August 2008 Archives

 

I'm a little unsure if this is a nun depicted by Sargent, but set against this tableau of summer via Monet, it's certainly fitting enough for a brief discussion of one my favorite movies of all time, which just happened to be on last night, The Sound of Music.

The pleasure of seeing a movie over and over again is that you eventually notice all these little things you missed in earlier viewings. For example, the Mother Superior welcomes a new novitiate into the convent right before she consults Maria about why she left the Von Trapps, and the young girl is wearing the pretty green dress Maria then dons for her return to the children (I had wondering for years where she got that second dress).  And earlier, when one of the children asks Max if they can keep the puppet show, he replies: "I certainly won't return it to Professor Cohen at the University," which I realized was the screenwriter's signal to us that Georg had Jewish friends.  (To anyone who is not a fan of the movie, these observations will be obscure in the extreme.  To  lovers of this finely-tuned if slightly saccharine masterpiece, you will think me the astutest of cinephiles.)

And then as I watched the delicious Baroness, I thought, wouldn't it be great if that's as mean as anyone in the world ever got? If that was the ultimate in villainy? Herr Zeller was even too mean for me.

Yesterday I also went to see Tropic of Thunder, which was hilarious and inventive, and this morning rewatched The Painted Veil on cable, which must be the most underrated movie of all time, certainly of 2006.  It's absolutely beautiful, and I can't understand why we don't see more work from the director, John Curran.

I seem to be one of the few people who treat Labor Day Weekend like any other.  Not that I have much choice.--David took the car to San Diego for the weekend. But don't mind me. I'm a hardy fellow with a dog and a remote.

MCO 2008  

For the past two weeks, I've been reading The Confessions of Nat Turner, by William Styron. It's the imagined memoir of a very real slave who masterminded an insurrection in 1831 which resulted in the death of over 50 whites before Turner and his confederates were themselves captured and killed.

I picked it up at thrift store because I love the writing of William Styron, to whom I actually served drinks at a party in New York in the 80s.  I hadn't chosen it as reading to coincide with the nomination of Barack Obama, but it certainly provides an interesting  backdrop when contemplating the historicial context of racism in this country.

The first slaves were brought over in 1619.  It would be TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR years until the Emancipation Proclamation, and ONE HUNDRED more years of third-class citizenship for blacks legally, socially and economically. It took another thirty years (1963-1993) before the cultural landscape shifted enough that we could see the kind of progess that made a journey like Barack Obama's possible.

If we count a generation as 30 years, that's roughly 12 generations of one kind of thinking, and only 1 of another.  We tend to think slaveholders and their lynching heirs knew they were doing something evil, but trust me, in their own minds they completely believed that the ownership of blacks consituted natural order no different from how we consider the ownership of a pet or a horse. How else could they reconcile their actions with the concept of themselves a good Christians?

On the one hand, I am amazed at the patience and non-violence of black people over hundreds of years. Given  the inhumanity of  slavery, Nat Turner's rage seems completely reasonable, the anger of the Black Panthers restrained. On the other hand, the acceleration of history is astounding. Arguably there's been as much progress in the 45 years since 1963 as there was in the 344 years that preceded it.

The messages that justified slavery and opression passed from generation to generation over several hundred years. They have a lingering and invisible power that is almost impossible to measure, but has not evaporated just because we all "know" better.  We Americans like to think ourselves as a people that perpetually reinvents itself, looking ever forward. But we have a dark and terrible history, and nominating a man of color does not alter all the myriad ways we are ALL infected by the legacy of racism.

The biggest mistake would be in thinking of racism only in its obvious manifestations. Even in the Deep South you won't hear the n-word when a camera is rolling. People know to hide it, these days.  It is far harder to identify the subtle, unconcious notions of betterness and otherness and less-than-ness that most of us have internalized in ways immune to any but the most rigorous self-examination. And even then awareness is but the first step.

I am of a generation that will never be colorblind, no matter how hard I want to be. It has never impeded the most extraordinary closeness with people of color, but  there is a consciousness of the fact of it in a way that never occurs with the whites I know. And it goes both ways---I am quite sure I'm sometimes mentioned as the gay friend or the white friend to many of my straight and black friends, though it doesn't bother me at all. (I love any kind of special attention, let's admit it.). I think you get past it by acknowledging it. But if you pretend it's not there-- the consciousness of it---then you can't transcend it.

So let's keep this conversation going, in the hope that one day, we really don't need to have it anymore.

MCO 2008

P.S.  BECAUSE I WRITE A LOT ABOUT OBAMA, THERE'S SEEM TO BE THE OCCASIONALLY ANTI-OBAMA AD FROM GOOGLE!  AT FIRST I WAS MORTIFIED, BUT I REALIZE IF YOU CLICK ON IT, THE MONEY THAT COMES TO ME I CAN THEN SEND TO OBAMA!

So I'm channel surfing last night, and I caught this guy on CNN (and maybe a few other channels) named - I wrote it down, let me make sure I got it right - Barack Obama. Did you happen to see it?  I don't get how a fiction movie was playing on the news channels, but I knew it had to be fiction, because this actor was playing a guy running for President and he was, well, black.  Or "African-American," because his Dad was from Kenya, but he only knew him a month. Odd little backstory, that one.

Anyway, the script was AMAZING. This guy was so uplifting and inspirational, and talk about a big budget! 80,000 fans in a stadium, and they didn't look digital! And they weren't Chinese either, so it wasn't the Olympics.

You know, the more I think about it, the more it must have been a dream because this man spoke of a hopeful, optimistic America where people strive to care for each other, and I could have sworn that I live in a country where the haves have convinced the almost-haves that the have-nots are to be feared, marginalized, judged and kept on the other side of the moat, except when they're needed to build castles.

In fact, for sure it was a dream  because this guy was SMART.  Americans don't like smart leaders. They like the folksy. the avuncular, the macho.  Smart men only get elected if they hide it.  (Americans are a bizarre, illogical people.  There were even a few speakers who introduced this guy who said they'd been registered Republicans all of their lives. They only shifted allegiance after the damage done by this regime reached into their own wallets.  Americans don't seem to care much about the poverty of strangers, but their own, very much so!)

Anyway, I'm awake now, and this old white Republican is running, so I guess I'm back to reality.  But I had a dream, and it was lovely.

