me. I turned back around.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry for making fun of you."

Then she fell off the chair.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god what do I do?" I called to Jane.

"She falls down all the time."

This was not the first moment I ended up relishing because it felt like Authentic New York.

Later that day, after I had transformed myself into a quintessential cliche NYC tourist - buying a soft-pretzel, humming Alicia Key's "Empire State of Mind" song and meandering around M&M World - I arrived back at my friend Julia's place in Crown Heights. It was around 1:30 AM and a gaggle of Jamaicans were still playing chess under a "No Loitering" sign. Julia was such a pro at having guests over that she didn't even look phased by the fact that I was coming home so late. She held the door open for me and a haggard looking man who said he required apartment entry so he could "go find his girl." He followed us up the first flight of stairs and then wandered into a dark corner.

When we reached her apartment, Julia pounded the floorboards with her bare feet.

"Scares away the rats," she explained, matter-of-factly.

This deeply impressed me.

Okay, so I was not on the "Sex and the City" tour of Carrie Bradshaw's favorite vabrator stores, but I'd still spent a portion of the day like a naive outsider, praying I'd see Liz Lemon's character in Rockafeller Center. These were the kinds of experiences that made one feel like a clueless Midwestern tourist. Witnessing Julia's fairly nonchalant attitude towards rodent infestation, on the other hand, gave me the realest picture of the city yet.

Excusing moments after branding them with the "authentic" label was something I had also done, exuberantly, while hanging out with my friend Stephanie. Stephanie had seemed harried and had big dark circles under her eyes when I visited her in her diminutive apartment in the East Village but I quickly convinced myself that she was having a totally enviable New York experience. The dark circles were proof of this. I had not a shred of compassion for her; she was living the dream.

I had always held fast to the idea that traveling permanently altered your internal hard-wiring, and now my wires had been re-arranged into a large F circuit, for failure. Failure to become an authentic, hard-working, stressed out New Yorker.

Just as it had taken me a long time to come to grips with the fact that simply setting foot in Chelsea does not a more fabulous gay man make, I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that simply meandering around the streets of New York was not turning me into a more interesting person. I'd have to get one of those job thingies. But what were my skills? The greatest thing about living in Seattle was that I didn't really have to prove myself. If I lost my job, I'd have to move back in with my parents. But I didn't mind watching Oprah on their couch. Unemployment in New York meant being eaten alive by pigeons in some Bushwick alley. Not applying myself was not an option.

The next morning I took the subway back into the city. As I strained to listen to an episode of "This American Life" over the screech of the train, I began to think of ways of simulating a New York life in a less expensive city. Maybe I could rent an apartment under train tracks in Philadelphia, open a bagel shop that doubled as a comedy club and pay people to be slightly rude to me.

I must admit, at this point in the story, that I hadn't expected to fall so masochistically in love with New York. My plan, essentially unalterable due to the price of plane tickets, was to leave New York for Berlin in a week.

"Why Berlin?" I can still hear my mother's voice in my head. I had traveled to Berlin a year ago and had loved it but couldn't find a way to explain my love to those in what that they call the "Post-Holocaust" generation. Like an Arab in love with Noah's lox shmear, mine was a culturally-inconvenient adoration. You should have seen the expression on my mother's face when I had handed her the Lonely Planet Berlin guide book.

"Look at all the great shopping!"

"This is a page on Hitler's bunker."

"Oh my god."

Let's get one thing straight: I do not have a Hitler fetish. Let's get another thing straight: the shopping in Berlin is incredible.

After a week in New York, I packed up my bags and headed for JFK with Julia. As she fiddled with her car's iPod, narrowly missing a crowd of Hasids, I attempted to prepare myself for this new lederehosened leg of my trip.

Traveling from Seattle to New York meant preparing myself for the smell of human feces, rotting garbage and the crippling anguish of monetary-inferiority complex. Traveling to Berlin, on the other hand, meant preparing myself for sophistication-deficit disorder.

I tried to adopt a cool but detached look in the airport security line that signaled someone who was over it. I imagined that, if any Berliners asked me what I thought of Obama, I'd reply "I like him, but let's not make a religion out of it." I'd be in the clear unless Germans watched Bill Maher.

Still, it was hard to concentrate when I was having panic attacks about being rendered mute. I still knew no German! I didn't even know what came after "drei" ("drei-et-un"?) Worse, I had adopted a patronizing attitude towards the language. German just made me giggle!

....TO BE CONTINUED!

Like a Pervy Nancy Drew

2010-06-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I read Edith Zimmerman's blog out loud to a few friends. Everyone was yelling at me to stop because the pacing was philistine - like something you'd find in a really stupid campfire story that goes on and on and isn't so much scary as it is boring and weird - but then came the shocking and outrageous and pretty creepy punchline, and that really sorted folks out. I laughed, because the story WAS dumb, but proudly and self-consciously so, and everyone stared at me silently before resuming their activities. So you're just going to have to trust me on this: her blog is stupid hilarious (the best kind). Here's one story that made me howl.

ghost!!!!

Right as I was drifting to sleep, a thumping noise in my bedroom startled me awake, and I gasped. “Who’s there?” I said, sitting up and pulling the covers tight around me. “Who’s there?!” Just then I heard another thump, but this time the thump was followed by a long, slow creak. I know that creaking noise, I thought to myself, That’s my closet door opening! So I looked over and saw that my closet door was opening! “Oh my god,” I whispered—the door seemed to be opening by itself! Finally the creaking stopped and the door was completely open. I held my breath and for a second nothing happened, but then a pale, transparent oval floated out from the darkness within, and it had two empty holes for eyes and a long empty gash for a mouth. It was a ghost!

“Oh my god,” I said. “Oh my god, oh my god, what do you want!?”

The ghost said nothing and just floated around my room, going back and forth, causing all the papers on my desk to flutter to the floor, and my drapes to flap in the wind. Then he came over to the side of my bed and just hovered there, staring down at me with his empty eyes, with that same unchanging expression. “What do you want?” I whispered. “Oh my god, what do you want?! I’ll give you anything. Money, jewelry—whatever you want. I’ll suck your dick, just please don’t kill me!”

So he pulled out his ghost dick and… well, I’m still alive, I’ll say that much!

Haaaaaa...ewwwwwwwww! (hewwwwww?) Edith (who really is so wonderfully weird) also selects and comments on the funniest and most interesting internet memes for New York Magazine's Culture Vulture. You can check out her posts here.

Against the Homosexual Lifestyle?

2010-06-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

Force the gays to marry!

Music Dump Wednesday!

2010-06-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

Fake Blood:

Janelle Monae:

Vampire Weekend:

La Roux:

Chordettes (Squeak E. Clean Remix):

Robyn:

Annie:

Lindy West on the Food at Sasquatch

2010-06-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

It was humiliating enough sitting at a picnic table outside the media trailer, hot and alone, eating my Domino’s* personal pizza. The pizza was lukewarm and encrusted with tar and sadness. It had “ham” on it. I finished the pizza, and shifted my weight to the side to swing my leg over the bench. At this moment, I realized I should have checked my watch, for it happened to be WORST THING EVER O’CLOCK. As I leaned to the side, toward the very edge of the bench, the entire picnic table and bench apparatus TIPPED OVER SIDEWAYS AND PITCHED ME TO THE GROUND IN A TANGLE OF SHAME AND DIET COKE. Hey, everyone on earth! Check out the amazing 900-lb woman! I detected the smell of a Domino's personal pizza somewhere within a 200-mile radius, so i had the sheriff saw the wall off my double-wide and haul my brontosaural girth over here so I could stuff this tarry grease-puck in my face! Oops! Not knowing what else to do, I panicked and yelled, “I’M SUPER DRUNK RIGHT NOW SO I DIDN’T EVEN FEEL IT.” The worst part is that that wasn’t even true.

* By the way, isn't it Domino's that's doing that ad campaign about how their pizza used to be garbage but now it's really, really good? Hey, Domino's! You know what? "Good" isn't really in your wheelhouse. Maybe you should try something like, "Domino's Pizza: At Least It Was Borderline Free!" Or, "Domino's Pizza: Shut Up and Eat It, Fatty." Just a thought!

