death in a digital age

Thanks to everyone who has called or sent such kind words of encouragement over the past few days. It's been nice to hear.

The funeral went without a hitch — even with clumsy me serving as a pallbearer. The experience was appropriately surreal (as such events tend to be) and I often felt like I was watching the proceedings from a far away place. But I had some good conversations with long-lost country cousins, who filled me in on family histories that I'd either forgotten or been sheltered from.
Now I'm back in NYC and find myself in the odd place of preparing for weekend visitors and forthcoming Pride fest. I'm not feeling very festive right this minute, but I'm glad to have good friends coming for the weekend to get my mind off things.

On an curious side note, I should mention that some of the most moving and sweet messages I've gotten over the past three days came in either text messages sent to my phone or in e-mails. For my grandmother, who died at the (relatively young these days) age of 71, the very concept of receiving written messages on a little computer that I keep in my pocket must've been practically inconceivable. For us, it feels perfectly natural — a convenience we can scarcely live without.

It just struck me how thoroughly technology envelopes our lives, seeping into cracks that we never guessed existed.

there and back again

Barely 12 hours after returning from Atlanta for my business trip, I get the call from my dad.
"Are you sitting down?" he asks. But really, he doesn't need to say the words. I can tell by his tone what the news is going to be.
"Your grandmother passed away this morning," he says, and it strikes me as odd that he phrases that way. Because no one, I mean no one, calls her anything but Granny.
In fact, I'd venture to say that most of my close friends have gotten to know Granny Butler these past few years. Maybe they never met the woman, but they certainly felt like they knew her because of the stories I've told. There were times when she felt like an off-screen character on the sitcom that is my life, like Vera on "Cheers." Just the day before she died, Sean sent me a text asking how she was. She even had a catch phrase, which Jimmy helped to popularize, but it's a little too racy for me to post here.
Anyway, today I'm loading my luggage (still not fully unpacked from my last trip) and heading back to Atlanta. I'll be there Tuesday through Thursday, just long enough for the funeral service.

four days in atlanta: a soundtrack

Neko Case, “Thrice All American”
As the plane prepares its descent into Atlanta, Neko confides to me:
I want to tell you about my hometown
It's a dusty old jewel in the South Puget Sound …
She’s talking about Tacoma, Washington, — not Atlanta — but the words seem to fit my return to the city that feels more like my own hometown than the actual place.
When I see the first rise of buildings from the jet’s window, I feel a surge of … something. It’s not nostalgia. It’s a rush of palpable familiarity, like sliding on an old T-shirt that you haven’t worn in a while and finding that it still fits you exactly the same way. The song wraps up just as the landing gear hits the runway.

Erykah Badu, “Tyrone”
In the rental car (gold Chevy P.O.S.), I am relieved to find that I still know how to drive. I zip through traffic on 85 and realize that my newfound New York impatience applies equally to idiotic drivers. What’s fascinating is not the fact that some radio station is actually playing Eyrkah, but that I’d forgotten how much I miss hearing radio at all.

Queen Latifah, “California Dreamin’”
I’m back at my old desk in the magazine office, which has hardly been touched in the four months since my move to New York. It’s a little bit creepy, really, how little has changed on the surface. I’m happy to find that I’d downloaded Latifah’s jazzy “Dana Owens Album,” which is all covers. It becomes my background music for much of the next three days.

Madison Park vs. Lenny B “More Than This”
Homo night at Halo, and my buddy Brandon Sutton is lording over the turntables as always. His impeccable taste in tunes is thankfully intact, and he turns me on to this catchy new cover from local lounge lizards Madison Park. After we riff on music for a bit, Brandon orders me a drink — a vodka tonic the size of a Big Gulp. We chase it with tequila shots. Ah, Atlanta. My liver has not missed you one bit.

Sarah McLachlan, “I Will Remember You”
It’s after dark and I’ve just wrapped up my final issue of the magazine. I’ve said good-bye to my (now-former) co-workers and I’m wheeling the rental out of the rear parking lot. Sarah shows up in a spin through the FM presets and I listen to exactly 10 seconds of the song
(Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories)
before popping in a CD.