MCO 2008

It finally occurred to me to match two Victorian painters, Rossetti and Waterhouse. I love the Hy-Arts that really look like they could be one painting. (Though, what is the lady on the left saying? "I could've scratched his eyes out?" Or is she making a reference to her companion's exposed breast?)

I thought Bill Clinton and Joe Biden were great last night, but what really moved me was Michelle's reaction to the loss of Biden's first wife and child. When JFK was shot, my Mom was Jackie's age, and my sister and I were exactly the age of Caroline and JFK Jr.  She couldn't help watching the funeral without imagining exactly what it was like for Jackie to lose her husband with small children to raise. I felt like Michelle was doing the same thing as my Mom, imagining in the most visceral way what Joe Biden lived through.

No, this is not why anyone should vote for Obama. I was crying as I heard the story too, it has nothing to do with what Barack and Joe will do as President and V.P.  That's why you should vote for them. 

Still, it's nice to like your leaders, to feel like you have something in common. I mean, would you rather have been raised by Mama Biden or Barbara Bush? I rest my case.

Oh, and I guess I should note that a BLACK MAN WAS NOMINATED FOR PRESIDENT. Although, for me, that was a procedural technicality. The real historical moment was in the snows of Iowa in January, when an almost all-white state put him first in their caucus. That's the moment that could not have occurred 20 or even 10 years ago. That's the moment that indicated that real change really has happened in the country. 

It made me proud to be a Democrat.  I'm still working on the American part.  Ask me again about that when Guantanomo is closed and we have health care for all.

MCO 2008

P.S.  I LOVE when Clinton noted the world is much more impressed by "the power of our example" than by the "example of our power." Great speechwriting because it's TRUE.

Everyone knew what Hillary's big task was last night--to unite her followers fehind Barack and against McCain. And to the extent she could, she did. (As Rachel Maddow pointed out, those who will not be swayed are "post-rational."  I would choose less kind language, like "idiotic.")

But she had a second task as well, which she and Bill were smart enough to understand. She had to sway voters like me, who were so pissed at the conduct of her campaign, that we would have had a lot of trouble supporting her first in any future Presidential primary fight. (She's always get my vote against a Republican, to be sure.) And the Hillary I saw last night was exceptional. Had she kept that tone throughout her campaign, she might have gotten my vote.  What I hope Bill is smart enough to do tonight is apologize.  Just out and out say that in the zeal to support the woman he loves, (we all know what she put up with) he trod very close to a few lines if not crossing them entirely. We'll understand.

I want to love Bill again, I really do. He's like David Duchovny in Californication. You keep trying to get over him, but his irascible charm keeps pulling you back in. When it comes to Billary, you really want them in your corner, that's for sure.

The Morisot figure above, planted in a landscape by Martin, is far more delicate than our popular conception of Hillary, but I think it captures the part of her we don't see. Politiciians train themselves never to show weakness or vulnerability, so we weren't privy to what it must have been, must be, for Hillary to have come so close to her dream. She must have cried for a week, and who can blame her?

As for McCain, there's an excellent article on what an intellectual peabrain he is, much more like Bush than we realize.  Do you know that he graduated 894 out of 899 at the Naval Academy? Don't vote for him. Don't even THINK of voting for him.

MCO 2008

P.S. Pet Peeve of the week.  "Must of" or "should of" instead of "must have" or "should have" (or :"must've and should've). 

 

Let me say this first and unequivocally: I loved Michelle Obama last night.  All the adjectives apply: smart, compassionate...well, do you need any others?

As I watched her, I couldn't help but wonder whether it could have been the other way around.  After all, after launching Public Allies, she certainly could have run for State Senate, and after three terms, she could have run for the U.S. Senate, just like Barack. But does anyone really believe that she would have been annointed a rising star like her husband, and been the nominee instead of him?

Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama both represent a great political leap in this country, but America has a ways to go.  I can only hope that there's an acceleration of history in the near future. That in the next decades we see a black woman, a hispanic woman, a lesbian, an Asian, a gay man, a transsexual, any combination of the above, all taken seriously as candidates for the highest office in the land, for the sole reason that they are the most qualified persons we can find for the job.

I have to admit, I would have to do some work on myself to be able to vote for, say, RuPaul, even if she came up with a cure for global warming and peace in the Middle East.  The thing is, I don't know what would be more likely to help me hear the message instead of judging the messenger. A little more makeup--or a little less?

MCO 2008 

This little silliness isn't meant to convey anything except that Photoshop is fun and I love babies. My neighbor was holding one at the front door this morning and the little darling smiled at me like I was a most fascinating creature. I found her entrancing and delightful and her father beamed with pride.  It was a lovely moment.

I saw my new chirocpractor this morning and he gave me lots of excellent information about how to sit and walk.  Although, to be honest, I really had to work at concentrating on what he told me. He's just so damn good looking, it's almost a curse. ALMOST.

I had a funny moment last night when Rod asked me to make some modifications on a logo for a new HIV support group/agency he's putting together.  I kept waiting for him to send it to me to look at, growing a bit impatent when he didn't. How could I suggest changes when I didn't know what it looked like?  When he finally sent it, I had to laugh. The reason he hadn't bothered was because I'd designed it in the first place.  I had completely forgotten that I'd come up with an idea about a month ago. 

I think it's because when I create digital art, I find myself so much in the present moment, that I let go of it almost the second I post it or press Send.  I'm on to the next thing.  Either that or I'm suffering from dementia. 

MCO 2008

P.S. The gorgeous sky over the pyramid is from photographer Bruce Dale.  The colors of the logo are taken from the Colorado flag, as 10 will be based in Denver.

You know, sometimes I truly wonder if my boundless and undefinable conception of God is completely wrong. Perhaps the vindictive, jealous, petulant, fearsome, whimsical, judgmental and completely human Old Testament version of God is the right one.  With the exception that he would hardly be all- powerful, but a minor deity, one of billions across the universe, accorded only the domain of a small planet at the edge of the Milky Way, as he was considered too immature to be given the responsibility of any place more substantial.

Of course, that was millions of years ago, and God has indeed grown older and wiser, but he made the fatal flaw of creating man very much in his own image, replete with a capacity for agression and cruelty only partially redeemed by a not inconsequential and amazing abilty to love and forgive. 