Read the rest here. I am offended that people are just now realizing that Lindy West is a hilarious genius. The woman has been funny since funny was pooping in diapers and kicking the back of your seat on long airplane flights.

Thank You, Gods of Comedy and Romance, For Having Sex and Giving Birth to the Newest Episode of 30 Rock

2010-05-21T23:59:00.000-07:00

I was getting worried about 30 Rock. Liz's single lady jokes were feeling flat. Tracy's shenanigans just weren't cutting it. But the newest episode, in which Liz must attend two separate weddings and Jack has to choose between Avery and whats-her-face-with-the-hilarious-Boston-accent is totally. fucking. hilarious. For one, Liz finally finds someone who likes her (THANK GOD RIGHT? It was getting very unrealistic that every man in New York City hates a wonderfully self-deprecating single lady in her thirties). Add a drunk Kenneth into the mix (he's just the sweetest thing even when he's trying to be mean) and you have an episode that actually allows its characters some emotional growth while still retaining the belly laughs. Also, Cher accents in male characters never gets old. Watch here.

Today in Awesomeness

2010-05-17T16:09:00.000-07:00

Sam Lipsyte's new novel "The Ask" has been getting a lot of praise everywhere, and that's because it's a beautiful, hilarious, amazing and heartbreaking new book. I just finished it last night, in bed, still sick with some weird fluey thing. This part caught me by surprise...a rare meaning offering in a book which ardently resists the preachy. I'll share it here because it resonated so much with me. It's a conversation between the main character of the book, Milo, and his son.

I took a knee on the sidewalk, clasped Bernie by the shoulders. I'd seen fathers kneel like this in movies, standard posture for the rushed essentials, the Polonius rundown. A little too in love with itself, Don might judge the moment but that didn't diminish its necessity. Bernie might not understand what I told him today, but he would carry the words with him forever, and with them, me.
"Listen," I said.
"Yes, Daddy?"
"Squander it. Give it all away."
"Give what away? My toys?"
"No, yes, sure, your toys, too. Whatever it is. Squander it. Do you understand?"
"Not really."
"Don't save a little part of you inside yourself. Not even a scrap. It gets tainted in there. It rots."
"What does?"
"I can't explain right now. Someday you'll know..."

In the spirit of this passage, a part of me wants to give away the plot of the whole book, but you'll have to check it out here instead. What do I love about this passage? Oh, everything. I love Milo's self-conscious fathering. I love how everything adults say is lost in translation. I love the random stream-of-conscious writing Lipsyte attempts when writing the kid's character. I love that Milo is so bitter, and he knows it, and he wants it to stop but doesn't know how. I love the message of squandering it all, and I love the way it sounds like it might actually be a bad thing, and that that's because we've cast it as a bad thing, when it's really the greatest thing. I love how the moment pops out of nowhere, the way really important moments tend to always pop out of nowhere, and how it ends quickly because it's so rare for two human beings to ever have an epiphany on the same deep level at the exact same time.

Yesterday

2010-05-01T02:50:00.000-07:00

I spent the first part of yesterday in a frenzy about my upcoming trip to Berlin. I now have, like, 12 books on the city. I am completely aware that I am romanticizing the fuck out of it and yet I can't help but stare at all the modernist art in the books and read about the city and it's people and history and think, fuck: I must go. But I'm not usually the person who just goes with feelings like this. I'm not the dude who says "I must go" and then actually goes. I'm much more the person who'll have the thought "I must go" and then immediately analyze why I'm thinking this way. So it still feels foreign to have the thought, "I must go to berlin" and know that really, in three months, I will be there.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about Seattle and my place in it. I'm annoyed by these thoughts. I really would like to not be constantly analyzing this sense of place, and the conversations I've been having about the city are frustrating, to say the least. I think we leave certain situations is because, at some point, the conversations we're having with ourselves while we're there are no longer satisfying. They're frustrating. We're not so much leaving a place as leaving the idea of a place we've defined, redefined, battled with and resigned against in cynicism.

I hung out with "S" last night. It felt so comfortable to be around him. I've developed a self around him that feels so familiar. I'm bawdy, I'm crazy, he doesn't mind. I tease him relentlessly but he can take it and he teases me right back. And yet, I'm so keenly aware of how familiar this role is to me - the outlandish, sarcastic gay friend with the bitchy opinions about absolutely everything. He's mostly me, but missing the vulnerability. The vulnerability comes from taking risks, and I'm not taking any right now. I'm living a very safe existence in an environment I've known since a child.

S and I trade Jewish shticky humor in front of his new girlfriend. We can truly become caricatures sometimes. I'm the pushy hypochondriac with the dysfunctional home life, he's the obsessive backseat driver. So S and I are driving with this new girlfriend of his, and she's laughing in all the right places and totally appreciating the weird performance art of our relationship. And now that we have an audience, I feel like our shit is just amplified. We tear into each other. We laugh dark laughs.

We drive down 45th, in terrible stop-and-go, until we reach the freeway. We're going to a party in Seward park...a mansion there, to be exact. My friend, M, just threw a multicultural performance at Garfield High School (sorry about that word), and her party she says, via text message, is gonna be "crackin."

When we arrive at the house, it's clear we've got the wrong address. No one's there. It's Seward park and silent. Not to get all law-and-order on your ass, but some places here give me the heebie-jeebies. It's so eerily quiet in parts of Seattle. An Israeli I once dated compared Seattle to a massive country club. He of course lived in Madison Valley, so take it with a grain of whateverrr but I latched on to this idea for a while. A part of me thinks he was just trying to be a dick and I also think our conversation was built on a bullshit premise, since he was always trying to say things to provoke me, and yet I've wrestled with it for a while. Stuff does happen here, but it's in specific areas, with specific people, it doesn't last long, it's usually not too rowdy and it's over before you know it. The way it's documented on Facebook probably makes it look more fun than it actually was.

Anyway, the party turns out to be somewhere else, so we have to drive back into the city. We take Lake Washington Blvd this time, and it's a scenic drive. The topic turns to cities and parents and professions and bits of local history. We drive by Kurt Cobain's old house.

The party we find is alienating for unexplainable reasons. It has all the right ingredients of a party - beer, loudly-talking attractive people - and yet something is off. It's cliquey. And when I say "it's cliquey" I mean, we missed out on something everyone else in the room seems to know. Some shared truth or sense of place or something.

We leave soon after, and drive to S's place. We smoke. We watch Hulu, talk Youtube. Bonding has become a trip to everyone's favorite cat videos. But there's some real joy to be shared here, and it's not entirely easy for me to feel cynical about it. We end up watching "Food Inc," a film I'd kept starting and stopping in the course of eating a burrito. The burrito won before, but tonight I was hooked, with a few reservations. The film was shocking, of course. But it was also kind of dumb, and annoying. The whole food debate in this country is so young and full of anger and sensationalism. I'm just as pissed as anyone about Monsanto and Wal-Mart and Con-Agra, but I'd like to watch a doc about it all that doesn't pander to my fears. I think, at times, the film shot itself in the foot by being way too heavy handed.

I ended up back on the blog, reading an old post I'd written about dining alone in Seattle, back when I was hell bent on becoming a professional writer a la Jonathan Franzen. It was painful to read. When I wrote it, I was still so high off my trip to South Africa that I was able to be pretty objective about my life in Seattle. I had hope there was another life waiting for me somewhere, so I didn't mind being harsh and honest about the one I currently had.

Truth be told, I haven't changed much since then. I'm still waiting to leave again. I want to feel that objectivity about some other new place. I want to make myself a stranger again. I'm not sure I'll be able to pull it off, but I figure I owe it to myself to at least try.

New Idea!

2010-04-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

So, you know how there's no money in the journalism biz? I have a new idea! Hey guys! How many times have you tried a diet and failed? I know I have!!! But not on the "Get Nervous" diet. On the "Get Nervous" diet, we send you one horrifying image, sound clip or video a day in the mail that shocks you so terribly you just have to poop! What will it be today? A writing deadline you just missed? A video of the Alaskan Way Viaduct falling to pieces? Or how about a hot person online who wants to talk to you but has a slutty tattoo? In Steven Blum's "Get Nervous Diet" we tailor our pictures to your greatest fears! Ever get overwhelmed by all the choices at the local Office Depot? We've got a picture for that! Think you'd poop if you won the lottery? Of course you would! We'll play a prank! We've got a massive library of your every fear! Rachel Ray, scabies, the inside of Northgate Mall...you literally won't ever stop pooping!*

*Steven Blum is not liable for any medical problems you may encounter from too many poops.

