My Epigottis Is Unreliable.
The two deaths I have, for some reason, fantasized about are one, getting hit by a car, and two, choking. Since I got hit by a car this summer and survived, I'm wondering if that means I'm going to die of choking.
My epiglottis is unreliable. I come close to choking fairly often, once or twice a week. Just now, I took a swig of beer and my epiglottis totally didn't even try to prevent it from going down the wrong tube. My conscious brain stepped in in the nick of time and took matters into its own hands.
My epiglottis is unreliable. I come close to choking fairly often, once or twice a week. Just now, I took a swig of beer and my epiglottis totally didn't even try to prevent it from going down the wrong tube. My conscious brain stepped in in the nick of time and took matters into its own hands.
The Partridge Family.
The Partridge Family is the first pop culture I remember being my own and not my parents'. It cracks me up to remember how I was so titillated by the commercials for the Partridge Family show, before I had even seen the show, how I thought it was some strange new slightly dangerous thing. Pretty much all we listened to at home before my brother and I started buying records in the early 70s was Beethoven, Johnny Cash, the Mills Brothers, and Errol Garner.
Of course, when I was 10 I had no idea how totally surreal the show was. I just loved the songs. I still do. When I was starting to write songs and playing in bands in New York in the 80s, I always wanted to sound like the Partridge Family. I especially love the background harmonies.
Of course, when I was 10 I had no idea how totally surreal the show was. I just loved the songs. I still do. When I was starting to write songs and playing in bands in New York in the 80s, I always wanted to sound like the Partridge Family. I especially love the background harmonies.
Life in a Box.
The hard disc in my computer died a few weeks ago, so I had it replaced. I didn't lose any data, but I may as well have because the only way it could be recovered was without the file structure and file names, meaning that what I have now is a folder called Data Recovery with subfolders called Doc Files, JPGs, etc., each of which contain thousands of numbered files. All my stuff is there, but it's nearly impossible to find anything in a reasonable amount of time. Not such a big deal in the long run -- most of it was archival, not stuff I need to access regularly, and a lot of it I have on DVDs somewhere in boxes around here.I did lose the "disc image" that allowed me to burn DVD copies of my film, Life in a Box, so J borrowed a copy on DVD from a friend, and I spent today making another disc image on my computer. Then I made a new DVD, and I had to check it to make sure it copied okay, which means that I had to watch the film carefully this afternoon. I've seen it many many times and still enjoy watching it -- except for the argument scene that comes right in the middle, which is excruciating.
Humility aside, I'm still kind of amazed that we couldn't get a distribution deal for the film. I think it's entertaining, funny, complex and affecting, and has a wide appeal. It occurred to me watching it this time after not seeing it for a while that it's no wonder I've been at a bit of a loss how to follow it, what to do next. Not just because the film seems in a way so perfectly realized, but also because it tells a story of a career which seems so perfectly realized, so contained and finished.
In fact, I think it's such fine work that if I never did anything else as an artist, I would be content that I had fulfilled my potential as an artist. That's what I think about the work. But as an artist I still have that same impulse to create, that same need I always had. So somehow I have to find out what to use it for. I thought for a long time that it would only be natural to make more films, to use what I learned, go from there, but I have floundered trying to make that happen. It's such a complicated medium, requiring time and people and resources that I still haven't figured out how to bring together again for a new project. Life in a Box fell together in a way, mainly because we had a producer spending the money to make it happen, to allow me to work with great people and take the time necessary to learn the skills and do the work.
When I was editing and finishing the film, and when we were traveling around to various festivals and getting such great responses from audiences, I thought the way it would happen is that the film would get on TV and in theaters which would generate interest in my work which would grease the wheels for me in putting together my next film. I really expected things to grow organically from there. Ironic that the big message of the film is that nothing turns out like you expect. I wonder if that's a lesson anybody really learns for long.
Good News! Another Reason to Cut Up Your Baby's Penis!
