The requisite MJ/Farrah blog posting

I think I'm required to blog about monumental days in pop culture, and yesterday was certainly one of the biggest in our lifetimes. I've already read some really thought-provoking stuff and it's only been 24 hours since the news hit the www?

With MJ, I think we should brace ourselves for an outpouring of tributes along the lines of the death of Princess Diana. I can't offer much more than your standard "I remember dancing at my junior high prom to Off the Wall, learning all the moves in Beat It, watching Thriller over and over again, etc." Frankly, watching MJ's demise over the last decade or so has just been tragic. Those of us of a certain age have missed the real MJ for a long time. I feel sorry for the younger generation, who never got to experience the thrill of seeing that amazing young man belt out "I'll Be There" or watching him do the moon walk for the first time, or seeing that first-ever semi-cinematic video for "Thriller" and thinking, "Oh my God, this is really cool and different, I've never seen anything like this and it's totally amazing... and where can I buy that HOT red jacket?"

And dear, sweet Farrah... perhaps the only woman I ever had a real, live crush on. Of course it could've been the fact that I just wanted that hair-do. OMG that luscious, flowing mop of perfection. And the skateboards, the tennis outfits, the platform shoes, the sexy men (Lee Majors? Ryan O'Neal? Be still my heart) the Halston gowns, oh glamor of it all. That first season of Charlie's Angels changed my life.

Here's something I don't think you'll read on any other blog: I was so obsessed with all things Sabrina, Kelly and Jill, long before my family could afford a VCR, I recorded episodes of "Charlie's Angels" on my cassette recorder. I would make my semi-horrified family shut up, and I'd hold the recorder up to the TV - I even edited out the commercials! I'd listen to those episodes over and over again, memorizing the lines, picking up every pause and nuance (it wasn't that hard, Aaron Spelling was never known for scintillating dialogue), singing along with the wocka-wocka 70s background music and playing out all the different roles with my girlfriends. I never could master Farrah's trademark two-handed backhand tennis swat. (Seriously, that was her signature move)

I told this story to friends for years, and I really don't think they believed me until around 10 years ago. A friend and I were hanging out late one night, drinking vodka-tonics and flipping through the tv stations and we came across one of my favorite episodes: "Angels in Chains." It's the one where they pose as prison inmates in order to foil a prostitution business being run out of the jailhouse. It's super funny. Like soft lesbian porn for adolescent boys, with a touch of Studio 54. When they're being taken through the check-in process (strip search required, of course) they look behind the counter and see a rack of fabulous sequined/feathered gowns hanging behind the stacks of prison garb. The girls get this very inquisitive look on their faces. The music goes dark and mysterious. They make eye contact with each other, like "hmmmmm... what do you think THOSE are doing HERE?"

Anyway, so we're watching the show and I start chanting the lines before the characters say them, ala "Rocky Horror." Plot set-up: they're out working the fields (sweaty hot-pants, low-cut work shirts tied just below the boobs), and the Angels notice some inmates get work gloves, while others don't. Jill to warden: "How come they get gloves, and everyone else doesn't?" Warden to Jill: "Ya want gloves??? I gotcha gloves... Cost ya 20 doll-ahs.... Ya got 20 doll-ahs?" [Jill nods sadly] Warden: "Then start diggin!!!" My friend was in hysterics.

Of course the Angels were never the same after amazing Season One, and Farrah's shocking departure. Cheryl Ladd did her best to carry on as Kris Munroe, Jill's sister, but the girl-next-door thing didn't hold a candle to Jill's over-the-top hairsprayed glamor-puss persona. I quit recording episodes and collecting bubble gum cards and took down "the poster."

Perhaps it's just that I live in a pink-tinted bubble, but I find it a little odd that these deaths happened just as gay pride is kicking into full gear in my world. Mark my words, there will be lots of MJ re-mixes and vintage Farrah videos on the dance floors this weekend.