(Or you could just send me $20)

Unpublishable

2010-04-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Me: Hi.
Interviewee: Michael Pollen.
M: Shut up! How would you describe the food here?
I: Farm-fresh.
M: Go to hell, you clone! What do you really care about?
I: Sustainability.
M: MMMMMMk. So, let's talk about Italy or some shit.
I: Pompous digression .
M: Well that was unprintable. What about that recipe?
I: Esoteric, wonky aside 5 people will understand.
M: Cool. What if I crack a joke right now?
I: Grand pronouncement on the intersections between food and life. Unpublishable meaning-offering. Opinion held by 6 billion people.
M: NICE! Well, I think I've got enough here. I'll call you if I have any follow-ups!

Steven Re-Discovers Television

2010-04-20T23:48:00.000-07:00

I'm at the folk's this week. After not watching TV in forevz, it is suddenly right here saying "What's up? Wanna buy a boat? Wanna stare at some jewelry while I speak in the voice of death?" Non-cable television is just as boring as ever but now it's in high-definition so it can bore me with every pore in Kathy Goertzen's face. Jay Leno just played a clip of a "Beer Pong Champ" flipping a ping pong ball into a cup of water - a spectacle to which Leno could only respond, unironically, with a short "wahoo!" (I miss Coco, Leno's like the grandpa who fails at feigning interest in your life). Then I switched the channel to Law and Order and its maudlin string section was trying to lure me into some lurid sex-crime spectacle, but I just wasn't ready to see a naked lady in a dumpster. So then I turned the TV off. The whole living room is pretty much arranged around the television so it feels weird now to sit in it and NOT watch television. The TV is all "Don't you want some age-defying makeup?" But the more I watch, the less of an anthropologist I become. I prefer the trash in small doses through a monocle. I'm sure you can relate.

To My Parents' Poor, Suicidal Kitty Cat

2010-04-19T17:57:00.000-07:00

Poor, poor suicidal kitty. Why are you all alone in my parent's bedroom? Why don't you ever come out to play? Don't you know that I love you? I just called to say that I do, I do. Poor suicidal kitty cat. Remember that time when you jumped off the dining room table - during Shabbat, mind you - and flung your head into the window even though it was nighttime and there were no birds visible? You made us all scream, especially my mom. I love you but you always look distracted by something. A bad thought? I just want to hold you and nurse you like a child. Why did you ruin all our furniture? Why do you keep vomiting on our couch? Poor suicidal kitty cat...for some reason I don't feel like writing to anyone but you. Maybe that's because my friends don't want me to talk about them on a blog and I haven't figured out how to write fiction.

Do Seattle Public Elementary Schools Serve Real Food?

2010-03-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

If you haven't already seen "Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution" show on ABC, I'd really recommend checking it out (you can watch the first two shows on Hulu here). In the show, Oliver attempts to change the eating habits of the most obese city in the United States - Huntington, West Virginia. Oliver, who's from Britain, is famous for re-vamping the British school lunch system and, since the kids there ate crap, and the kids here eat crap, and because kids who eat crap tend to grow up into adults who eat crap, the show focuses mainly on Oliver's attempts to re-vamp Huntington's school lunch program, which is filled to the brim with crap. At Huntington, they serve frozen pizza for breakfast. Lunch is chicken nuggets with a side of goop. Then the kids gulp it all down with florescent pink milk.

The visuals of these kids eating all this crap is enough to make anyone's stomach turn, because if you grow up not knowing what good food actually tastes like, how can you not get fat and end up with diabetes? The show got me wondering: what kind of meals are we serving kids in Seattle public schools? Is it real food, or does it just sound like real food? You'd think Seattle - home to farmer's markets, co-ops, and plenty of upscale restaurants that make a point about serving only farm-fresh food - would have enough people concerned about food to not serve our kids total crap.

Tonight, I took a look at the Seattle Public School's "Nutrition Services" website. There, I found a page that listed all the food given to Seattle Public Elementary Schools this month. A lot of it looks potentially yummy and healthy (fajita chicken, beef teriyaki, penne marinara) but a lot also looks dubious (chicken "drummies," fish "nuggets," mozzarella cheese breadsticks). Who ever heard of breadsticks for lunch? And where is this food coming from? What is its shelf life?

There's a part of the website labeled "nutritional analysis" with a bunch of dead links. However, I was able to find nutritional info on March's lunches. It's what you'd expect - hot dogs bad, salad good - but I couldn't find any information on suppliers, sources, or anything like that. On a good note, it looks like a lot of these meals contain a range of healthy sides, like baby carrots, grapes, even jicama salads - which is definitely a step above Huntington's pizza with a side of roll and corn syrup. Grapes are usually born on vines and carrots - last time I checked- can't be created in a laboratory (although I'm sure there are some rogue GMO carrots running around out there).

Even though I have a better sense of what kids are eating in Seattle schools, it would be interesting, and important, to hear a Seattle Public School official explain where this food is from and how it's prepared. Does the food just sound appetizing (the way school lunches always sound appetizing)? Or is it the real un-frozen, un-fucked around with food we need to be feeding our kids? In the next few days, I plan on tracking down someone and seeing if I can find an answer...

Spring Cleaning

2010-03-26T18:59:00.000-07:00

Hello. This post is brought to you by two lesbians playing catch with their dogs, a child pretending he is nauseous on a tire swing, a bench that’s half-rotted and Spring. It is finally Spring. I feel like I just got sprung! I feel like saying “I feel like” is really annoying so I’m going to stop now. But seriously, dudes. Even newspaper reporters sound more chipper in print now that the sun’s out. Something has fundamentally and seismically shifted. It’s the most dramatic seasonal change I’ve experienced thus far in Seattle. I also have this break from school and time to digest my thoughts. Perhaps too much time. Also, too much time to stare at clothing in stores and think about buying it. Uh oh. I’m feeling more honest with myself, which is really the only place to be (or not…hold me). These are a few of the things I’ve been thinking about (lists comfort me, so you only have to hold me a little).

1. I’m not so sure how to feel about this one, but my brain has become a series of witty zinger status updates. Either that or my brain is like a comments thread on the world’s most derivative blog. It just oscillates between the two, with little warning. Soon there will be an iPhone app that will pick up on our brainwaves and send our best thoughts to a status updater and we will never have to experience this oscillation ever again. This will be a joyous day.

2. I am re-evaluating situations where I literally have to take my brain out of my skull and put it in a pretty pink box (the kind for gay brains). This happens to me a lot. At work, at school, at home. I would appreciate if my job could be “sitting on my ass getting stoned and watching the September Issue.” That actually requires like 75% of my brain. Okay “god”? You got that?

3. I have re-discovered alcohol and boys. This means I occasionally transform myself into a huge queen and make out with everyone. Boys are weird. I'm not sure if I'm looking for a relationship. God do I love queens, though. And bitches. I met the fucking biggest queen bitch a few nights ago and I feel like I’m still riding high off the encounter.

4. I just saw "Greenberg". It was meh, but I think that's what it intended to be, so it succeeded. I mean, it was like one of those "important movies" people will probably talk about for a while, even though they didn't really like it. You can't really like the movie unless you detach yourself from Ben Stiller's problems and absorb it like a comedy, but I found that impossible. So I ended up both relating to and detesting the main character, coming to know my own inner asshole just a bit better. It was weirdly therapeutic, and also depressing.

5. I've been reading way too much about the health care debate. Sometimes it makes me nauseous. I literally commented on a Fox News article I thought was "fear-mongering". I think it got deleted somehow, because when I went back to check on it and see how folks had responded, it wasn't there. They can't do that, right?

Today in Surviving Seattle

2010-03-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, the Stranger dropped their 2010 Economic Survival Guide - which was hilarious and wonderful - but they left a few things out. As a freelancer, I'm even poorer, and I'd like to fill those holes right here (ew, sorry). These are the ways I save my monies.