Is it just me, or do Americans seem obsessed with finding reasons for circumcising babies? I guess it's easier to find ways to prevent HIV infection among babies than among 18-25 year olds where infection rates are still increasing. The CDC is trying to decide whether to promote the mutilation of infants in order to -- maybe slightly, but they're not really sure -- decrease their chances of contracting an infection many years in the future. But
[Dr. Peter Kilmarx, chief of epidemiology for the division of HIV/AIDS prevention the C.D.C.] and other experts acknowledged that although the clinical trials of circumcision in Africa had dramatic results, the effects of circumcision in the United States were likely to be more muted because the disease is less prevalent here, because it spreads through different routes and because the health systems are so disparate as to be incomparable.Did they consider the fact that when these babies reach the age of sexual maturity, they might be able to, and might want to, make up their own minds whether or not to cut off the ends of their penises?
Janis Ian.
In high school I had the album Between the Lines. I don't think I knew much about the record or Janis Ian before I chose it as one of the pile of free records you used to get for joining the Columbia record club in the 70s. I pretty much wore it out. It's such a cliche now that it makes me smile a little queasily, but I really would listen to At Seventeen and cry and think, "that's me, that's my life." Way before I knew I was homosexual. (This is also around the time of the beginning of my Judy Garland obsession.)
In our first year performing together in New York, Y'all played in the gay pride day rally in Union Square. We played 3 or 4 songs in front of thousands of people -- it was a huge thrill, one of the highlights of our career. Janis Ian was the headliner of that show. We met her backstage, and she said something funny about J's dress, I can't remember what it was now. I remember being thrilled and honored to be there performing on the same stage with her.
When J and I lived in Nashville in the late 90s, Janis lived there with her partner and had a thriving career as a country songwriter (belying Nashville's hyper-conservative image). They lived in an old house with some kind of neon sign, like a vintage beer sign or something, in the window. I'm pretty sure she still lives and works there.
The clip I think is from the Smothers Brothers show.
In our first year performing together in New York, Y'all played in the gay pride day rally in Union Square. We played 3 or 4 songs in front of thousands of people -- it was a huge thrill, one of the highlights of our career. Janis Ian was the headliner of that show. We met her backstage, and she said something funny about J's dress, I can't remember what it was now. I remember being thrilled and honored to be there performing on the same stage with her.
When J and I lived in Nashville in the late 90s, Janis lived there with her partner and had a thriving career as a country songwriter (belying Nashville's hyper-conservative image). They lived in an old house with some kind of neon sign, like a vintage beer sign or something, in the window. I'm pretty sure she still lives and works there.
The clip I think is from the Smothers Brothers show.
Inglourious Basterds.
I read the New York Times review of Inglourious Basterds yesterday. I don't read reviews of movies I'm planning to see, so I was safe with this one. I guess you'd call it a pan. My housemates saw it last night and loved it. They're Tarantino fans, and they compared it favorably with Pulp Fiction. I didn't have any desire to see it before and less so now since I don't like Pulp Fiction. The first time I saw Pulp Fiction, I thought it was fascinating, but I couldn't put my finger on what was interesting about it. The second time I saw it, I realized there was nothing really there. One thing Tarantino is great at is creating an illusion of substance. I guess it's all that talking.
I watched Kill Bill too. I didn't want to dismiss Tarantino too quickly; so many people seem to think he's a great artist. Kill Bill didn't even grab me the first time. It was just boring.
Here's what Conor Clarke (at The Daily Dish) said about Inglorious Basterds:
I watched Kill Bill too. I didn't want to dismiss Tarantino too quickly; so many people seem to think he's a great artist. Kill Bill didn't even grab me the first time. It was just boring.