Born in Babylonia, got a condo made of stone-a

I'm glad we've had a great season at YBCA. Both our gallery shows -- Nick Cave and The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence -- have done extraordinarily well. If you're local and reading this, pleeeease stop by before next Sunday June 28 to see these exhibitions, I promise you will not regret it! Anyway, attendance has been strong and for that I'm extremely grateful because next week the de Young Museum is opening the blockbuster to end all blockbusters: King Tut and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs. That's right, after a 30 year respite in Egypt, "he's baaaack..." and I don't think there's a doubt in anyone's mind that he's going to romp all over every other museum show in town for the next NINE freaking months.

As much as I'd like to be a snotty art type, I have to admit... I'm rather excited about seeing it. I'll fight the crowds, do the audio tour and buy at least a few items of merch. Normally I'm not much for lavish antiquities and such, but because I remember so vividly going to see this exhibition as a kid, I'm feeling really nostalgic.

The exhibition's last stop in 1977 was the art museum in New Orleans. The TV ads had been running for months ("Your last chance to see this extraordinary blah blah blah... EVER!"). Remember, I come from a very small town about 3 hours from New Orleans. The weeks and months passed and next thing we knew it was the final week of the show: the last weekend in January, which also coincided with the Super Bowl in New Orleans. I'm not sure what prompted my mother to get our family-ass in gear, but she decided about Thursday that we were going to try and see it, so we packed up the "fag-wag" on Friday and headed to Baton Rouge, where we spent the night. (Hotel rooms being impossible to come by.) We woke up at about 3 am, bundled up, scraped the ice off the windshield (yes it does get that cold in La. once every thousand years or so) and headed to New Orleans.

Here's the part I remember in the most vivid detail: driving up to the museum just as the sun was rising, and seeing a line of people going all the way around the park. Easily a few thousand huddled masses, shivering in the cold. Along the line there were probably 10-15 small circus-style tents set up. What we didn't realize as we searched frantically for parking was that each of those tents was packed with people waiting, sitting in bleachers.

From there the memories get a little fuzzy. I seem to remember a number or lottery entrance system of some kind. The one thing I know for sure was that it was cold as hell, and we took turns sitting, standing, going for food, looking at makeshift Super Bowl souvie stands set up around the park, and wondering for hours on end if we would really get in to see the show. I believe we waited about 9 or 10 hours, because we were one of the last groups to "make the cut" before the museum closed around nightfall. I have only vague memories of the show: the gold mask, the big wooden tomb thing, elaborate jewelry.

Now, was this a sign of things to come? Here's what I remember more than the exhibition itself: the gift shop. Or should I say, "the devastation formerly known as the gift shop." This being the final weekend of a long and enormously successful run, the shop has been wiped out of almost everything. No t-shirts, no books, no posters, no buttons! Only a few measly postcards of the second-tier items in the show (who cares about his mother's friggin earrings?) Well, needless to say, being a 11-year-old budding retail homo, I was completely devastated. I remember begging the clerks for a mail order catalog... no go.

So as the museum closed its doors behind us, we trudged out into the cold night air. I do believe a tear may have been shed. But as we made our way back to the car we came up on a little table in the park with some sketchy looking guy selling what I now know to be knock-off Super Bowl and King Tut souvies. And there, rolled up in a nice little tube, was the holy grail of merch: the last remaining, limited edition, metallic-on-blue King Tut exhibition poster in the state of Louisiana. (Or at least that's what he told us).

We had it nicely framed a few years later, and for the next 30 years, that framed poster has followed me on all my many moves around the country. From my dorm room to my first apartment, from Houston to San Francisco, King Tut is always nearby. As I'm writing this, I'm looking right up at it hanging over the couch. That poster is my "if your home was on fire and you could grab one thing what would it be" item.

So I'll be revisiting Tut in the next few months, perhaps this time I'll actually pay attention to the exhibition. I've already ordered my souvie poster, just to be safe.