I Go to Public Parks

People in Seattle often seem to forget that "West Seattle" exists. It's sad, but true. Coming back from Alki the other day, one of my roommates was all "Alki? I've always wondered what that was..." then she stared off into nothing and I had to revive her (she's from California). ALKI IS SO PRETTY, BITCHES! 'Specially right now. Beaches cost nothin', sand is free! Flock there.

I Eat Cheap-Ass "Ethnic" Food and Stuff My Face at Happy Hours

I second Saigon Deli's deliciousness. Presse is also fairly cheap for smaller, brunchier items. Ramen is a bit pricier than Pho, but more filling. Tolouse Petit's happy hour is amazing - probably the best in Seattle - and Bastille's aint half bad either.

I Use the Free Interwebs in the U-District

Did you know the interwebs are free in the U-District? They are! You can even sit out on the lawn and stay connected (I just did this!). Go grab something from Saigon Deli with fish sauce, sit on a grassy knoll and cruise Hulu on your laptop. Perfect!

But I Don't Want to Sit, Alone, With A Laptop On A Sunny Day

Walk down Brooklyn till you hit the water. It's nice down there.

I Walk in the Woods

The Ravenna Ravine is scary silent during the day. Huge trees loom over you, a babbling brook babbles and somewhere nearby you can hear medieval nerds playing with plastic sticks. It's disquieting, and quieting, all at the same time. It's also the most isolated place I've found in a residential neighborhood. I know, I know- Seattle is already isolating. But if it's not isolating enough, check out this park!
I Take the Light Rail for Fun

Take it to Columbia city, get off, walk to Full Tilt, play ice cream, eat video games, listen to music, you know...the usual. Bonus: you can laugh at all the Escalades parked outside and the fact that, a night, Columbia City means people yelling at each other for no reason and jumping into the middle of the street without an "okay" signal. It's crazy down there!

I Get Paid to Speak English

Becoming an English teacher is easy. Not the "literature" kind, silly. That's harder. But it's easy to volunteer at Seattle Central Community College, teach immigrants how to read books, and eventually get paid to do it. Show up enough and they'll start paying you. If it happened to me, it could happen to anyone. It'll get you out of the house, feeling good, and making a dime.

Oh, So You're An Even Bigger Do-Gooder?

Woah there, okay. Here's what you do: you work at the Crisis Clinic. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Steven! Isn't listening to other people's problems for hours and hours totally sad?" Well, yes and no. Their problems ARE sad, but the experience actually makes you a better listener. It gives you ideas for stories. It makes you feel less alone, and useful in the best sense of the word. And, the next time a job interview lands in your lap, you'll get it because you'll have Ira Glass-level listening skillz.

I Don't Pay for Shows

Why pay for a show when you can just say you're "press" and get in for free? People rarely check because they don't want to embarrass themselves. Why should the press have all the fun? Try it!

I Started A Blog

So far, it's made me fifty cents, but maybe you'll have better luck? I Can Haz Cheesburger and Fail Blog both started in Seattle. Clearly, we're a bored city. Try and find a theme for your blog and stick to it (I've found this impossible, and that's why five people read my blog). And remember: the internet is the new Manhattan. One day you're in, the next Heidi Klum is kissing your cheek goodbye, so don't feel too bad if you're not the next youtube overnight. Eventually, people will click on your ads and you'll start making some cash.

Well, I guess that's all for now. I feel like my advice is less "how to survive in Seattle" than it is "how to become more like Steven Blum," which I'm actually totally fine with. Bye guys!

Oh My God, It's Allison Janney and A Llama!

2010-03-15T13:14:00.000-07:00

No Gay Man Would Wear That Scarf

2010-03-15T13:13:00.000-07:00

It's All Here, Baby

2010-03-15T13:11:00.000-07:00

Find many more ways to irritate your friends here.

I Went to an Art Opening this Weekend

2010-03-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

And it was quite good.

"Saving Private Ryan" as Summarized By the Folks at "This Recording"

2010-03-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that Jews are dying by the millions in camps across Europe, it ends up being a lot more important for everybody's peace of mind that one goy be rescued by a squadron of morons.

Read the whole thing here.

What Happens In Seattle

2010-03-15T12:56:00.000-07:00

Seattle's never been the suicide capital of the country. That title actually belongs to Las Vegas, as explained in an article in The Believer. It's a good read, though I think you need a subscription to access the whole thing.

Take Your Roller Coaster to Work Day

2010-03-02T18:56:00.000-08:00

The object of "Roller Coaster Tycoon" was to build roller coasters on your computer that made people barf, but only a little bit, and not so much that they passed out and died.

One day I made the mistake of showing my elaborate pixelated theme park to an ex-friend who painted one roller coaster pink, called it "Steven's Gay Coaster" and made all the trains crash together.

At school, I was comforted by drawing the same roller coasters over and over again on my notebooks. While my fellow male classmates were busy drawing pictures of boobs, I was trying to figure out how best to draw a corkscrew go over a lake behind a mountain.

When I was twelve years old, I joined a fan site for a roller coasters called "Roller Coaster Enthusiasts of America." They sent me a ludicrously shiny laminated card I still have hiding somewhere in my desk.

The folks at "Roller Coaster Enthusiasts" were against government restrictions on roller coaster heights and they believed roller coasters were safe and shouldn't be regulated like liquors and cars. "Safer than riding your car to work," I'd read in forums, and I agreed with them. Like a religious nut, I was completely prepared to argue with anyone who believed otherwise.

You could split the roller coaster enthusiasts into two camps; those who liked roller coasters for the "extreme experience" and those who liked rides that were "themed" like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. I happened to fall into the latter camp. My ultimate dream was to become a Disney Imagineer and live in the set of the Pirates of the Carribean ride and watch all the boats go by. I could have made friends with an animatronic goat and eaten food from the Bayou.

The largest theme park, the theme park of my dreams, lay in a fairly innocuous stretch of land in Sandusky, Ohio. When I was twelve I would have chopped off my arm to go to Cedar Point. The place had roller coasters everywhere. One took you to the bathroom while the other brushed your teeth. There were sprightly young launch coasters and rickety old geezers and everything in between.

Instead, all I had to stare at was the Seattle Center Fun Forest Coaster; a pitiful mess of blue steel that dove into itself a dozen times before swirling around like a flushing toilet.

All the action was in L.A. I imagined Los Angelinos laughing and drinking cocktails on the beach before strapping themselves into a nice, shiny roller coaster for relaxation after a hard day at work.

For Hannukah one year, I received a Knex roller coaster kit. I assembled it all in one glorious weekend in our upstairs. Our cat, whom I'd named Snowy but everyone had been lazily referring to as "kitty," stood guard over the loop-de-loop, swiping at the descending coaster like it was a mouse on wheels.

I was alternately upset that she might ruin the tracks and pleased that she added to the "theming" of the ride. Perhaps I could call it "The Cat" and pretend she was an animatronic cat.

Months later, our non-animatronic cat tired of chewing our rug and began chewing and then throwing up parts of the Knex roller coaster. My parents would come home and find a mound of kitty barf on the rug with little pieces of yellow track in it.

My obsession with roller coasters was replaced with a musical theater obsession and then an obsession with boys and college. But I never really forgot those wild roller coaster days

About six months ago, I drove from Seattle to San Fran to visit a friend. As I was leaving the city, I saw a sign for Six Flags Marine World and, impulsively, I took the exit, paid for parking, and waited in line at the entrance.

I giddily skipped through the turnstiles, feeling that same sense of wonder. In line for a floorless roller coaster, I watched insurance ads on a flat screen TV.

The roller coaster was fun, but it hurt my head, and I stumbled out dazedly, wondering if I'd had an aneurysm.

The kids around me looked drunk on life. Before anyone offers you a cigarette and before you've had your first rum and coke, the real sign of adulthood is getting to ride on the big kid rides. It's really the only legal high at that age.

Now I'm a big kid and, as you can probably guess, it just doesn't feel the same.

"Now Will Him Over Here With Your Garbage Bag Eyes"

2010-02-26T00:03:00.000-08:00

Deven Green is back!

Horrifying Youtube of the Day

2010-02-18T16:09:00.000-08:00

Help! I'm trapped in a musical and I can't get out!