These thoughts have arisen because I got a fundraising appeal from the Campaign to Ban Torture, and it occurred to me there had to have been the first torturer, hundreds or thousands or millions of years ago, depending on what moment of evolution in which the brain "progressed" to the point of understanding that certain strategic objectives could be met using the most nefarious of tactics.  It probably went hand in hand with a sudden grasp of group hunting techniques, or perhaps even, ironically,a capacity for empathy.  But at some point in history, for the very first time, some neanderthal  (or cro-magnon, who knows) got the bright idea to inflict pain on another other homo sapiens under his control on purpose and repeatedly.

And now, in this supposedly most enlightened time and most democratic nation, founded on principles of freedom and liberty, we have a President who believes that "enhanced interrogation" is thoroughly justified by the greater purpose of "protecting America."  He seems to sleep with a clear conscience, confident that his Old Testament God is smiling down on his actions.

Well, Mr. Cheney, and your Vice-President Bush, if your small-minded God is indeed the one watching over us, I think he's as depressed and despairing as this Michelangelic rendering of Zeus, wondering what has been wrought in his name, feeling completely incompetent in the inelegance of his creation.

MCO 2008

P.S.  The moon is from Ernst, the mountain and sky from Ira Block.

Wouldn't it be cool if humans evolved into flower hybrids?  Imagine if we didn't have to eat, because we had developed the capacity to survive via photosynthesis. But Marc, you ask, what about talking? How would we do that? Sign Language, I say--we'd still have hands.  As for seeing, well, maybe the pistil (is that what it's called--the center of the flower--help me out, Hunky Gardener!), maybe the pistil can evolve into eyes.

I love the power of art to propose all kinds of improbability. I took a Gauguin Still Life, matched it with a portrait from Giorgione, and come up with an entirely new species, appropriate for a planet encountered in the next Star Trek.  (You may rightly point out that the Wizard of Oz came up with live trees first, but they were mean. My creatures are beautiful, and nice.)

I'm watching Joe Biden, just introduced by Barack Obama.  I love the choice. I always thought he offered up the sharpest commentary during the Democratic debates, and might well have voted for him in the caucuses had I lived in Iowa.  I also think he's really goodlooking and I love the suits he wears.  I just pray he stays out of the button-down collars, which, loyal readers know, I have a strange and and powerful aversion to.

I am one of those people dancing with glee about the McCain gaffe concerning how many houses he has. I am horrified by extreme concentrations of wealth, I think it is directly related to extreme concentrations of poverty.  I think it's morally wrong. If you can afford more than 3 houses, you're not giving enough money away.  When did the American dream become about having more things?  Howabout a new American dream, based on sharing more things?  How can anyone consume so much when so many have so little? Doesn't it bother them?  I just don't get it.

I'm not against minor concentrations of wealth--the rest of us need something to aspire to.  But too few have too damn much. Stay out of the White House. Don't you have enough?

MCO 2008 

 

So this morning I wake up in quite the good mood, for no reason I can ascertain, and in spite of a computer glitch that created all sorts of havoc. I guess it's because I'm sensing romance in the air, and as if to confirm it, this morning I found in the dumpster a framed still from one of my favorite movies, "Lady and Tramp."  I tried to scan it, but the frame kept it away from the scanner, and the quality was poor.  As long as I had to poach the image off  the web, I thought I'd see if it might fit into a Hy-Art. Voila, Disney and Vermeer.

Who doesn't find the bad boy with the heart of gold, the slighty scruffy independent type, hopelessly attractive? So here's to the possibility of me sharing spaghetti in a back alley with Mr. Grrright soon.  (Well, what a coincidence that I will be manning the CMA booth at the Sunset Junction street fair tomorrow afternoon. That's pretty close to an alley!) 

As part of my preparatory beauty regimen, I'm off to get a hair cut and my back shaved.  Thank God I won't have to walk around in the booth, so I can flirt (and be of service of course!) without revealing my incredibly  chronic plantar fasciitis limp.  But I'm dealing with that too.  On Monday I have an appointment with this man, who, believe it or not, was recommended to me for other reasons beside impossible attractiveness.  I need me some healing--this semi-constant gimping around is both painful and distracting to anyone who spends time with me.  (Isn't it weird how a man in crutches is allluringly vulnerable, while one who limps is somehow suspicious?)

MCO 2008 

That's diver Troy Dumais, who didn't get a Gold, a Silver or a Bronze, but sure gave a lot of Woodies!.  I've been wanting to do more art like this, not based on classic works but on witty juxtapositions. We'll see how it goes.  On the one hand, compulsive creativity is exhausting; on the other, it can yield some real gems.  You just have to accept some creations will work better than others.  But that's okay. Can you imagine how boring football would be if each side got a touchdown every time they had the ball?

I went to a meeting of S.L.A.A. last night--Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous.  I don't think it's my program, only because the addictive patterns in my sex and love life it so accuratedly described in the literature almost all disappeared within a year of so of my getting sober. For me,  that behavior seemed largely a function of my drug addiction. 

Surprising for me, out of 50-some people, I appeared to have been the only gay man.  I can't really go into it more without feeling I'm treading on traditions of anonymity, but let me encourage anyone who wonders about it to check out their literature on line and consider going to a meeting.  It is definitely NOT about nymphomania, or any of the kind of popular stereotypes you might have seen on TV. (The people there were very "normal," in the sense that you wouldn't blink twice at any of them on line at the grocery store.) It's for anyone who might find themselves in patterns of powerlessness and unmanageability around inappropriate relationships or compulsive sexual behavior. It's about a recovery that incorporates a sense of true intimacy and spirituality into one's sex and love life, and you get to determine what that means for you. 

I was introduced to a term, Sexual Anorexia, that did prick up my ears. It's when you so deprive yourselve of intimacy (defined broadly)  that you literally starve the part of you that needs it as you need to eat.  While my prolonged drought of late (albeit with a brief visit to the Garris oasis) hardly qualifies, it did prompt me to take a look at whether the flirting I do engage in-- a wink here, a "free" compliment there--might well be a strategy I use to stave off an actual relationship, as the objects  of my attention seem to be usually attached or otherwise  unavailable. (This doesn't affect their pleasure in being flirted with or flirting back, believe me. Men are men, after all.)

