the sound of

Where does the time go? I've been neck-deep in work (and play) and the days have screamed past. A few notes on the past week.

M. Ward. Last Thursday I went downtown with the Nikman to catch the free outdoor concert given by this guy. Fascinating act. He didn't have much in the way of stage presence, but his sound was haunting and melodic, sort of a Tom Waits meets Paul Simon. I want the new album.

Kathleen Turner. Saturday night the BF and I caught Serial Mom herself in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" Astounding performance, as expected. She's definitely showing her age, but the weight and swagger go with the character of Martha like gin goes with tonic. The supporting cast was also awesome, though I hated Bill Irwin.

Harry Potter. So I finished the new book in two or three big gulps of reading. Definitely an improvement over the last entry — Harry's thankfully lost the bratty edge. It's almost as if J.K. Rowling had a new editor, one who said, "Seriously, we don't need a play-by-play of every Quidditch match of the season." Amen.

Missy Higgins. The rest of the weekend was spent working on my review of "The Sound of White," which should be running in Southern Voice this week. If you need some angsty white chicks in your life, Missy is your gal. I love the album, even with its flaws. Definitely going on my top ten list of the year's best.

Julia Cameron. Six months later, I got to the last page of "The Sound of Paper." (It sounds nothing like White, by the way.) Not a bad little book, and one that reignited some creative fires for me.

Montreal. I depart today for the city's (somewhat different take on) Pride. The BF joins me Friday. We have no idea what to expect. Winn says no one speaks English, and my French is awfully rusty. Thankfully, I do speak Gay, which is a universal language.

powdermilk biscuits and popcorn

Be still, my beating heart: Robert Altman is working on a film version of A Prairie Home Companion. The screenplay is written by Garrison Keillor, who also stars. How freakin' cool is that?
I'm a little nervous, though. Kevin Kline as Guy Noir?
And let us pray that talent like Meryl Streep, Tommy Lee Jones, Lily Tomlin and John C. Reilly will make up for the appearance of Lindsay Lohan. Ew.
Further reading: The News from Lake Wobegon

And, another fun (for nerds like me, at least) story from today's NYT:
In Search of the Characters of New York

northern exposure

Terrible news out of London this morning, though at least the blasts this time were smaller and apparently no one was killed.

What also makes me sad is that the bombing has already caused CNN to drop its link to Canada's gay marriage story from its home page.

On a similar note, I'm unhappy to see that the John Roberts confirmation story is diverting attention away from Karl Rove's leak controversy. (Check out this little ditty for true journalism in action. All hail the Fourth Estate.)

If a tree falls in the forest and the cable news networks fail to cover it, does anyone care? Maybe the tree should hire a publicist and stage a second falling just for hope of a news brief, or perhaps a humorous Jenne Moos report.

where no pantsuit has gone before

(Warning: Major Geek Speak follows. Proceed with caution.)
I'm a sucker for hype, which is why I tuned into the season premiere of Sci-Fi's Battlestar Galactica the other night. The recent Salon story is mostly to blame, though the show's second season has received plenty of positive buzz these past few weeks.
Now I understand why. It's a compelling little Space Opera, probably the best I've seen since "Voyager" was in its heyday. (I warned you about the Geek Speak.)
But I'm having a hard time getting past one thing, and it's a doozy. The costuming is just dreadful.
Being a "Battlestar" novice, I was a little confused when I caught a few minutes of the mini-series on NBC the other week; I couldn't make much of the storyline. What I did gather was that the show is set in the near future, in a time when Earth was threatened by a bunch of evil robots.
After watching the new show on Sci-Fi (and spending probably way too much on the site) I realized I was wrong. The characters on board the "Galactica" come from a star colony far, far away. They've hardly even heard of Earth, though judging by the events of the first series (and season one) they're trying to find out if the "mythical" planet even exists.
So how to explain those smart pantsuits worn by Laura Roslin? Yeah, she's supposed to be President of the Galaxy (or something), but should she be dressed like a character from "The West Wing"? (I'm especially annoyed by her glasses for some reason. C'mon, we don't expect Geordi LaForge's visor, but Pearl Vision? Gimme a break.)

Then there are the fighter pilots, with their George Dubya flightsuits and Rambo tank tops. I suppose this really is a fantasy show for the War On Terror© Generation.

I'm not asking for much here. No need to go all Wrath of Khan with the costumes. But how about some threads that are a bit more alien? At least something removed from the T.J. Maxx collection.