Pretzel Pose

2010-02-11T22:28:00.000-08:00

I am not a fan of group activities. That's why I don't live in China. Take that, ghost of Mao! I reject you! I totally deleted all your text messages! So I was apprehensive about going to a hot yoga class in Greenlake. I don't like when people yell at me to correct my posture unless they are Wii Fit's computer animated trainers and they balance their critiques with motivational remarks like "Great form!" and "Way to go!" Even when Wii yells at me to "Straighten up!" I barely blush because, after all, I'm standing in front of a television in my basement.

Also, I am against Yoga culture. Namaste my ass. Yoga's whole "calm" aura is really grating. I don't believe people who do Yoga are really as calm as they say they are. I think some of them have issues that are not necessarily resolved by turning their body into a pretzel.

But I couldn't pass up I Love Hot Yoga's 10 session trial (just 30 bucks for a month of unlimited Yoga!). Some things, I figure, you really just have to give a try. As I waited outside the doors of the Yoga studio apprehensively, I scanned the faces of the departed for signs of heat exhaustion or mortification.

The studio was as dark and hot as a mother's womb. The women in the studio were on their backs, breathing heavily and purposefully as if they they were trying to rid themselves of evil spirits.

"Will people please make space in the front of the room?" the yoga instructor asked us in a slight guilting tone, as if we were already members in her moderately dysfunctional family.

I bent down and tried to touch my hands to the floor. It hurt a little bit, and I came back up. I've always treated my body as fearfully as one treats stray dogs or drunk Australians. "Are you sure you can do that?" I'm constantly asking myself.

Still, I did all the bends. I became a pretzel, a cadaver, then an airplane, a boat, a tee pee, a lounge chair, a tree with a penis, and the statue of liberty. My face got sweatier and angrier than a woman giving birth to triplets. On multiple occasions, I thought I was about to die. "This is it," I thought, "and the last thing I'll ever see is that nonsensical Lululemon logo."

By the end, I smelled like a sailor but I felt supernaturally relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that I sat outside a Starbucks and stared at a cute boy until he stared back. I got his number.

I am now a fan of group activities. Sorry for ever doubting you, Mao. The only way to really burn ass fat, it seems, is with a slightly scary Bikram instructor standing over you and correcting your posture in a room that's 103 degrees.

I'm Graduating Soon

2010-02-06T21:47:00.001-08:00

Can you believe it?? CAN YOU?? I CAN'T! I was just talking to my friend Jeremy about this. I was having a very wayward youth moment. Forgive the Daria-esque deadpan. "I've gotta do stuff when I graduate, you know... be things." "You don't have to graduate to be things" "Yes I do Jeremy, that's why I spent so much money on this."

But seriously guys. The following is a tentative list of future accomplishments:

cure youth in asia
save the pigeons
cut twigs on all the trees so they don't bring hurt to people's eyes.
teach old people how to sext
bring back the clog
eliminate all awkward pauses, fill in the dead noise with lady gaga's bad romance
cure death

It's going to be hard. But that's why I'm getting my B.A. in English.

Inside the Head of the Racoon Down the Street

2010-02-05T16:58:00.000-08:00

Hi. I am a racoon. I know you are not. I'm just going to sit. So still. Right now. By the door.

Oop. You just moved. I was just moving my head because you moved.

Hi.

Your house is bright. Your garbage: So yummy. Was that organic chocolate? I'm full or I'd eat your leg. Mmmmmmmm.

Leg.

Was that your friend practicing her ridiculous dance by the window? She looks like a hooker.

I'm a conservative racoon.

Are you going to walk towards me or away from me?

Oh well, I'll tell you anyway. Today I was listening to NPR and it made me angry. Someone British was talking and it made me realize how much I hate Americans. Whenever a Brit is talking to an American, it's always just so much clearer who's the moral one! Anyway, they were interviewing this man about this great tragedy in some third world, an American by the way, and he kept on saying how he was so enamored by the way these poor people had held up despite the crisis. They had such nobility, he'd said. As if all poor people have nobility. My head wanted to explode! Hadn't he read all those essays in the back of "Heart of Darkness!" DISUGUSTING! If I could sign language some grotesque emotocon I would!

By the way: I don't respect your life.

I saw you watching that Buddhist film last night. I saw you wanting to laugh. And you call yourself a multiculturalist! Your whole lifestyle is a sham.

I know you mistrust me because of that thing I have going on around my eyes, but really you should mistrust me because I don't respect your life.

Sigh.

I'm done.

But you really are a silly people.

All I do is eat your garbage....

La, la, la.

You're still looking at me.

Do you think you're just staring at two disembodied floating shiny fireflies?

Those are my eyes.

Okay. Well. If you're just going to stand there, I'll continue.

Now I'm no intimidatingly muscley man myself, but I'd say you need to exercise more. I can tell. I see those shoulders. So hunched. I know, I know. You think it's more complicated than that. You think that happiness is some magical combination of funny SNL clips on Hulu and good books and bars with cute boys and the right cologne...but really you just need to work out more.

If you lived in the Himalayas with those Buddhists you watch in movies, you'd feel naturally energetic and happy every day because you'd be picking wheat and tying prayer flags and things like that. But you don't. That's why you're a mess.

(Racoons don't feel guilt. I don't regret just saying that. BTW!)

Also: okay. Now I know I'm going to sound like your mother (if your mother was a hip therapist who understood cultural phenoms like facebook and the debilitating power of the internet) but seriously, no more endlessly thinking about what kind of status update you want to write and then refreshing your Gmail inbox obsessively to see if someone's commented on your facebook status update. Have a little more self-respect. Phew. I really had to say that one.

Why can't you be more like that girl who played the fat girl in Precious? You saw those interviews. She has self-respect.

Basically, I wish you were a black woman.

Are you about to lunge for me? I hope you know I just stepped back so I could spring forward with renewed vigor and appetite for human flesh!

You're getting closer. You know I have friends in the honeybucket next door? I do. Really. You heard that story about how we ganged up on that old lady in Florida and ate her hair? We'll totally eat your hair. No more Mr. Jew Hair!

Oh, you're getting the mail.

Oh, and now you're gone.

So silent now.

So at peace.

Now I feel bad.

I think I need a more creative job where I can vent my frustrations through some kind of art. Not even for the attention. I just don't like being this angry all the time.

I'm going to go make a bath and listen to Feist.

Yes, I'm a hipster racoon. Bitch, don't even start.

Jersey Shore Season Finale Recap

2010-01-22T12:32:00.000-08:00

This is what a feminist looks like.

Unless you've been plugging your ears and screaming "lalalalala!" when anyone speaks the words Jersey Shore, you surely must know about that gaggle of Italian Americans who live in a beach house, drink vodka smoothies and punch pedestrians who look at them funny.

You must also know about their star, Snookie - the legal midget with a self-tanner mustache and Amy Winehouse beehive bun who dances by herself on beach boardwalks to attract muscle men she affectionately calls "Juiceheads."

Last night's episode, the season finale, provided much of the expected shaudenfreude. Everyone yelled at each other for an hour because of various things - snookie yelled (and cried) because she ran into an ex while dancing embarrassingly alone on a boardwalk, one man with a metallic rose on his shirt yelled about this dude he punched in the last episode, and Jenni (Jay Woww) yelled because, for some reason, all of the hot muscle men failed to come to the beach boardwalk that day.

One lesson I took from the show was this: if you have muscles on your body, you can pretty much have a relationship with anyone in the world. What a grossly inaccurate impression of life you consistently provide, MTV! For example, Mike "The Situation," who has shoulders longer than a piano (and is what, forty years old?) found a bikini-clad 18-year-old girl on the beach and then proudly announced to all viewers the two of them would be dating for the next four months. See, she has an "eighteen year old ass" and he has a Bally's body, and really isn't that all you need to make a relationship? In the world of MTV, yes.

The show ended on a sweet note. To comfort Snookie about her boy problems, all the boys sat on her butt like it was one huge whoopie cushion. Then Mike, "The Situation," made out with her face in a hot tub. Snookie- the little cherub - sat in the hot tub and laughed. Because she felt self-conscious after all that kissing in front of millions of viewers? Because she saw semen floating in the water? "Don't think", said the editing. "Just stare at her boobs."

And then it was over.