Hell,  I've dated more men from Tennessee in the last two years than from L.A. (No exaggeration. Tony and Garris are 2, I've gone on 1 date here.)  I have several ongoing crushes with local men who are either attached, on the rebound or newly sober, HIV-negative or even straight (those last are minor crushes, to be sure.)  I can't help but notice that I almost never flirt in a way that leads to an actual date. I can give someone my number as I smile unambiguously, but I am far more relieved than disappointed when they don't call. I have to wonder if knowing, on some level, that they wouldn't call is exactly why I chose them to give my number.  Are the willing and able really not there or am I just looking past them?

 I like the idea of a relationship just fine. But in reality,  I find it very hard to imagine making the necessary effort to deviate from my very comfortable routine of eating with David, watching TV, walking the dog, and going to bed all by my lonesome. Romance is fine if it requires no real effort or change, OR such effort (like moving cross country) that it will not actually happen.  Not terribly surprising I remain single. (Technically, at least.  With unhusbands like David, it's more like in-between land.)

Still, there a bee vaguely buzzing in the back of my head, some sense that there's a soulmate lurking somewhere in my future. My gut tells me I need to feel farther along in my career, with a big project to point to with pride, and a house with parking and my own bedroom not in a kitchen.

Brinnnngggg!  Brnnnngggg!  "Hello? Who? Oh Troy, hello, how are you?"

MCO 2008

P.S.  I am not implying Troy Dumais is gay.  I have no idea what makes his periscope go up.

P.P.S. Thanks for yesterday's comments! Just what I needed!

I tried to just post something light and satirical (Bush as a monkey on a train) and walk away, but the need to blog more substantially has become as essential as my morning coffee, even if I get so few comments that I wonder if anyone reads me at all. (What's up with that? I comment on almost every blog I visit.)

I couldn't not talk about Lolo Jones' loss of  the 100-meter hurdles after knocking down the 9th hurdle, losing her sole chance for an Olympic medal in this games, and probably in any (she's 26.)  This is one of those self-made women who was at one time homeless, her single mother holding down several jobs to support herself and her sister, whose excitement and joy turned to shock and disappointment as they watch Lolo from the stands.

In the great scheme of things, the fact that one woman in one race came in seventh instead of first is not a great matter. In the scheme of Lolo's life, it was a moment which will forever be the marker of all that went before or after. How often do we get to witness such an event in someone's life?  It wasn't a gradual disappointment, like the realization over the course of three days that you won't get a promotion, in this picture we witness a dizzying fall that occurred in physical reality far faster than could be absorbed by the brain.

Frankly, I do know that feeling, which occurred in the moment it took me to open the door to the police in February 2004.  Of course, this turned out to be the beginning of my long night's journey into day. I pray and hope that in 5 or 10 or 20 years, Lolo might be able to say, "if I had won, X, Y, and Z wouldn't have happened, and I can't imagine my life without these things, so I am grateful."  .

But of course right now, she can only live and relive that moment where here foot brushed the hurdle and her future went several shades darker in an instant.  If wishing could unmake a moment, surely hers would.  One can only ache for her.

MCO 2008 

Monkey eludes dragnet at Tokyo train station

Filed at 9:23 a.m. ET

TOKYO (AP) -- Morning train commuters in Tokyo were joined on their way to work by an unusual companion Wednesday: a wild monkey.

A security guard spotted the monkey near ticket gates in Shibuya Station, said Norihiru Masui, a spokesman for train operator Tokyu Corp.

The monkey climbed to a perch high atop a departure board, and around 30 policemen surrounded the area and attempted to snare it with a variety of nets, as commuters crowded around and snapped pictures with their cell phones.

The standoff ended when the monkey climbed down and dashed out of the station, with several policeman and local TV crews in tow. News reports said the monkey was last seen heading in the direction of nearby Yoyogi Park. 

MCO 2008

That's actually a portrait of the composer, Verdi, painted by Boldoni. I've matched it with the work of a still-living painter, Paula Rego. The result is as much about the color blue as it is about anything else.

Today I go in for my annual ADAP recertification, so I can keep getting the Aids Drug Assistance Program to help pay for the meds that keep me alive.  I completely get that they need to recertify my income and residence on an annual basis, the part that I find funny is a recertification of my diagnosis. To my knowledge, no one who has tested positive for 20 years has ever suddenly tested negative. 

My blogami Rod shares about the increase in HIV transmissions, particularly in the black community rife (still) with men who have sex with men but still somehow think you need to call yourself gay to be at risk for HIV.  He laments how little outrage he can manage to conjure up over this statistical trend, resulting in more of a sigh of resignation than a willingness to go out and pour blood on the steps of the capitol. ( I think Rod feels he should be as angry as so many of us were in the Act Up 80s, but then again, Rod LOVES the 80s) 

I understand the sentiment, but I'm not sure I agree. It's 2008. How many more  prevention messages, billboards, outreach programs, advertisements, etc. can we come up with? How efffective  were they ever or will they ever be? After all, we've had 40 years of the pill, condoms, IUD's, sex education, and abortion, and still young women have babies out of wedlock in the millions.  Since 1964, we've had warnings on cigarettes, banned their advertising on TV, watched 300,000 people a year die of lung cancer, and still, millions smoke.  We've had a certifiable idiot as President and Satan himself as V.P for eight years, breaking every law of the land ten times over, and still we have not impeached them--even though the last one was skewered for a mere blowjob. We're spending 10 billion dollars a month to occupy a country that doesn't want us there, and at least that much to incarcerate three times the percentage of the adult population as any other industrial nation, all while 34% of our population uses the local emergency room for their primary healthcare.

If I start taking the profound irrationality of how our society approaches  problem-solving personally, I will end up spontaneously combusting. You can accept things as they are and do what you can about them without needing to be in a state of fury or lamentation or liberal guilt over it all. (And trust me, on a daily basis I have to fight the sense that I am personally at fault for every bad thing that happens on the planet, because I don't do enough.) 

My head tells me anger is a form of action, and humility is surrender. It's quite the opposite. Recognizing I am 1 in 6 billion, accepting-without rage-- the reality of ignorance, poverty, injustice, and a whole lot of irrational behavior in the world makes me far more likely to be effective in making whatever impact that I can make on it all.  It will never be enough to satisfy my boundless ego,  which wants me to be nothing less than the love child of Obama and Oprah, midwifed by Bill Gates and as talented as Tracy Ullman, but it may just be enough to satisfy my soul.