Here's what Conor Clarke (at The Daily Dish) said about Inglorious Basterds:
There is much debate about what genre Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds deserves. Is it comedy? Philosophy? Revenge fantasy? Silly exploitation? David Denby, for instance, takes the position that it's "lodged in an uneasy nowheresville" between these things. I'd take the position that it's too easy to over-intellectualize a Tarantino film, which is probably just an empty (but extremely well crafted) vessel studded with encyclopedic and occasionally annoying references to films the director likes. Good luck speculating about Tarantino's intentions. But I can report that the audience with which I saw it last night treated it as comedy, which is probably the right mindset with which to enter the theater, at least if you want to have an enjoyable experience.I just don't trust him. I don't think he has anything to say, and if you're going to make a movie about Nazis, I think you should have something to say.
What Next.
It dawned on me last week when I was running around campus tying up loose ends, when the kids were all arriving excited to start the fall semester, that I was going to miss it. Strange that I never considered that, but I guess I was very focused on my excitement about finishing and graduating.That's probably the biggest motivation behind considering grad school, just the fact that I like school, I like college campuses and young people, I like the atmosphere, I like scholars and students and books, reading and writing, thinking. I like fall.
I've been tossing around a few ideas regarding grad school. There's a great inter-disciplinary MFA program at Bard College in New York State. A couple very good friends have done it. My painting teacher from Parsons. who I consider to be one of the great teachers of my life, used to teach there. (Unfortunately, I think she's retired.) It's in a beautiful area a couple hours north of the city. The program comprises 3 summers (2-month sessions). The advantages are --
1) I'm pretty sure I would love the program. You work and study with a group of visual artists, writers, film/video people, maybe dance and music too (?).
2) An MFA would be a good credential if I want to apply for jobs teaching at the college level.
3) Every June and July I would get out of Texas where it's miserable and go to Upstate New York where it's gorgeous.
Another option is to pursue a Masters in education. The main advantage is that it would be a big help in finding a job teaching high school, which is what I've been thinking for some time now I would like to do. The disadvantage, and I think this is big, is that I'm pretty sure I would hate studying pedagogy. I fear it would be like having all the annoying classes and teachers and students without any of the wonderful smart stimulating ones to balance it out. The upside is that from what I gather master's programs in education only take a year.
Here's what I think I will plan on for now. When I get back from New York, I'll try to get work substitute teaching in the Austin schools. In the meantime, I'll apply for Region XIII, which is an alternative certification program in Austin. If I do this program, I'll be certified to teach by next fall and after substituting for a while I'll have a better sense of the schools here and I'll have a better idea of whether or not I'm good at teaching and enjoy it. Seems so far away.
Morning.
I woke up at 5 and lay in bed for almost an hour before I decided I wasn't going to go back to sleep so I got up. I slept 6 hours, which is plenty. This waking up too early insomnia happened fairly frequently when I was in school. I associated it with nervousness about finishing papers or being ready for exams. Maybe now it's due to excitement about going to New York soon, the show. And projecting further into the future -- but not further enough for comfort -- I could be worried about things when I get back from New York next month. The old what-am-I-going-to-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life stress.
When it happens, I do enjoy being up before everyone else for a while, making coffee and reading blogs in the silence. Dawn out the window. It reminds me of living alone, which I always liked up to a point. That point being the point at which I would get lonely and a little too much in my head.
When it happens, I do enjoy being up before everyone else for a while, making coffee and reading blogs in the silence. Dawn out the window. It reminds me of living alone, which I always liked up to a point. That point being the point at which I would get lonely and a little too much in my head.
Sports.
I'm sure mostly due to my (willful) ignorance about institutional sports -- to be honest, I'm ignorant about all kinds of sports, but the organized ones are the ones that are most ridiculous to me -- it seems like they're always getting worked up about inane things. Like doping, for instance. Why not just let the people take the drugs? There are so many ways -- usually having to do with access and money, but also genetic make-up, and others -- in which the so-called playing field is uneven. Why are they so cranky about drugs?And this today in the Times about gender. Are they really just now discovering that gender can be elusive? Really? I guess if I can avoid knowing anything about sports, they can avoid knowing anything about gender. Why the separation in the first place? Why not just have a race and let everybody compete, not worry about whether they're men or women? Isn't it condescending to have separate women's sports in the first place?