Besides making me feel like I needed a cigarette (preferably one filled with crack), the show didn't have much affect on me. Somewhat surprisingly, I didn't feel violated, nor depressed about the state of humankind. Compared to the Jerry Springer Show, Jersey Shore is Oprah- all it did was make me laugh and feel all warm inside.

Los Angeles

2010-01-13T21:06:00.001-08:00

"EWW! EWW EWW EWW!" screamed my roommate Zara from downstairs. Zara was on bathroom duty and today was the day she had chosen to clean the black mold in our bathroom.

I'm not a particularly morbid person but black mold makes me think about my own demise. Maybe it's the name: black mold. Sounds like black plague, black licorice, Black Sabbath. Black mold is the queen sheeba of terrifying things. If all upsetting things you rarely think about were graphed on paper (randomly choking on a strawberry, developing a severe allergic reaction to snickerdoodles just as soon as a plateful ends up on your table) black mold would surely rise to the top of the Y axis, and beyond, because it fucking flies in the air, is invisible, and can make you hyperactive while hurting your brain.

I was contemplating this the day I flew from Los Angeles to Seattle. I was flying Christmas day and the airport was empty except for smatterings of Jews and Asians. We should start a club, really. And then I spotted my fellow Seattleites: a huddled mass of fleece jackets and stiff shoulders gathered to the right of the terminal, in the one area with no sunlight.

I opened an LA Times and picked at my wilting Starbucks panini. I was not in a particularly flirty mood. I was thinking about mold and my own demise. And then I heard this over the P.A.:

"Mistah Blum! I repeat: Mistah Blum! Will Mistah Blum please come to gate 75?"

Read that in the voice of a sarcastic drag queen and you'll understand the thrill of what happened to me. Was this gorgeously flaming homosexual flirting with me?

I'm not a good flirt. At gay bars I look combative. I pick the pettiest corner and wait until I see someone who might have something sardonic to say. After I've extracted enough social commentary to fill a novel, I go about the seduction process.

I'm not sure if I've ever been a good flirt. After coming out, I look back at my childhood and think "who was this boy and did he flirt?" Everyone asks you, after you've come out, if you ever liked a girl, ever, ever? No, I didn't. So who did I flirt with when I was a child? I'm not sure. Dolls? Maybe dolls. That sounds quite sad. I hope I didn't flirt with dolls.

"How are we today, Mistah Blum?"

"I'm good,"

"Would we like an aisle or a window seat today, Mistah Blum?"

"Window please."

"Are we traveling alone, Mistah Blum?"

"Yes we are."

"It will be sad to see you leave, Mistah Blum."

"Stop it! You're embarrassing him!"

"No, this man is a celebrity! He wants the attention!"

"I don't want to leave L.A."

That last line of mine was a risk. I admitted it: I didn't want to leave L.A. I was flirting the only way I know how to flirt: by being painfully honest. In Europe, they loved it. Here, it tends to freak people out. But not this man. "You could stay at my place." he responded. I seriously contemplated the offer, then laughed. He was offering me a way out and I pretended I didn't notice. He knew I didn't want to leave L.A. He knew I couldn't not be honest about that. In fact, he seemed to like it.

Still, I shut it down.

"Thanks, but I have to go back to, err, school."

Lamest response ever. I didn't even sound excited about it. It was like rejecting a free Disneyland trip for a dentist appointment.

The plane was a noticeably more somber affair. I sat next to a woman who's eyes never left her Stephen King novel. She shut the window as if she didn't want to be reminded of the swaying palm trees waving goodbye.

If I could do it all over, I think I would have taken him up on his offer. He told me he lived in West Hollywood. It could have been interesting.

"It's Giving Me This Great, Weird Hope Right Now"

2010-01-09T23:10:00.000-08:00

My friend Anna sent me a youtube today. I hope you like.

When Embracing Technology Makes You Look Ridiculous

2009-12-30T17:12:00.002-08:00

I love Wii Fit because the shiny graphics distract me from the fact that I'm sweating profusely and panting and it will be hours before I've obliterated hamburger patty meat fat from my veins. HOWEVER, the HOOLA HOOP activity on Wii Fit involves a boogying / humping movement that can only be described as "slomo seizure / sex with a ghost". Which is fine (because who cares? and dead people were hot once) but maybe a little bit confusing for a lawn-raking neighbor. I should have invited him in.

Today in Phallocentric Advertising by Hospitals

2009-12-18T14:23:00.001-08:00

Scroll down Myballard to see.

Wolf Boy

2009-12-11T12:04:00.000-08:00

First, you have to imagine you're watching television really late at night. Maybe you just realized, after dozing off, that you've been watching a knife infomercial for the last hour and a half, so you switch the channel. A boy - around 5'7, gangly, hairy - is running through a field with a stick in his hand, darting out from behind tree trunks. The booming, authoritative narrator asks "is this a child or has he devolved into an animal?"

The boy / animal is me. My cable television acting career began and ended when I was still in school in D.C. At the time I was going to the George Washington University, which stretched a meager four blocks in the northwest corner of the district and cost 50,000 dollars a year. The least I could do for my mother was come back with a dream resume - the kind that wouldn't even need a shpritz of Versace cologne to convey its importance and sophistication. It would say, proudly, that I worked at National Geographic. Maybe I'd even bold that part, or use italics, or the graphic of a golden picture frame. No one would ever have to know I worked for the television branch, spending hours on three sentence emails and taping my boss's Frappacino receipts on pieces of paper to be copied in the copy machine.

One day, for some inexplicable reason, I was invited by my boss to sit in a board room with the head of the National Geographic Television Science department to talk shop about the next episode in a series called "Is it Real? The show was a pseudo-science program that explored "the gulf between fact and fiction." "Is it Real?" is a question asked to viewers of the show...a question that is answered in every episode with a resounding "no." Ancient astronauts? Not real. Psychic pets? Not real. Spontaneous human combustion? It's actually called sleeping while smoking. The show's promotional materials showed a dark figure stalking the woods, his frame blurred by a shaky camera. Was this man bigfoot or a boom mic operator? The point was not to ask too many questions, but rather succumb to the mania of conspiracy theories knowing they would all be debunked.

The name of the particular episode we were discussing, stressfully, was "feral children" and the topic of feral children is actually not funny so let us pause to not laugh and feel guilty. The idea of feral children is a myth we've created to distract ourselves from the fact that there are sometimes abused children who are abandoned in forests. They usually do not end up adopting the characteristics of gorillas, except in television shows like "Is it Real?"

So far, the producers had found two creepy parents on craigslist willing to let their newborn babies be filmed for the "pre-wolf" part of the show. But they'd been weirdly unable to find a child actor to play Victor; a French boy neglected by his parents and left in the woods. They'd found grainy, supposedly authentic, footage of Victor howling at the moon and breaking his parent's china, but they needed an actor to re-create the very real moments when Victor survives in the forest on his own by hunting for bears and deer using only a large stick and his manly, hairy hands.

"I'll do it," I blurted to my supervisor. Then I deleted my google appointment with anthropology class on Friday and practiced knocking my head against a wall and drooling on myself.

My obsession with embarrassing myself began in childhood. I began life staging humiliating musical spectacles for my mother. When I was ten, I would set up a stage lined with books in our upstairs, turn the lights on and off, fall off chairs of various heights, and perform a seizure on our oriental rug. My mother was confused, but usually pleased. "Yay!" she'd say at the end of every show "But what did it mean?" In elementary school, I was the one on the sidelines at the soccer game holding a make believe microphone and narrating the game to an invisible cameraman. From far away, I probably looked schizophrenic but up close I hope I at least sounded professional.

But after trying out for a few plays in college, I felt discouraged about my future acting career. I'd tried out for a part in a nouveau musical by Jason Robert Brown and was told by the casting director at my school that I was "too Jewish" and "too gay" as I hung my head and thought "well, Christ, that's all I got." I actually thought East Coast people would appreciate my faux-new-york-Jewish-mother accent in a male protagonist.

But I had deleted the bad auditions and painful childhood from my brain the very moment I had accepted the part of Victor of France, wolf-child. I was in D.C. and soon I was going to be on TV. Suck it, C-SPAN. See you in hell, 700 club. Hello late night cable stardom.

That Friday I arrived extra early at National Geographic wearing a Victor wig and a black t-shirt, because I thought it looked actorly. My producer squeeled. We packed into a van and left for the fields of West Virgina.