MCO 2008

So I woke up to this email: Congratulations Marc! The general membership committee held its monthly meeting yesterday and of the 14 logos submitted for consideration your entry received the most votes as the official logo for this year's round up.  While the logo you submitted will appear "as is" for the FRU 2009 theme we may need to make some minor modifications when using the logo in publications, decorations and booster items with the official colors being yellow and orange. I will be in contact with you later in the month in order to get the specific colors you used. 

Once again thanks.

MCO 2008

 

P.S. You know how I was looking for a good word for my vandwelling thug? This was today's "Word A Day:"

louche

PRONUNCIATION:

(loosh)

MEANING:

adjective: Of questionable character; dubious; disreputable.

ETYMOLOGY:

From French louche (cross-eyed), from Latin lusca, feminine of luscus (one-eyed).

USAGE:

"Marc had only seen Rich---his online harasser--once or twice, but the impression he gave off was distinctly louche."

 

 

I was wondering when I was going to find some content that would somehow reflect this Hy-Art of Picasso (the sick bed) and Alma-Tadema (the Hellenic Angels). Happily, I saw just the apropos film, Hamlet 2, yesterday, at a special screening for NYU West Coast alumni.  (Though I was easily the oldest one there, I'm trying to participate, dammit!)

Hamlet 2 is the absolutely hysterical story of a drama teacher in Tuscson, Arizona who wants nothing more than to create great theater, but whose only real talent is the sort of tenaciousness that allows him to hold on to a dream even when he has been kicked, run over and stomped "like a baby kitten" -- as he puts it, in the kind of brilliantly simple mangling of the language that results in some of most sophisticated humor I've ever seen on the screen.  The true miracle occurs in the finale, when the musical they put on actually manages to be pretty damn good.  Steven Coogan as the teacher who can't do is brilliant, and Elizabeth Shue (as herself--becoming a nurse because she's tired of Hollywood) is adorable. I predict director Andrew Fleming is the next Judd Apatow, but even better. Kudos all around.

Today I go to the 5th sober birthday celebration of a friend who I knew briefly as a dealer and then who was in Chino with me, although on the other side of "campus."  I ran into him a month after his release, and we've been keeping tabs on each other ever since.

I have watched Dale change from a man completely preocuppied by his own gratification to someone whose chief concern in life is being of service to others--all while keeping the most dazzling blue-eyed smile imaginable at the ready. If my transformation has been half as dramatic as his, I'm a very happy man.

Happy Birthday, my brother.

MCO 2008

This Dyce (the beach)/Monet (the snow) almost looks like the same picture, doesn't it?  I guess it's not the most appropriate combo for August, but it's been unseasonably mild in Southern California so far this summer.  I would bet there's a dreadful heatwave coming our way in September, but there's hasn't been one intolerable day yet.

So yesterday, I really went on the grass-roots offensive.  I e-mailed the lead officer for the precinct, describing the situation I was dealing with, and he gave me his direct line to call in the event of any difficulty with the local tuff (s).  (For a wordsmith, I am at an embarassing loss terminology-wise.  To call them a "gang" overstates the matter, "junkies" and "lowlifes" are laden with bias, I've been upbraided for using any references to their physical appearance, and ethnic denotations paint too broad a brush, tarring masses of perfectly innocent, hardworking,  and clean civilians in their web--to mix a metaphor to death.  Maybe I should call them "the van dwellers," which refers to their natural habitat without evoking more baggage than vaguely 70's proletariat. Will that pass muster, Sheria?)

Then I called the legislative director for Tom LaBonge, and we trash-talked. No, I did not tell her her mother wore army boots, we discussed the feasibility of my proposal to ban flyer distribution under windshields, OR, if that was legally not possible, to require that the distributors of such flyers come back into the neighborhood within 72 hours to pick up the flyers that have been tossed on the ground.  It was interesting to be able to discuss this with a veritable PhD in Garbology.  (Honey, I could be an expert on Oprah if they ever did a story about litter. Helas, I don't see it on their Fall schedule.) 

The most interesting thing about her reaction was that this seemed to be an idea she'd never heard proposed   It was also the second time I've noticed how relieved a local government official was to hear a practical suggestion instead of the usual "why can't the city do this for me."  I actually think people who go into local government really want to make a difference.  

You have no idea the confidence with which I am now walking the dog at night.  If "Manik" or any of his cohorts approach me, I need only politely ask that they give me a chance to call Officer Sevdalian and leave it on speakerphone as they beat me up, and to insist they yell "faggot" clearly and succinctly as they do it, so that we can get a enhanced sentence for a hate crime.  And if they are really good neighbors, they'll let me get it on a three-way call to the Councilman's office, so that we can share this with everyone who deserves to hear it.

Hooray for cellphones and sarcasm. I might as well be wearing a bullet-proof vest. 

MCO 2008

I guess "inoperable" is the right term, but it struck me as rather funny. What does the car have, a brain tumor? And as far as I know, there are no vehicles that are so disabled that they cannot be loaded onto a tow truck. I would almost guarantee you that this car belongs to a 20-something chippie whose widowed father gave it to her when she moved to LA. She hasn't maintained it, because she never realized how little money she'd have left over every month after rent and car insurance and clubbing with her friends. But she sure doesn't want (another) ticket. So she puts this sign on it (there was another on the side window), and will be up in arms when she finds a citation on it nonetheless, because the parking ticket giver-outer was not about to call the watch commander when our heroine should have called AAA. She will wail to her friends at the unfairness as it all, as she orders another Cosmotini.  Maybe it's AA she should call.