The death of blogs?

Seems I'm not the only one who's struggling to keep their blog alive. Really interesting article in the New York Times this Sunday about the staggering failure rate of blogs. Apparently more blogs fail than restaurants.

According to this report, "... only 7.4 million out of the 133 million blogs the company tracks had been updated in the past 120 days. That translates to 95 percent of blogs being essentially abandoned, left to lie fallow on the Web, where they become public remnants of a dream — or at least an ambition — unfulfilled."

The story goes on to say that a lot of people started their blogs with lofty dreams of becoming famous or making a living off them. When that didn't happen, many moved on to other/quicker platforms like Facebook or Twitter or just stopped blogging altogether. Some also had bad experiences with stalkers.

As for me, well, I'm kind of a combination of all those things, with one major exception. I never thought I'd become rich or famous off this web-log thing. I just wanted an easy outlet to keep my writing chops up. I will say I did and still continue to get a small thrill when I find out someone's reading my dribble. Just yesterday a colleague at YBCA mentioned he'd read and enjoyed my last post, and it did kinda make my day. On the rare occasions that happens, I really miss working at a weekly paper. It was a real ego boost to walk into a coffee shop or bar, and seeing someone reading the paper with my story on the cover.

I also had a couple of weird and even unpleasant experiences, having revealed a little too much of myself and my adventures here. The semi-blind date who knew way too much about me and the online skirmish with a local car rental company who will remain nameless come immediately to mind.

I love Facebook to keep in touch with friends and I have a "real job" which will keep a roof over my head. My instincts aren't always right, but they tell me that Twitter will go the way of Friendster and MySpace before too long, so don't look for me to join up with that anytime soon. But I still need a place to get this editorial energy out of my system. I'm glad I started this blog and am going to do my best to not let it die a slow, miserable death, as so many other millions have.

A blank page

"White... a blank page, or canvas... so many possibilities..."

The line is from some obscure 70s Sondheim musical. I think it's supposed to sound very artsy and inspirational. I actually hear those words almost every time I sit down at the computer to write something. For someone like me, whose talents of procrastination far outweigh those editorial, the blank page isn't inspirational, it's something just this side of terrifying.

So anyway, here I sit in what might possibly be one of the most inspirational places in the world, staring at a blank computer screen, trying to recall all the interesting things I observed this week and wanted to write about.

I'm kind of taking it easy today. I worked out hard all week and am feeling a little weary, and tonight we have a huge event at my work, "What's the Big Idea Late Night Party." We're expecting about 1500+ people to show up; I'll be working till at least midnight, possibly later. I haven't written much about YBCA on this blog. The parties the company throws are a pretty good metaphor for working there: unpredictable, seat of your pants, mostly fun, occasionally infuriating, sometimes inspirational, and without fail, exhausting.

I'm still on the learning curve of contemporary art in general. If you're reading this you no doubt know I'm a musical theatre queen at heart. Gimme a chorus line, sparkly sets/costumes and show tunes, and I'm a happy boy. But working in the biggest contemporary art center in northern California has really opened my eyes to a lot of extraordinary dance, film, performance and visual art that I wouldn't have ever experienced, had I not gotten this job. Honestly, I don't always "get it" but most of the time I find what we do interesting. Sometimes I find it highly amusing. Even when I leave the building scratching my head, trying to figure out how I feel about the whole experience, I'm always proud to have been a part of it.

We're currently on a really high note in the visual arts department. Our Nick Cave Soundsuits costume exhibition is absolutely breathtaking, and it's been a fantastic success. I hope the people who come to the party tonight -- through the drunken haze of cheap drinks and obnoxious drag performances -- can take a few minutes to really appreciate the beauty of this incredible exhibition.