Then again, have a look at some of the costumes from the original series. Hot.

clear and present deception

So far I've resisted the urge to go political with this blog, leaving such heated discussions to friends on both ends of the spectrum. But the latest controversy over Karl Rove and his involvement in naming C.I.A. operative Valerie (Plame) Wilson has had me captivated since the story first broke.
As if the whole affair didn't look shady enough already, today comes the revelation that Dick Cheney's chief of staff,
Lewis Libby, also had a role in blowing Wilson's cover.
Keep in mind that the President pledged in June 2004 that he would fire anyone in the White House who was involved in leaking the C.I.A. operative's name. 'Cept now, the Bush camp is circling its wagons and suddenly not talking.
What infuriates me most about the whole mess may well be summed up by this passage from Friday's Wall Street Journal:

Others say the story remains an inside-the-Beltway tempest that hasn't broken into the consciousness of average voters — and isn't likely to. "Most Americans are far more concerned about their summer vacations," says Republican pollster Greg Strimple.

The sad truth is, he's probably right. The national media (and therefore Middle America) is far too caught up in the parade of celebrity bullshit, missing children and shark attacks to really give two farts about the credibility of this obviously corrupt administration. And really, credibility is at the heart of the issue. Valerie Wilson's name was apparently leaked (by Rove or whoever) as retalitation against her husband Joe Wilson, a former ambassador who publicly challenged the Bush league's claim that Saddam Hussein had been shopping for uranium in Africa.

We've seen a history of false pretenses from this President, and a tide of coerscion and cover-ups that would make Dick Nixon's boys blush. Is no one paying attention anymore?

Required reading:
Smelling like a Rove [Salon]
You're in a bad spot here, Scott [Salon]
'Indispensable': Does It Have a Shelf Life? [NYT]
Bush, keep your promise: Fire Karl Rove [MoveOn.org]

alana davis vs. steve jobs

Sometimes I feel bad for my BF. I'm constantly dragging him out to some art show, cultural event or off-the-worn-path performance space — usually to catch a glimpse of some one or thing he knows nothing about. He's usually a trooper about our blind excursions, and he's definitely developed a more sophisticated appreciation of contemporary art and theater.
I've had less luck with live music.
Early on I took him to a Blondie concert, and he hated every second of it. Which is fine, I guess, except that I adore Blondie and got my feelings hurt a little by his utter rejection of the concert. You could say my heart of glass was cracked but not shattered.
I decided then not to take him to any more music shows, a promise that lasted, oh, a week. Our concert-going history since has been a mixed bag: He loved Madonna and seemed OK with Jem. But I'd best not bring up the Ringside/Weezer fiasco.
Last night, proving that fools never learn, I dragged him with me to the SummerStage concert featuring Alana Davis and Shelby Lynne. The BF, proving that he's no fool, brought along a book, a biography of Apple guru Steve Jobs, which he read dutifully. For the entire show.
So I was torn. I was happy to be there with the man I love, and pleased to see him bobbing his head along with the music.
But doesn't it defeat the thrill and spectacle of witnessing a performer live on stage if your attention is focused on Apple's late '80s hostile takeover?
What good is company if your companion just doesn't get it, and is unashamed of his preference for "songs without words, mostly electronic stuff."
On Monday, Lyle Lovett's playing SummerStage. To (mis)quote Lyle, I've already made up my mind: If I can get a ticket, I'm going by myself.

from bat to worse

So, Hollywood's having a sucky summer?
After going to the movies Friday night, I can see why.
I convinced the BF to see Batman Begins, although he was quick to tell me that he hated the first Batman movie. (I tried in vain to explain that this one should be different because it's an effort to jumpstart the franchise after abysmal entries like Batman Forever or Batman and Robin. But after he admitted that he never knew those films existed, I decided to just shut up and eat my popcorn.)