Like I said, I know so little about sports, so I welcome comments telling me I'm being an idiot. The only requirement is that you have to tell me why.
Makin' up a few purdies ain't agin' no law I know of.
At first glance, this stuff can seem so dated and sentimental and campy, but the beauty and subtlety and precision of the storytelling in these songs always blows me away. Look at Gordon MacCrae's performance with fresh eyes and let yourself be moved. And how beautiful was Shirley Jones?
Red Without Blue.
J and I just watched a beautiful film called Red Without Blue. It's a great story well told, great soundtrack, the filmmaking is lyrical. I highly recommend it. It's the kind of film I hope some day I will make.
Through the Eye of a Needle.
This op-ed in the Times today made me sad and angry.
I just read a book called The Worst Hard Time, about the Dust Bowl. (Great book -- I recommend it. It's by Tim Egan.) There was a wrenching episode in which two black men who were riding the rails looking for work were arrested somewhere in the Midwest and put in jail for stealing some food. Twice they were hauled into court before a judge who made them dance. And then sent them back to jail.
I've never in my adult life been very far from indigence (literally and figuratively speaking). I'm fine being poor. I think I could adjust to being even poorer -- I've never had any money -- but the moral judgment scares me, the shunning. J and I were just talking yesterday about the old black men who hang out at the bus stop on the corner. They're old, poor, and very polite. They ask for money, but they are so not a threat to anyone, yet the police harass them regularly, make them get up, move. It's just a big show of power and humiliation.
So far to go.
I just read a book called The Worst Hard Time, about the Dust Bowl. (Great book -- I recommend it. It's by Tim Egan.) There was a wrenching episode in which two black men who were riding the rails looking for work were arrested somewhere in the Midwest and put in jail for stealing some food. Twice they were hauled into court before a judge who made them dance. And then sent them back to jail.
I've never in my adult life been very far from indigence (literally and figuratively speaking). I'm fine being poor. I think I could adjust to being even poorer -- I've never had any money -- but the moral judgment scares me, the shunning. J and I were just talking yesterday about the old black men who hang out at the bus stop on the corner. They're old, poor, and very polite. They ask for money, but they are so not a threat to anyone, yet the police harass them regularly, make them get up, move. It's just a big show of power and humiliation.
So far to go.
Trust Me. Stay Away.
Summer in Texas is a living hell. If you have any say in the matter, do not come here any time from May to September. It's an absolute nightmare, and it has defeated me. I have tried over and over and over to change my attitude toward it and it has defeated me. The heat is absolutely relentless, and it brings out a rage in me that scares me.
I'm sure one reason I have found it so hard to blog this summer is that, whenever I sit down to write, all I feel moved to do is whine about how goddamn hot it is. I think there have been a half dozen or fewer days since the first week of June when the afternoon temperature has been under 100. And not much under 100. I'm sure everyone around me is sick of hearing me complain. I'm sick of hearing me complain.
I have to find some way to get out of here in the summers.
I'm sure one reason I have found it so hard to blog this summer is that, whenever I sit down to write, all I feel moved to do is whine about how goddamn hot it is. I think there have been a half dozen or fewer days since the first week of June when the afternoon temperature has been under 100. And not much under 100. I'm sure everyone around me is sick of hearing me complain. I'm sick of hearing me complain.
I have to find some way to get out of here in the summers.
Pearly Dew Drops Drop.
This is exactly how I remember Cocteau Twins live, with the big tape deck on stage. I think I saw them at Webster Hall, which wasn't called Webster Hall back then, but I can't remember what it was called. This song takes me back to such a specific time and place, like a pin on a map.
Facebook Ate My Blog.