Contrast that with this:

In today's excerpt--Wilma Rudolph (1940-1994), the superstar Olympic athlete who was discovered to have polio at the age of four. In the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome, Italy, she became the first American woman to win three gold medals in track and field during a single Olympic Games, despite running on a sprained ankle. The fastest woman on earth, Rudolph elevated women's track to a major presence in the United States and was known in America as "The Tennessee Tornado," in Italy as "La Gazzella Nera" (the Black Gazelle), and in France as "La Perle Noire" (The Black Pearl):

"As a child, Wilma was underweight and sickly, and also special and spoiled--not an easy circumstance in the boisterous family of railroad man Ed Rudolph and his wife, Blanche, who together brought home less than $2,500 year and lived without indoor plumbing in a dusty red-framed house at 644 Kellogg Street in the poor and black section of Clarksville [Tennessee]. ... The Rudolphs had twenty-two children between them, although only eight together and rarely more than that number living with them at one time. Wilma was the fifth of the final group of eight. Her siblings, competing for attention in the cacophony of the overstretched household, did not begrudge her the time and care she needed, though they groused that she never had to do the dishes and teased her for being a crybaby.

"During the worst years of Wilma's childhood infirmity, they took turns carrying her from room to room. They massaged her polio-crippled left leg four times a day and were part of the troupe accompanying her down to Meharry Medical College in Nashville, the nation's leading training hospital for black physicians, for heat and water therapy on the one day a week that their mother, a maid, did not have to work in the large homes on the white side of town. 'The trips to Nashville, we would always go to the Greyhound bus station and get on this huge, big bus, and it seemed like such a long ride to Nashville because of all the stops in between,' recalled Yvonne Rudolph, her older sister. 'We would go to the hospital, and it seemed like a huge building, so different from anything in Clarksville. Wilma was shy, and sometimes she would just cry because she didn't like it at all. But we kept telling her that it would make her better and she would feel better, and she would not always have to wear the brace. I think that's what really kept her going, because she knew one day she would not have to wear it.'

"As Wilma later described her early childhood, she was depressed and lonely at first, especially when she had to watch her brothers and sisters run off to school while she stayed home, burdened with the dead weight of the heavy braces. She felt rejected, she said, and would close her eyes 'and just drift off into a sinking feeling, going down, down, down.' Soon her loneliness turned to anger. She hated the fact that her peers always teased her. She didn't like any of her supposed friends. She wondered whether living just meant being sick all the time, and told herself it had to be more than that, and she started fighting back, determined to beat the illness."

David Maraniss, Rome 1960, Simon & Schuster, Copyright 2008 by David Maraniss, pp. 207-208.

MCO 2008

This sunlight-catching spider web reminds me of the hidden beauty you can find in this neighborhood, tucked here and there if you look for it. I need reminding, because I'm finding some of its residents wanting in pleasant qualities.

Last night I was walking the dog, and the main troublemaker of the group of lowlifes who are the bane of the neighborhood, a short little apey type in a perpetual dirty tanktop, approached me.  I was on the south side of the street instead of the north side that I live on, precisely because he and his buds were hanging out on that side around their double-parked van, smoking and drinking and laughing to music. They were not, at least, in our driveway. Still, "Manik" as I am told is his name, felt the need to come out of his way to approach me. (You may supply the Armenian accent.)

"My friend, we need to talk. Do you know who I am?"  He may have used "friend," but believe me, his manner was anything but friendly.

Technically, the answer was no, so that's what I said.  I think he was hoping I'd be all meek, acknowledging that he was Big Man on Campus. As if to shore up his credentials, he then asked: "Do you know how long I live here?" 

"All I know is that you don't live in my building.  And so you don't belong in the driveway. That's all I'm asking. Don't hang out in our driveway and there's no argument here!'

I crossed the street, woefully aware that Gaza had become too old to growl when I need him to, but noticing Manik's '"friends" didn't seem to be coming to back him up.  I would bet no small sum that he's considered the group clown, someone who gets drunk and shoots his mouth off, someone they use but do not trust or take seriously.  He started to sputter. 

"You are in trouble, you faggot. You better watch your ass!"

I got up my stairs, relieved to see three of my Filipino neighbors were on the stoop and had seen it all.  I called the local precinct, and asked for a squad car to come around. I am unsure if they did, I did not want to be seen coming to check.

Today, I went to the precinct in person again, made a complaint and asked that we get more black and whites cruising by at night.  I also talked to my friend Carol, who lives across the street and owns a building.  She reassured me that this "kid" (he's 33), lives with his brother, and nephews, and that he's a pain-in-the-ass, but non-violent. She's complained about him many times, so asked about him to feel reassured for her own safety.

I'm glad to know he doesn't have a gun under the seat, still, a confrontation like that was the last thing my trying-to-settle stomach needed. What I've decided to do is pick up trash at night too, because it'll make it much harder for him to somehow cast me as the neighborhood interloper.

I'm so looking forward to finding a house and getting out of here.

MCO 2008.

I love the strange symmetry of this Picasso (blue) and Hopper (in the window) Hy-Art. This also evokes for me how easy is it to imagine that the lives of others are better or more interesting than our own, or conversely, that no one else has the problems we have.

I've had a fairly unpleasant 24 hours, from an intestinal point of view. As ever, during the worst of it, I remind myself of how  relatively lucky I am. I do not have a flight to catch, nor find myself in an airport bathroom.  I never had diarrhea in prison, which would have sucked so bad because there are no doors for privacy.  I remember that I could be one of the hundreds of millions of people across the world who share communal toilets or latrines and have to wait in line at the exact moment you can't wait one more second. I could be uninsured, unable to pick up a phone and talk to my doctor if it turned out to be something serious.  This doesn't alleviate any of the physical distress, but it sure helps from slipping into the "oh-poor-me's."  What if I was a truck driver who had to get a shipment somewhere by a certain time? You get the idea.

Then I read two notes from blogamis. One's daughter has been hospitalized with an inflamed colon, and has lost a lot weight. The other's college roommate has a recurrence of cancer. Both request my prayers, which of course they have. I don't think that to the degree prayer works, it matters who or what you pray for. I think what matters is a willingness to send positive energy and thoughts out into the world, to step out of that self-referential dome of the ego where we can spend so much time just bouncing things off each other. How the universe uses that energy after that I have no idea, but it can only be good. That much I do believe. 

My best prayer today is channeling Edward Hopper and Pablo Picasso. Let's say these ladies are watching over Ashley and Skye.

MCO 2008

First off, these three guys (plus three others, not pictured) are about as adorable and heartwarming as they come. If you missed it last night, their journey to a bronze that felt just like a gold is documented here.

You may have figured out that the Olympics turn me into a 14-year old girl in a Verizon commercial. "OMG! They're so cute I could just die!"