Loleatta Holloway, “Stand Up”
The disc is the new “Queer As Folk: Club Babylon,” and I’m screaming up 85 again, headed to see my parents. It’s my first time listening to the two-disc set since a friend gave it to me earlier that day. Disc one gets only a cursory listen (lots of oldies), but disc two has a couple of new tracks, like Loleatta, that are keepers.

Louis XIV, “Finding Out True Love is Blind”
Things that annoy me about my father. 1) He talks too much and never listens. 2) He’s a relentless hypochondriac. 3) He’s started smoking again, despite his doctor’s warnings. 4) He has a freakish talent for finding interesting new music and turning me onto it.
On second thought, scratch that last one.

Michael Buble, “Feeling Good”
Back in the rental, it’s a fan-fucking-tastic blue-sky Saturday and I’m tearing down the freeway toward a 6 o’clock flight that will take me back to my BF, who I am missing like crazy. This is my first exposure to the new Buble disc, and I’m surprised to hear him covering Nina Simone on the opening track. It suits my current mindframe just fine.
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good.

pier pressure

So the BF and I are sitting on Pier 45 on a Sunday afternoon, sunning ourselves in the midst of what feels like a stationary Pride parade.
I haven't seen this many fags in one place since Black Party — though I'll have to say this is a prettier crowd overall.
The BF is wrapped up in last week's NYT Magazine while I'm struggling to get through another chapter of The Power of Now.
"This article says Larry and Sarah J. were at some party in San Francisco and were actually mobbed by the crowd," the BF says suddenly.
"Oh, really," I say. "That's cool."
Meanwhile I'm wondering who in the holy hell he's talking about. Are these friends of ours? Former co-workers? Maybe people we knew in Atlanta? I know from past experience that I'm supposed to put my book down at this point and ask a follow-up question. (Not that I'm bitching -- the Tolle is taking its toll on me.)
I instead decide not to take the bait and go back to my own reading (Chapter Two: Consciousness: The Way Out of Pain).
A few minutes later, my own consciousness gently drifting into a lazy Sunday nap, the BF pipes up again.
"Yeah, you should read this article. The stuff about Larry and Sarah J. is interesting. And so is the stuff about Mark."
See, he does this too me all the time. If I confess I have no clue who he's talking about, then I'm the dickhead who doesn't listen. If I pretend and just go with it, then he's going to call me out shortly because I'm world's worst faker. I finally cave.
"Um, who are Larry and Sarah J.? Do we know them?"
Even through his sunglasses, I can see him roll his eyes.
"Larry Page and Sergey Brin. The guys who founded Google?"
Disapproval is such an ugly thing. Eckhart Tolle would say it comes from the Pain-Body and advise that I detatch myself from my mind — or something like that.
The BF continues. "You should know that."
"Um, yeah, I guess. I mean, I knew their names."
Chapter Four: Moving Deeply Into the Now. ...
Isn't now about time for that nap?

shout outs

A while back, a certain blogger sent me a nasty note because I had not added his link to my sidebar.
It's there now, Captain D. Are you happy?

(jk. really I am.)

Welcome also to Jon, who has quickly proven to be a prolific and opinionated, er, post-er.

likkah? why, ah nevah touch the stuff

I'm wondering if there's a name for the sensation you get when a missing piece of your education is suddenly discovered, years after the fact. What's worse is when you never realized that such a gap even existed, and immediately feel foolish for going so long without even knowing your ignorance.
Whether there's a name for that specific feeling or not, tonight I went through it. I saw the Roundabout Theatre's revival of "A Streetcar Named Desire," starring Natasha Richardson and John C. Reilly. Somehow I'd gone 30 years with fairly limited exposure to this particular show. I never saw the Marlon Brando movie, never read the original play. I knew the famous lines, of course, enough to get me through Trivial Pursuit, but I never realized what a masterpiece of modern theater the show is.
John C. Reilly's portrayal of Stanley was full of the appropriate vim and vigor. He's obviously a talented thespian but I actually didn't love him in this role. Natasha Richardson, though, blew me away. To be honest, I'm not sure she was a wonderful fit for Blanche; she had trouble in some scenes maintaining the Mississippi accent and a few of her lines came across as muffled mutters. Still, I fell utterly in love with the wonderfully flawed Blanche — which may be a testimony more to Tennessee Williams than to the actor.
Only a gay man could create a character like Blanche DuBois. She's such a tender lush, fragile yet conniving, an honest liar, a relentless slut. I was reminded of any number of queens I've known during my adult gay life. In fact, I now realize that the Blanche DuBois archetype is one many Southern Fags subconsciously model themselves after — and I don't think even they catch the reference.

