When Embracing Technology Makes You Look Ridiculous

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.

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Wolf Boy

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

Before I moved to Berlin permanently, I spent a winter there in 2008. 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 everywhere. 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 that stage in my life.

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. Thinking back, one of the reasons I moved back to Berlin was because of how he changed the way I looked at the world. I wanted his life, and now -- in some ways -- I have it.

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

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

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

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"

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

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"

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'

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")

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...

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

Getting Over "The Ring"

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

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

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

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

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"

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

Disturbing Video of the Day

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

Oh My God

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

"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

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

Beautiful:

Facebook: The Movie

Starring Justin Timberlake. Seriously.

Windows House Party: Come Get it!

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

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

The Spin on Obama's Foreign Policy

...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

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"

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

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

Who's going to throw the first shoe?

Guide to the Citizens of Seattle

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.

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.