Up until this point, I'd always thought of D.C. as the boring, ugly J-Crew sweater-wearing brother to New York City and gave no thought to the hick land surrounding the city. But as soon as the van left National Geographic International Headquarters, I realized we were actually just a hop and a skip away from red-blooded heartland Americuh. General Stores, swamps and Lyme-disease abound. "What if someone sees me running and yells 'there's a gay!' and shoots me?" I asked my boss. "I dunno, try not to swish?" she said.

We stopped our van next to a generic field and my boss handed me a loincloth, a tub of Nesquik and a bottle of Dasani. I was instructed to go to the gas station bathroom and drench my loin-clothed body in clumpy cocoa powder. The image of blackface came immediately to my mind, but I immediately dismissed it. I took off my glasses, because wolf children don't wear glasses, and poured the fake-dirt-water all over my body.

The idea of running, glasses-less, through a forest was actually not that scary to me. I'm fine with looking out at the world and seeing a Seurat painting. In fact, when I first got contacts I was depressed at how ugly everything looked. But running doesn't make sense to me. I've never understood how to jog. Where does one find the motivation? It's not like someone is chasing you. It just looks silly, and think about it: you could die. What if your shoelace comes untied? What if you have a heart attack?

But, alas, I summoned the passion, the creative gods and yaweh and Drew Barrymore in Scream and the monsters in Where The Wild Things Are and this naked lady and I ran. And I ran and I ran...

Then came the fishing scene. I reached my hands into a stream and pretended to grab fish. "Gotcha, water! I'mma come and getchu, rocks!" The funny thing about method acting is that I absolutely have no fucking idea what I'm talking about.

Eventually, of course, the show ended up on cable. I gathered together my three college friends and the dude from down the hall and hyperventilated all over myself. My mom called me frantically five minutes before the show and asked, "would you say you're on for fifteen seconds or more like thirty seconds?" "Mom, I don't know, I didn't edit it." "Was it fun? Did you have fun?"

The show started. My face flashed on the screen for less than a milisecond. A gajilliosecound, maybe. "That could be anyone," the dude from down the hall said. "Yeah, but it's obviously me. Can't you tell?" "I guess. The dude is running awkwardly."

My mother called. "We're so proud of you." My five seconds of television exposure was treated with greater reverence than my last report card. Which was fine. I'd left acting to become an academic and what had it actually given me except a sense of my own intellectual inferiority? I was not riding above the commoners on a carpet composed of thesis papers. I was just a cog in a machine. Or a prisoner, being watched by Michel Foucault's panopticon. Or some other analogy that reveals my intellectual inferiority. In any case, it wasn't pretty.

But this was something tangible, something real that I had accomplished. I had run, I had hit my head against a tree, I had plunged my hands into a stream. Flies had followed my cocoa powdered loincloth. Maybe I even had lyme disease. I finally felt like a productive member of society.

"Thanks mom," I said just as someone in the background said "He runs kind of gay." I said goodbye to my mom and joined my starter friends gathered around the TV. They had already changed the channel to Jon Stewart.

On Euro Gays

2009-12-04T18:39:00.000-08:00

It feels like it was all just a dream. Steven Blum: American expat. Berliner. But it really happened. I really spent a winter in Berlin. The weather was the same as Seattle (rainy, hazy, full of bleak) but everything else around me was different. I was dating one of those mythical, sophisticated European gay men. His name was David, and he thought I was crazy.

David wore Capris and smelled like magic. He lived in a white modernist cube in a crumbling building above a major intersection in Mitte, near his Yogi friend "Greg". On weekends, he'd leave the apartment around midnight and come back at four or five am, at which point he would make bok choy with soy sauce and sleep until 2 in the afternoon. He was 35. I was 21 and terrified of life. We were an odd match.

David was completely over everything I was still under. He wasn't pretentious at all about his job (he was an editor at Reuters). He wasn't paranoid about sex. He was an "independent thinker." Talking to him was like being stripped naked. He'd make you see all your silly biases and petty fears for what they really were...it was both painful and exhilarating.

David took me to all the gay bars in Berlin. Okay, that's a lie. He took me to maybe 10% of them (there are hundreds). We'd go to abandoned warehouses filled with paper mache and dancing. We'd go to strobe-lit caves of wonder. I tried dancing like a German (there's less irony involved) and I definitely tried drinking like a German. I felt awe at this adult amusement park of art and leisure. On the drive back to his apartment, I'd stare out the rain-streaked window at all the grafitied and crumbling buildings, wondering what crazy, naked art projects were going on inside.

David was different than most of the gay men I'd met in America. He wasn't a bitch but he wasn't afraid of being a smartass. He was incredibly secure in himself. He had a confidence I feel so many young gay people in America lack. In short, I was mesmerized by him.

One night, David and I got into a fight. We were at a bar, talking to an old flame of his, and I began to feel like a used, snot-encrusted hankie. I suddenly believed he had slept with the entire city. "I've lived here a long time!" he responded. "So, of course I've known a lot of people." The necessary expiration date on this age-imbalanced relationship came into sharp focus. The next day, I wrote him an email apologizing for essentially calling him a slut, but it was clear we weren't cut out for each other at this particular juncture.

I left Berlin soon after; not because of David but because of money. But before that, I went to the aquarium. The aquarium in Berlin is in the middle of a big hotel. It's an odd place because it's a tourist trap in one of the least tourist-trappy places in Europe. At the end of the tour, you take a long elevator up through an enormous cylinder of water and fishies. They call it "the Aquadome." As the elevator rose, I watched as all the little goldfish swim around, casually humping each other, makin' babies, laying their eggs on make-believe coral. I thought of David. I'd been harsh. What he'd done was more of what being gay men begs us to do: sleep around. He'd followed his loves, and lusts, and I'd judged. "I'm such an American," I sighed to myself.

Back in Seattle, the gay bars were the same. The caste system based on looks prevailed. But I began to let go, just a little bit. I was more open to meeting new people. I didn't sleep around a lot, but I began to let go of some of my preconceptions. Berlin had relaxed me, and David had inspired me. His confidence brought a whole new meaning to the now antiquated and hollow term "gay pride." I truly felt proud of my sexuality when I was around him. I'm still not as cool or as sexually open as him, or damn near any of the Europeans I met on my trip, but I think I'm getting there.

The Library at Southcenter Mall is a Cool Space That's Filled with Total Crap

2009-11-29T19:35:00.000-08:00

ORANGE "CHICKEN"!

SINGING "ANIMALS"!

HELLZA GOOD BOOKS?

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful!" proclaims the tinny voice inside the ceiling speakers at the Southcenter Mall. "Lies!" I think to myself. It's actually not too cold outside (compared to yesterday). And I'm trying to read a fucking library book, so I'd appreciate less deceitful muzak.

Yes, I am reading a library book. At the Southcenter mall. And this isn't just any library book...it's "Guilty!" by Ann Coulter! The Witch's book! It was just sitting right there, and sometimes I like to hear the crap the other team is spewing (I inherited this off-putting curiosity from my father, whose idea of a good time is arguing out-loud with Laura Shlessinger).

Oh, there are other, less emotionally abusive books here, too. There are super-steamy black romance novels ("Drama 99FM," "Lies Lovers Tell") yawny Danielle Steele beach novels, Dr. Phil's simpleton screed on parenting and...is that a Pyncheon? The newest Chabon? What are these doing here?

The exasperating organization of reading materials at the Southcenter library sometimes lend the diminutive space a certain ragtag charm. Over in the news section, the folksy, afro-centric "Seattle Medium" shares space with heavyweights like the New York Times, Le Monde and the International Herald Tribune. Below are entertainment magazines from Vietnam and a major Phillipine Newspaper.

But, more often than not, the reading materials on hand at this baffling "mall library" are vapid American brain-drainers thrown together without rhyme or reason. A full wall is devoted mainly to romance novels with just a few serious books by Proulx and Lethem. The teen section is all Sweet Valley High and Nintendo magazines.

The diversity of the people of Southcenter has been discussed very eloquently by Charles Mudede who captured how the mall's mind-blowingly diverse patronage alters the way one sees Seattle. Mudede wrote, "your sense of who you are, of what Seattle means, is instantly obliterated by the cacophony of consumers who are seemingly from every part of the world."