Speaking of fags, the show is being staged in the Studio 54 Theater. That's right, the Studio 54. Another missing piece of my pop culture education was filled in when I learned that the notorious '70s disco began its life as an opera house in the 1920s, and was revitalized as a performance space only in 1998.
As Blanche would say, "Ah think ah need a drink ..."

bye bye bill

It's a sad day for CNN. I got this tidbit of somber news sent to me from EMC:

Miles O'Brien to Co-Anchor CNN's American Morning with Soledad O'Brien
Miles O'Brien, co-anchor of CNN's Live From, will join American Morning as co-anchor with Soledad O'Brien starting Monday, June 20, it was announced today by Jon Klein, president of CNN/U.S. Bill Hemmer plans to leave the network to pursue other opportunities, while Jack Cafferty will join The Situation Room, a new afternoon news program, to provide commentary and insight.

I'm thrilled to see the lifeless and unlikeable Jack Cafferty go. (I've been fantasizing for years that Buffy would burst in one morning and drive a stake through his undead shell.)
But Bill Hemmer's departure simply breaks my heart. Not only is he the hottest man in TV news, he's also the only member of American Morning who I actually look forward to seeing every day. My morning coffee will be a wee bit colder come June 20.
Dare I flip back to Katie and Matt? Has it really come to that?

today's word is

Many thanks to Erin, who has coined the perfect term for what I'm going through right now.
In a word, I'm "backblogged."
Which means, over the course of the past week or so, I've encountered about a half dozen neat and remarkable things that are worthy of blog entries. But gosh darn it, I've been too freakin' busy to write about any of them.

For example, I really should write about having the BF's mom and sister in town for five days.
It wasn't a bad visit at all (his Mom carries a gene the BF did not inherit: a love of Vodka Tonics. So she and I get along just fine), but having them around kept us occupied for most of the Memorial Day Weekend. We took in the Met's amazing exhibit of Diane Arbus photos (which I loved but freaked out the rest of the fam, I think) and strolled around the park like good tourists do.

The BF scored us last-minute tickets to see "Mama Mia" Saturday night, and I could write a lenghty and self-indulgent essay about my love/hate relationship such shows, or how pop culture is killing/saving Broadway.

Sunday morning we rose early and went to hear our friend Adam belt some Latin during the 11 a.m. service at St. Mary's the Virgin. (Insert gay joke here -- oh wait, Erin already did.) I'm not Episcopalian, but being with the BF this past year has exposed me to the grandeur and ritual of their services. I'm still not sure I fully get it; growing up in the Pentecostal South we were always taught to sneer at the ornate idolatry of such denominations, and we certainly never had incense in our church services.
The morning took an unexpected turn when we realized that this was one of the three Sundays of the year when St. Mary's leads a procession out its doors and does a lap through Times Square singing "Amazing Grace." There's probably no way to describe this without it sounding flat out bizarre, and I suppose it probably is.
Even though I haven't considered myself a Christian in many long years, I will say I was moved by the procession. As we left the church the sound of the singing grew steadily quieter, soon drowned out by the noise and bustle of New York. "Amazing Grace" got lost next to a steel-drum busker performing a fine rendition of "Margaritaville." But as we drew closer to the church, the singing gradually returned to its former strength.
For an Evangelical, I suppose this would be a great metaphor for the way in which a person can lose their faith as they stray into the "sinful" world of distractions. I'm trying to be less cynical these days so I'll say it's also a good metaphor for the way in which we gain and lose our sense of centeredness. It's easy enough to feel all balanced and spiritually connected when you're in a middle of a sanctuary (be that some grand Episcopal cathedral or simply some private time spent reading Joseph Campbell, whatever gives you that sense of connection), but harder to maintain among the smells and sirens of 46th Street.

Unfortunately, I never got around to blogging about these things, so I fear my amazingly astute insights have dulled in the days since the actual experience.