Summer school was tough, and I have a whole list of things I was putting off until I finished. One of them was to start blogging again, daily. So that's what I'm doing, even though I'm not really sure what I have to say today. I realized that my facebook status updates were fulfilling my need to share my pithy (or not) little thoughts or things I'd run across in various places and thought they were interesting. That's what this space was for, before facebook.
A week from tomorrow I'm leaving for New York for the last couple weeks of rehearsals and the opening weekend of Lizzie Borden. When I get back I have to find a job. Before I leave I want to finish reading the manuscript of J's novel, which he just finished.
Apparently, dating -- though not on my list -- is one of those things I was putting off till I finished school. I went out with a guy Sunday, who I'd been out with once before and like a lot, and last night I went out with another man, very different from the guy I went out with Sunday, and had a great time. I met my newish friend M Sunday afternoon at a bar in town that I'd never been to before. I had heard it was fun on Sunday, but while I was in school I never did anything on Sundays but homework. It was fun, and two handsome men quite a bit younger than me asked me out. Speaking of how old I am, I'm 48, and I'm not sure why it is I'm suddenly so popular, but I'm going to enjoy it.
A week from tomorrow I'm leaving for New York for the last couple weeks of rehearsals and the opening weekend of Lizzie Borden. When I get back I have to find a job. Before I leave I want to finish reading the manuscript of J's novel, which he just finished.
Apparently, dating -- though not on my list -- is one of those things I was putting off till I finished school. I went out with a guy Sunday, who I'd been out with once before and like a lot, and last night I went out with another man, very different from the guy I went out with Sunday, and had a great time. I met my newish friend M Sunday afternoon at a bar in town that I'd never been to before. I had heard it was fun on Sunday, but while I was in school I never did anything on Sundays but homework. It was fun, and two handsome men quite a bit younger than me asked me out. Speaking of how old I am, I'm 48, and I'm not sure why it is I'm suddenly so popular, but I'm going to enjoy it.
My Digital Age.
There are so many ways in which the Internet has improved the lives of students and educators; I'm sure I don't need to list them here. But there are also some drawbacks. UT has a system called Blackboard that is set up to make it easy for teachers and students to communicate in myriad ways. It's full of amazing, powerful tools. But at least 2 or 3 times a week, I get emails like this:
Hi everyone,I really have to summon up superhuman resistance to keep myself from replying, "Lamest excuse ever. Did you ever think of having the a/c person come AFTER class?" I mean, c'mon. I even typed up that exact reply just now, but caught myself just before hitting send. I mean, I'm not exactly the most credible person to be giving lessons in how to grow up and manage life as an adult, am I? (And, to be honest, I should be the first to excuse any sort of behavior, no matter how immature or irrational, brought about by a broken air-conditioner.)
Sorry to do this, but I was wondering if someone who types their notes could send me what notes they take in tomorrow's (Monday July 27) lecture. My air conditioner has gone out and I'm going to have to meet someone back at my apartment tomorrow morning so they can fix it, and I doubt they'll be done by the time class starts. I'll be happy to return the favor if you don't mind.
Thanks so much,
[hapless college student]
Post-racial America? Not Where I Live.
Rachel Maddow is one of the very few things that ever make me think I might want to get a TV.
On the bus the other day, I happened to sit between two women who were having a conversation. There's lots of conversation on my bus. People know each other in my neighborhood, at least the black folks do, and that's most of the folks in my neighborhood. These women were speaking in a dialect so different from mine that I could not understand most of what they were saying. I could understand enough of it -- and I recognized certain rhythms or cadences, I don't know the linguistic terminology -- to know that it was English, but other than the odd word here and there, I had no idea what they were saying to each other.
It struck me that right there was a lesson in racism in America, that this community of people right here in the middle of a big American city is still so isolated, so culturally separated, that they speak a dialect that barely resembles the dominant dialect.