I look at these guys and I have to take their enthusiam and brio and talent and try to let it color the glasses I wear when I peer out in the world.  This morning I couldn't help but notice a  latin "homie"-- shaved head, mustache, looking exactly like so many of the guys I was in prison with--cleaning out and organizing his car, parked on the street.  It was a little odd that he was here at all, but the Armenian junkie/dealers I have complained so much about have been vamoose for an entire week now.  I would like to think I won the sign wars and this is the reason for their absence, but more likely they're doing a few weeks at County. In any case, this guy would normally be considered on someone else's turf, and I doubt would have been engaged in such domestic housekeeping if the homeboys were hanging about.

You could tell he was high as a kite, but in that "good" way I knew well but less and less often as the years went by.  The endorphins and the speed were meshing in such a way that he felt really good but really industrious. He knew he was a little too lit up to drive but wanted to feel productive, like he was doing something purposeful, so he pulled everything out of his aging red musclecar, and cleaned and repacked it, in a way that made me think he imagined himself on camera as he was doing it.

I first saw him from the other side of the street, and was carefully not to check him out too closely even though I felt his eyes on me.  I wasn't yet sure whether they were hostile or friendly, but I think they were just curious. Picking up trash while walking the dog still appears very bizarre to the uninitiated. I'm sure. I went around the corner, filled and tossed another bag of trash, and eventually had to cross back next to where he was, rather close to my building.

He had tossed a plastic cup full of torn up pieces of paper, which I didn't mind picking up, because he said "Hey, dawg" as I passed, and it gave me a gesture with with to punctuate my return "good morning."   Then he said, all friendly-like: "Doin' a run?"

Street slang and prisonese is full of vague expressions to cover all sort of things.  "A run" is normally used to mean going to get or sell drugs, which clearly I wasn't doing, but was the only word he could find to connect us.  See, he was cleaning his car and being friendly, I was cleaning the street and another nice guy, he could tell, so we had common ground. I know this was how he felt, because I know that high so well. It's great for a little bit, then turns sour, because in about an hour his teeth will be grindy and the neighborhood won't look so interesting, and when he tries to recapture the high he won't be able to. He'll feel the tiredness under the surface from having been up all night, feel the guilt from having disappointed someone, probably a girlfirend or a child.  If I walked by again, he'd be more likely to think "faggot" than "friend."

There's no Hollywood ending here.  I responded by redefining run: "I just clean up a little in the morning" to which he nodded sagely, as if he did exactly the same all the time.  I couldn't keep the conversation going even if I wanted to , because as bad luck would have it, I woke up this morning with a case of the runs, and had to make very quick time back to the apartment.

I was glad I didn't cross the street to avoid him though.  Even one moment of connection with a stranger is a moment of connection.

MCO 2008.

P.S.  I submitted this to a logo competition for next year's Miami roundup.

 

The urban landscape is via Vlaminck, the figures under the bridge are from Honthorst.

Howabout that Jason Lezak?  For those of you who are unpatriotic, unathletic, or just plain fall asleep early on a Sunday night, he swam the last leg of the 400 meter individual medley and performed a feat of catching up to the Frenchman half a length ahead of him that was nothing short of extraordinary.  One of the great moments of this Olympics. 

Sports are such an interesting idea, artistically, because they don't serve any practical purpose.  When swimmer X gets from point A to Point B faster than swimmer Y, or team A gets a ball over a goal more times than team B, nothing really happens except for the idea we have in our head about it. The human mind is a meaning-making machine, and we are fascinated by the "-ers" and "--ests" in life.  Bigger, Faster, Stronger; Biggest, Fastest. Strongest.  We are so rarely the "--ests" at anything in our own life--there's always someone richer, younger, hotter, etc.  We form countries and ask our best to represent us; and then hope some of their fairy dust lands on us. 

When I started to look at sports as theater, I started to become a fan.  No real purpose (in the sense of someone being fed, clothed, or kept warm)  is served by art either, and I'd bang a shovel over my head until I was dead if I couldn't live with art to either make or view (and that includes writing.) 

A note on Russia's invasion of Georgia over South Ossetia.  This is the kind of aggression that could have major ramifications on the future, and because we are bogged down in the wrong place, we have no credibilty to even rattle a saber in the direction of the Russians. Putin knows we couldn't do anything if we wanted to. Oh, but Dubya has a "good relationship" with him. What a consummate idiot he is.  I don't blame him for wanting to wave a little flag at the Olympics, but we didn't elect him Chief Cheerleader!  Though he looks completely at ease doing it.  Well, I'm glad you finally found your niche, Mr. President.

Too little, too late.

MCO 2008

P.S.  Thanks "Patrick" for continuing to follow the blog so closely. I'm touched by your loyalty.  And I can't think of anyone who does more to keep me sober on a daily basis by reminding me so eloquently of how painful it is to live in a state of constant hostility, fear and loneliness.

Say hi to the trained monkeys for me. Have them send me some art, I'd love to see it.

This woman is Eakins, the bird--big surprise here--is Audubon.

I would like you, however, to imagine that this is an invisible hawk, representing the drives many have on our shoulders that remain unperceived by others. And there is no drive more powerful than the one resulting from the male ego doused in testosterone.

I contributed to John Edwards' campaign because I admired the fact that he kept the issue of poverty in America at the forefront of his message.  I would also have bet $0 on the idea that he had been 100% faithful to his wife during their marriage.  Male politicians have a dreadful record in this regard, and lookers like Edwards are goners. I personally don't care about anything but what their policies would be as President, (look at the disaster the faithful W. has turned out to be), but America is a judgey place. Half of the country spends way too much time caring about what you do in your bedroom, particularly if you are in the public eye.  Given that fact, and the reality that his affair could have lost the Democrats the run for the White House had he gotten the nomination, it was an insanely inconsiderate move to the country, much less his wife.

But here's what pisses me off.  Lets say a man like Edwards or Clinton, at the beginning of his career, has the self-understanding that he is not a one-man woman, and the single life is for him.  He should be able to build a political career without being penalized for not having a wife and kids by his side. Or what if the wife consents to the infidelity, never expecting anything else? Can you imagine Hillary admitting that?  The electorate is asking its candidates to be idealized versions of the American dream, and so elect men who learn to appear to be so, even if they're not. We demand liars and we get them. 