We also have a fun and interesting exhibit by the legendary Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Their opening night party a couple of months ago was really outrageous. It's their 30th anniversary, and over 200 Sisters from chapters around the world came in to kick off the festivities. They did a big processional down the staircase in our grand lobby. It was packed, and people were screaming and cheering for them like crazy. Now this will sound really gay, but I actually got a little teary. These guys have done so much for the gay community for so long, it felt like they were being honored and rewarded in such an appropriate way. I was so proud to meet them and tell them I worked at YBCA. They were all so appreciative and gracious. I used to think they were just a big, unruly pack of drag queens but I truly have a new appreciation for them and all the amazing work they do.

Well it's past noon now. I've cranked out some words, filled some blank space and can go on with my day feeling like I accomplished something. Tonight's adventures are still filled with possibilities.

Happy Anniversary

It's always easy for me to remember when my "anniversary" date for moving back to San Francisco is. It's coming up, on the Saturday of Gay Pride (always the last weekend of June).

As fate would have it, three years ago, I managed to schedule a job interview here on the Friday of gay pride. The phone interview had gone well, but it was in no way a done deal. I seem to remember flying out here from Houston for the in-person interview on my own dime. I figured, "what's the worst that could happen?" If I bombed the interview, I'd still be in SF for Pink Saturday and the big dance parties that night. What could be wrong with that? So I scheduled my return flight for Sunday @ noon.

The in-person on Friday went well, and I had another follow-up interview w/ the company owner and someone else on Saturday. We met at the Ferry Building for brunch, and by the time we'd finished the second round of Bloody Mary's, I'd gotten the job offer. I had worked my ass off for 2 1/2 years for that moment, and when the offer came, I didn't hesitate.

I'll never forget that first few minutes of euphoria. I was sort of in a daze. I wandered around sort of aimlessly at first, down Embarcadero towards the Bay Bridge. It was one of those rare, warm, sunny summer San Francisco days (which always miraculously seem to pop up Gay Pride weekend), and everything just felt magical. I headed back to Market Street and hopped on the F Market, and did something I never do -- used my cell phone on public transportation. I just had to call friends and family and tell them my big news while riding a trolley in San Francisco. It was SO Mary-Ann Singleton. I rode the trolley all the way from the Ferry Building to Castro Street, basking in the glory of the gayest neighborhood in the gayest town on the gayest weekend in all gaydom.

From there it was a whirlwind of revelry and elation: house parties, walking with the ladies in the dyke march, Pink Saturday, my first Pride Colossus, partying my brains out and telling everyone who'd listen that I was coming home! I ended the night by riding on the back of a new friend's motorized scooter through the streets of SF, just as the sun was rising over the East Bay. At that point sleeping was pointless so I packed my bag and headed to the airport, and began the process of shutting down my life in Houston. I have to admit, that month was tougher than I thought it would be. I had to leave a job I really loved, a big, cheap, cool apartment and a slew of family and friends who I still miss every day.

But I don't have any regrets. That job didn't work out, but it got me back here, and instead I ended up working for a really cool contemporary arts center. I don't go out as much as I thought I would, but I still make it out for the "big weekends." Much to my surprise, I'm discovering I actually enjoy selected parts of domestic life -- cooking, reading, working out (BTW I've lost 5 lbs, but who's counting) and most recently, writing (gasp) just for the hell of it.

Happy anniversary to me. ;>)

Let's get physical... again

As I'm trying to pump some life back into this all but dead blog, I'm simultaneously trying to pump some life back into my body -- a body whose mass seems to have expanded in direct proportion to the ever decreasing number of blog postings over the last year or so.

I was looking back at the early days of this blog, and one of my first postings described in gory detail my daily trek to the gym in Houston. Scintillating reading. Yawn. I bragged how I'd lost all this weight, how good I felt, how much I loved working out, blah blah blah -- essentially my theory was that losing 60 lbs was the gay equivalent of having a baby.