We've learned the hard way that you have to arrive early to get a good seat at our favorite movie house, the Regal Cinemas with stadium seating at Union Square, which means we were seated long before the previews, or even the commercials, started. Except they're not packaged as commercials nowadays — it's "The 2wenty," which is supposed to make me, Mr. Unsuspecting Movie Dope, think I'm watching an Access Hollywood knock-off instead of sitting through a series of advertisements before the film begins.
On "The 2wenty" (god, I hate that name), we saw a pathetic and cloying "making of" short for a movie called The 40-Year-Old Virgin, a segment that stayed true to its subject matter with a blatant cry for compassion. Is there such a thing as a Cineplex Pity Fuck?
Next was a preview of "Sky High", another stellar piece of pre-adolescent pabulum from Disney. The premise: A high-school kid whose parents are super heroes struggles to discover his own powers. Except, wasn't that called The Incredibles when it was released last year? (And wasn't The Incredibles itself a fairly obvious rip-off of "The Fantastic Four" — a once proud comic team that just may be the saviors of Summer Blockbuster Hell. I haven't seen the new movie yet, but The Thing looks like a doo-doo brown Michelin Man and the other special effects appear equally appalling. I can't wait.)
Our journey through Coming Attractions Disasters continued with a trio of remakes: The Dukes of Hazzard, The Bad News Bears and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. (I know, I know: Charlie is not technically a remake of Willy Wonka, but bear with me.)
Do you not see where I'm going with this? Hollywood has completely forgotten how to make anything new.
Look at this summer's line-up: Bewitched. Star Wars. Even War of the Freakin' Worlds. All retreads.
What's left? Aren't we rapidly reaching the point where every single forgettable TV show, every minor comic book character, every second- and third-tier Baby Boomer classic, has been recycled?

As for Batman Begins, well, I didn't like it. I thought Christian Bale did a bang-up job as Bruce Wayne, but the film was far too rooted in reality to make the Batman mythos work. (Oddly enough, the BF thought it was pretty cool.)
Not to give anything away, the final scene of the film makes it pretty clear who the villain is going to be in the sequel. Gordon hands Batman a playing card left at a crime scene — a Joker.
Great. Here we go again.

just smile and nod

A brief summary of the past two weeks:

* New York Pride. Four of my closest friends visiting from outta town. The Pier Dance. The parade. Alegria. Thank gawd Pride comes but once a year.
* Unemployment. I mean, self-employment. Hello, freelancing! Now how do I stay focused and resist the urge to get sucked back into "Days"?
* Coldplay. The White Stripes. Missy Elliott. Dance music? No thanks.
* New shoes. Benetton. Who knew?
* My new favorite magazine. Oh, Canada.
* Independence Day in the ATL. This was my third trip South in three weeks. But good times were had with Huff Daddy and Randy (our gracious hosts for the weekend) as well as these guys, who had us over for a cute cookout with some mean Mai Tais. Wreck.
* Finally back in NYC, but the BF is away for work. God, I’m exhausted.

On a related note, something strange happened to me in ATL this weekend. I lost my voice.
Friday, as the BF and I were leaving NYC, I mentioned that my throat was scratchy — most likely the residual effects of our Pride adventures.
Though we kept things pretty chill Friday and Saturday, by Sunday I could tell that my vocal chords were not happy. That afternoon we threw a surprise pool party for the BF’s birthday, and later moved the fun over to the Abbey.
Monday morning, I sounded awful: squeaks and wheezes in the place of vowels. Sometimes no sound at all.
This has never happened to me before — at least not to this degree. It was especially annoying at Chris’ barbecue, because I ran into, oh, two dozen friends I haven’t seen since leaving town, and all of them wanted an update on how NYC is treating us.
By the time we left the barbecue, I just gave up. Our next stop was another pool but with a smaller group, and I opted to just not speak.

Now, anyone who knows me will attest that this is damn hard for an outspoken Aries like myself. We ended the night watching fireworks from a friend’s loft downtown, and I was more of an observer than a participant.
There’s something to be said for not talking. Not only does it force you to listen more, it makes you look, and to note things that might not be immediately obvious when you’re busy running your mouth. I certainly felt that by the end of Monday.
I left ATL with a different view of the city than when I lived there, and I’m still putting the pieces together.
Now, three days later, my voice still has not fully recovered. I had to squeak out my order to the Starbucks barista this afternoon, and I’m mainly just marking time until the BF gets back in town.

hello, logo

[Morning conversation with the BF:]
Me: "So what's our cable provider?"
BF: "Um. Time Warner?"
Me: "Does that mean we now get Logo?"
BF: "What's Logo?"
Me: "Honey."
BF: "What! What? I'm sorry. Is that the gay channel?"
Me: "Yes. I think we'll get it when it launches."
BF: "Oh cool. When does it launch?"
Me: "I'm looking at the Time Warner site. Oh wait. It launched yesterday. Oh my god, I think we have it already."
[Turns digital cable box to channel 155]
Me: "Holy crap. We have Logo!"
BF: "Wow. And they're selling ... the Swiffer. Great."
Me: "Yeah, but they're selling Swiffers to gay men. Cool, huh?"
[long pause]
BF: "Gosh, we do need one of those, don't we?"