But the diversity at Southcenter does not extend to the reading choices at the Southcenter library. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad there's a no-pressure, state-sponsored readerly respite for folks who need a break from seizure-inducing, corporate-sponsored mall spaces. I think it's great. I just wish they stocked a messier, more challenging collection of American literature, rather than mindlessly throwing together the scrawlings of some of America's simplest minds with a few adept American novelists and calling it a "library."

"The Bad Girl's Club" is a Misogynist Carnival of Human Misery

2009-11-23T22:51:00.000-08:00

Tonight I watched the trashiest trash on television. The name of this trash? "The Bad Girl's Club." This show was made for the sole purpose of inspiring you to yell at your television. That's all it made me do. Yell. The premise? A bunch of "bad girls" live in a mansion in Beverly Hills, go out, scream at each other, cry, pull each other's hair, choke each other, jump on limos, yell about "empowerment,"("I feel so empowered right now!" screamed one girl while standing on top of a limousine in high heels), fight chicks, then go home, go to sleep, wake up, talk about last night, and fight some more. Then they go out again. Then they get alcohol poisoning. There are no eliminations, no tests, no feigned plot. Just screaming and fighting and drinking and crying.

Like Maury, the show has been edited for your condemnation. Portia, a black woman from Missouri, yells and gets naked when she's angry, for no apparent reason. Amber, a sour blond girl, offers terrible, horrible advice like, "you are here for you. And the more you help others, the more you hurt yourself."

The "reality" of the show is not a given, but it's argued to us on camera every five seconds. "I'm just keepin' it real," was probably spoken something like a 1,000 times. "You don't like what you hear?! I'm just keepin' it real." "I'm gonna be keepin' it real in here, don't worry." "I know I need to continue to keep it real." "I didn't come here to make friends, I came here to keep it real," "I'm just bein' real." "Don't hate me, I'm bein' real witchu."

All the girls on the show are willing to trade five seconds of fame for a thousand years of shame. The shaudenfreude works until you start to wonder what's wrong with your own hard-wiring. Unlike "Intervention," there is no offer of redemption through counseling; these girls were chosen for the sole purpose of making us feel better about ourselves, and they're not going to leave the mansion until one of them goes crazy and stabs the rest of them with chopsticks and they're all carried out on gurneys.

The Tyranny of Self-Help Books

2009-11-21T17:51:00.000-08:00

I haven't read Barbara Ehrenrich's new missive "Bright-Sided" quite yet but her recent interview on Jon Stewart got me thinking about the disastrous implications of a nation bent on "positive thinking." It reminds me of conversations I've had with random strangers; conversations that somehow inevitably remind me that my thoughts are outside the realm of normal, productive thoughts. There's a subtlety to this way of talking to someone. And I don't even think that people are always aware that they're exerting an aggressive force on my thoughts. It can be as simple as telling me "well, maybe you might also want to think about your blessings," or when, after explaining to someone something that's just happened, getting the response, "oh, but don't you think that's good?" But how can something be "good" without making something else "bad"? I'm aware, at this point, that I most likely sound like a confused moral relativist obliquely trying to explain a general concept most folks on this earth find mildly annoying and nonetheless put up with, but I'm trying to get at the root of a problem so huge that it's actually making my writing life quite impossible.

I'm quite aware that the average blog is filled with the inevitable "writer's block" post where the author attempts to explain their lack of recent posts, or perhaps attempts to gloss it all over by saying something like "oh, I was just really busy," but I tend to believe (and you can shout at me about this later) that no writer is ever too busy to write, unless we're purposefully making ourselves busy (God, I sound like a self-help book already). And I'm convinced the reason I haven't been writing is because of some vague thought that some things out there are bad, and some things out there are good, and in order to write things that are good, you just have to be really, really aware of really huge creative missteps like being a huge cliche.

And while I agree with people who say that we think in cliches, and we act based on cliches and our lives are sometimes simply huge cliches ("You sound too much like an English major!" "You sound too gay!" "You're writing is just. so. JEWISH!") and that this is somehow HORRIBLY HORRIBLE BAD, I've been starting to think that cliches are frikkin' unavoidable, and it is simply total hooey to think otherwise. Cliches are ideas and thoughts that we sometimes have to expose and share (even in grandoise fashions) to get out of our systems. Writing in cliches might even be necessary. Much like there's no save-all self-help book that will tell us how to get rich through positive thinking, there's no imaginary guidebook to writing something great, and no soul who could say (without lying) that they know what art is best.

I am a huge cliche. You wanna know how? I'll tell you how. I'm a gay man and I'm Jewish and I'm middle class and so everything I create could somehow be labeled "gay Jewish middle class art" and that's somehow a cliche. I'm sure it is. I'm sure there is someone out there who could peg me. Maybe I'm even afraid of a moment like this (cue to :25). But it is really ridiculously silly to believe that there's some huge asshole out there who is ready and even has the energy to tell you you're a total cliche because of something you wrote. These people exist, sure. And I think the internet has made all of us far too aware of them. But they are not the ideal audience, not a typical audience and not the kind of people any of us should ever want in our heads.

I'm going to try to accomplish a big huge thing right now and say that one of the reasons online writing sucks is because I think we're writing to please those jerks. They're out there, sure. They're fucking everywhere. And they hate you for writing, hate your ideas, hate your tastes, and will gladly tell you how and why you're a huge cliche because of something you wrote on your blog. But you know what? Pandering to them is fucking ridiculous. When you pander to them, you end up with shitty copy you can't even defend. The race to call bullshit on things you're not even sure is bullshit, the race to come up with the most contrarian opinion, and the fear of ending up somewhere that's too earnest, too genuine, and too "divulgey" has made a lot of us total wimps.

I'm not saying everyone should be forcing themselves to reveal their innermost thoughts online if they're not comfortable with doing so. I'm not even sure if I'm saying that something like this is bad or good (here comes the tyranny of self-help books), but I think the race to label thoughts as cliche or not forces a lot of us into the shadows for fear that we're actually living someone else's life and parroting someone else's tastes. Things, in fact, are a lot more complicated than that.

Okay. I think I'm done yelling. I feel like I just wrote a manifesto for the vaguest art movement ever ("Write what you want to write and don't listen to the internet!") But you know what? If that's what you want to think, I'm not going to stop you. Perhaps the secret is to give up on your audience. So: fuck off. (I love you).

"It's Not in the P-I"

2009-11-15T22:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T18:01:00.000-08:00

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"

2009-11-13T10:35:00.000-08:00

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'

2009-11-07T14:07:00.000-08:00

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")

2009-11-01T16:51:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-10-25T19:50:00.000-07:00

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

Getting Over "The Ring"

2009-10-17T18:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-15T23:42:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-07T14:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-07T12:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

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"

2009-10-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

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

Disturbing Video of the Day

2009-09-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

Oh My God

2009-09-28T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-09-28T16:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-28T15:30:00.000-07:00

Beautiful:

Facebook: The Movie

2009-09-28T15:24:00.000-07:00

Starring Justin Timberlake. Seriously.

Windows House Party: Come Get it!

2009-09-27T00:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-24T16:52:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-24T16:04:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-24T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

The Spin on Obama's Foreign Policy

2009-09-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

...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

2009-09-24T14:01:00.000-07:00

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"

2009-09-24T12:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T12:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

Who's going to throw the first shoe?

Guide to the Citizens of Seattle

2009-09-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-08T20:55:00.000-07:00

(Wait for the chorus).

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

2009-09-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-08-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-08T23:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-08T19:54:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-08-08T16:36:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-04T13:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-29T15:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-28T16:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-21T16:14:00.001-07:00

Publicola gets written up in a Harvard journalism publication.

Buchanan on Maddow

2009-07-21T15:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

WebMd

2009-07-21T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-15T17:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-11T23:23:00.000-07:00

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..

2009-07-08T22:14:00.001-07:00

"Finally, an Honest Bar Mitzvah Invitation"

2009-07-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-30T07:10:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-29T17:27:00.000-07:00

"...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

2009-06-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

The song that won't leave me alone.

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

2009-06-15T22:11:00.000-07:00

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"

2009-06-06T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-05T19:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-02T17:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-25T01:13:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Terry.