So, lots of feelings and ideas come up which I don't have time to sort out here right now. I have to say, though, that, despite the difficulty sometimes of living in the squalid, bleak, risky neighborhoods I've lived in most of my adult life, one positive aspect, among many, is that I didn't end up as ignorant as Pat Buchanan. I'm grateful for that.
On the bus the other day, I happened to sit between two women who were having a conversation. There's lots of conversation on my bus. People know each other in my neighborhood, at least the black folks do, and that's most of the folks in my neighborhood. These women were speaking in a dialect so different from mine that I could not understand most of what they were saying. I could understand enough of it -- and I recognized certain rhythms or cadences, I don't know the linguistic terminology -- to know that it was English, but other than the odd word here and there, I had no idea what they were saying to each other.
It struck me that right there was a lesson in racism in America, that this community of people right here in the middle of a big American city is still so isolated, so culturally separated, that they speak a dialect that barely resembles the dominant dialect.
So, lots of feelings and ideas come up which I don't have time to sort out here right now. I have to say, though, that, despite the difficulty sometimes of living in the squalid, bleak, risky neighborhoods I've lived in most of my adult life, one positive aspect, among many, is that I didn't end up as ignorant as Pat Buchanan. I'm grateful for that.
Happy Friday Music.
One of my favorite songs of all time, from one of my favorite albums of all time.
Attention.
Last night I was at an improv performance that J was in. (The show was fun and J was great, but that's not what I'm going to write about.) The setup for the show was that a local demi-celebrity got up on stage and told a personal story, and then the improv performers created scenes inspired by the story. The first storyteller was a local blogger and journalist. She told a story about a visit to the dentist. At some point in the story, she mentioned that she had recently gotten married, and the whole audience erupted in applause. She sort of blushed and said, "thank you." This sort of thing happens all the time, but it still catches me off-guard, and I still have a sort of disgusted reaction every time, like "what's so fucking great about that? Five years from now, they'll be divorced."
But last night, because same-sex marriage is so much on our minds lately, I had a small epiphany when I heard the applause. One of the reasons so many gays and lesbians want to be able to get married must be because they want that particular kind of attention. They want the room to burst into applause when they say they're getting married.
This post from yesterday on Andrew Sullivan's blog is a great little history lesson on how the gay liberation movement went from revolutionary to reactionary in the last 20 years. I have very mixed feelings about Andrew Sullivan's politics, I often disagree with him, but I read him every day because he writes intelligently about things I care about. What's fascinating to me is how in the nineties every gay activist I knew could hardly mention Sullivan's name without spitting. Fifteen years later, the gay movement has completely adopted Sullivan's conservative agenda. He has always said that the way to get mainstream America behind gay rights was to stop talking about sex and demand to participate in the most conservative American institutions: marriage and the military. Maybe it's working, judging by how same-sex marriage has become such a popular cause now among liberal heterosexuals, the so-called "straight allies."
My problem is that what they're asking for the right to be is exactly what I've never wanted to be.
But last night, because same-sex marriage is so much on our minds lately, I had a small epiphany when I heard the applause. One of the reasons so many gays and lesbians want to be able to get married must be because they want that particular kind of attention. They want the room to burst into applause when they say they're getting married.
This post from yesterday on Andrew Sullivan's blog is a great little history lesson on how the gay liberation movement went from revolutionary to reactionary in the last 20 years. I have very mixed feelings about Andrew Sullivan's politics, I often disagree with him, but I read him every day because he writes intelligently about things I care about. What's fascinating to me is how in the nineties every gay activist I knew could hardly mention Sullivan's name without spitting. Fifteen years later, the gay movement has completely adopted Sullivan's conservative agenda. He has always said that the way to get mainstream America behind gay rights was to stop talking about sex and demand to participate in the most conservative American institutions: marriage and the military. Maybe it's working, judging by how same-sex marriage has become such a popular cause now among liberal heterosexuals, the so-called "straight allies."
My problem is that what they're asking for the right to be is exactly what I've never wanted to be.