If we don't want to lose our jobs because we have an affair, we can't fire our politicians for the same thing, We will not get government out of our bedrooms until we get out of the bedrooms of government. Consenting adults should get to make their own agreements and pay the consequences to each other for violating them, not to us. 

Frankly, after watching the men's gymnastics last night, I can't imagine how anyone stays faithful to anyone.

MCO 2008

I thought I'd delve into some Chinese Art to honor the Olympics, and ended up matching this Jiying with an Otto Dix. Not very edifying, but it's a pretty good illustration of David and I watching the opening ceremonies, finding all sorts of pithy remarks to make about how many Pacific Island nations there are with a population of 16, half of whom made it to the Olympics.  But mostly we scanned the parade for hot men, of which there were enough to rival in beauty the unbelievable opening ceremonies of the games themselves. If you admire logistics, as I do, you're also still reeling from one of the most awesome displays of it in the history of the world, up there with D-Day. Got to give it up for the Chinese.

4 has always been my favorite number, and I only just realize it's probably because it represents the cycles of both Presidential elections and the Olympics.  Four years ago, I was in prison for most of 2004, and I missed almost all of the Olympic drama in Athens because the TV room was generally a place I avoided.  I did follow the election on my radio, engaging in lengthy "debates" with Adam, a black beanstalk of a psychopathic pyromaniac who had two obsessions: Ketchup and the Kennedys.  He was a Republican of convenience---obsessed with poliitical dynasties and prone to irritating diatribes about it, as he negotiated for your packets of Heinz.  He was the most bizarre--and saddest---inmate I knew. He didn't belong in prison, he didn't seem to belong anywhere. He was one of the few black inmates that no other black inmate would have intervened for if he was in a fight with a white guy or a latin. They would have joined in. He annoyed everybody to distraction.

The blog is also four years old, some time right about now in 2004 is when my sister started it. Talk about a transformative act.  There's a direct line between my sister's act and http://prisonsabitch.blogspot.com/, which is in turn leading to Steven's being featured in the Britsh equivalent of "The American Life." They're sending him a tape recorder and everything, and of course he's going to include me, if only over the phone.

Incidentally, I was amazed by how many older men there were among the Olympic marchers. Maybe I need to take up equestrian target shooting or something. There's still hope for 2012.

MCO 2008

Ah, that I would be like Renoir's lady in blue, down from Paris in the heat of August to rent an old farmhouse in Provence as is depicted here by Cezanne.

As I age I am increasingly grateful for the richness of the vacations of my childhood.  The summers of 1962, 96, 72 and 73 were all spent in the south of France. Among others, I have delicious memories of camping by a river in l'Aveyron, sharing a tent with my cousin Henri.  There were three sets of cousins, and one of their husbands would take us up onto the mountain to gather mushrooms we would cook along with all sorts of culinary treats my mom and aunts conjured up. No one worried about how to spend the day.  You swam, read, played volleyball, invented silly games.  I obsessed, of course, about the dark secrets puberty was awakening in me, but I think all kids do that, straight or gay.

In the 70s, I could still watch the Olympics with the fantasy that perhaps one day I might be in them. If there'd been a Dara Torres back then (she's a 41-year old swimmer), I may have carried that fantasy into the 80s.  Approaching smack dab middle of middle age, I now live the sobering reality that there's more life behind me than there is ahead.  I adore Barack Obama, but I resent that he will be the first President who is younger than I am. (Not enough to vote for Old McDonald, though.) 

Youth and talent will be on full display in the next couple of weeks; bad liberal that I am I will not boycott viewing as I should. I honestly believe the idea of the Olympics transcends all the considerations about a sorry record of Chinese human rights.  I'm just glad they wrapped up my favorite guilty pleasure, "So You Think You Can Dance," last night, so there's no competition for my viewing time. I love that show, even if it stings to be the ages of the judges instead of the contestants.

You get older and you pass the torch. Every day that passes, you are more likely to be the applauder than applaudee. This is the way it has always been, and I pray for the willingness to accept such an inevitable truth gracefully. I ain't there yet.

MCO 2008

P.S. My friend Denys at Homo Homo Sapien posted this hysterical You Tube. Rather appropriate for me, as I am in the middle of translating song lyrics from English to French.

P.P.S.  Maybe I should pitch a new show: "So You Think You Can Pick Up Trash?"

I'm starting to feel very much like this Metsu figure, surrounded by this dramatic seascape by Martin, if you imagine all the busy-ness around her to represent the Internet.

I'm Marc, and I'm an information junkie.  As I analyze my compulsion to read another blog, another article from truthout.org, sign another petition from moveon.org, watch another YouTube, visit another website, etc., etc, I realize that the fairly laudable fact that I want to be an informed citizen of the world spills over into compulsionland.  There is a difference between spreading the word about Darfur or the Congo and writing a check to Doctors Without Borders, and feeling somehow personally responsible or inadequate because the poverty or violence continues to exist.  There's a difference between the kind of healthy concern for the earth that leads you to change all your light bulbs and a lashing guilt that you are not smuggling yourself to the Olympics to unfurl a flag that reads "Free Tibet."

In my case, I substitute being informed for taking action, because the action I can think of seems so inadequate, and I'm basically lazy. Look at the massive efforts across the world to alter the situation in Darfur, and then read http://miafarrow.org/  So I pick up trash, I send my little periodic checks, and spend hours more than I should scanning every article just in case Mia calls and asks what to do next.

What this exhibits is a profound lack of humilty. It's my diseased ego's attempt to keep me in the mode that the world indeed revolves around me, that what I do or don't do has massive ramifications.  It's a good thing to believe you make a difference, it's not a good thing to think you make THE difference.  And while I reject that thinking on a conscious level, of course, the guilt indicates that on an emotional level, I still think I'm God. Only I can fix the world that I have done so much damage to. Holy Grandiosity.

This time-consuming obsession to be informed is also hell on making money and finishing projects. I have to keep reminding myself, there will be no quiz in the morning. You are not a researcher for Keith Olbermann, no one is going to ask you to debate Bill O'Reilly or coach Barack Obama in a debate. Nothing will blow up if you don't finish reading that New Yorker article. (You should be writing them, anyway.)

Why you people never voted me Emperor of the Galaxy I'll never understand, but I simply must accept that this is so.

MCO 2008