Well, four years later, that baby's grown up, learned to love carbs and chocolate again and now weighs about 25 lbs. Whoop, there it is: my Kirstie Alley confession. I think the thing that frustrates me the most is that I've fallen into the Oprah-esque here we go again after all these years I can't believe we're still talking about this but yes we ARE going to talk about it and no it's not a glandular issue and yes I'm going to get back on track and this time I really mean it and it's all about self-worth and not fitting into my skinny jeans and rolling a big barrel of fat on stage and not feeling self-conscious at the beach [gay speak: dance floor] and no I don't blame anyone but myself and the fact that my iPod croaked a few weeks ago and really who the hell can work out without music and how much more fun is it to cuddle in bed with my boyfriend for an hour instead of going to that gym with questionable cleaning standards but still I hate myself more for eating that chocolate chip cookie yesterday cliche cycle.

So I trudged to the gym this morning and of course now I feel good that I did. But I gotta do something new. Four years ago, one of my motivations was running the occasional race. Unfortunately the last time I ran around the hills of SF, I thought my shins were going to explode the next day, so not sure if that's an option anymore. I'm considering "Boot Camp" since Delores Park is just a couple of blocks from our new pad. Everyone who's done it says it's hellish but in a fun "we're in this together" hellish way. I'm also considering getting a personal trainer couple of times of month. Either way, I think a financial commitment will be the motivation this time.

I guess the up side to this whole thing is that I'm not quite the worst cliche of all yet: the people who lose a lot of weight who end up gaining it back plus some. I'm still less than 50%. So I'm getting physical again and will try to keep the gory details to a minimum here on the old blog.

The process

My friend and writer extraordinaire Crystal came into town from Houston with her husband James a few days ago. She was the person who got me started blogging to begin with, so I was hoping that hanging out with her would inspire me to get back on track here. It has, so here I am, making yet another feeble attempt to resurrect this cold, dead, stinky turd of a blog.

Crystal is such an amazing writer and I've always been so jealous at how damn fast the girl can crank out really funny, insightful, and often transcendent prose. Several of her plays have been produced in the last few years, and I'm so happy for her. This week she and I actually had a few minutes to talk about out our writing "processes" -- we were at dinner and my BF mentioned how much I love writing but how painful my writing process is, not just to me, but to everyone around me.

It basically goes like this: I have something due. About 2 days before it's due I start thinking. I worry. I fret. I lose sleep. I procrastinate. I Facebook. I miss the deadline. I call my editor to beg for mercy. (If it's something I want to write about here on the blog, I just don't do it at all, then mentally beat the hell out of myself for a few days about how lame I am).

Then I finally sit down about midnight and just write A SENTENCE. A sentence that sucks. Then I re-write that sentence. Again, and again, and again.

Then I open the thesaurus to find one really good word. A word that everyone knows, but rarely uses, something like... "transcendent." I put that word into the sentence. The sentence still sucks, but it is hopefully starting to at least make some kind of sense. Then I re-write it again. After a few hours, I write one more sentence, perhaps even a full paragraph or two. By this time I have yelled at my BF at least 3-4 times to leave me a alone, eaten at least 2-3 really destructive food items (doughnuts, cookies, etc.), checked Facebook a few times, and drank a couple of diet sodas or coffee, so at least I'm typing faster and hopefully starting to feel the momentum of the piece moving. This is my favorite part of the process. I start to not hate myself so much and think, "Hey maybe I can pull this shit off after all." Then I go back and read the whole piece from the beginning.

This is really the scariest part. At this point there's a 50/50 shot that I'll either be OK with what I've got (although it only sort of half-sucks and will still need more re-writes) and keep going, or hate it and start the whole excruciating process all over again.

I just read this blog back from the beginning and I'd say it's not TOO hideous, so I'm going to keep going. Whew.

So, really from there I may have to go out onto the www to get a few facts or a quote, but for the most part I'm throwing out words fairly quickly and the piece is starting to take shape. I go back and read it from the beginning at least every 10 minutes or so, making sure the "pace" is OK, trying not to re-write as much as I can. By now, if things are going well, my fingers are flying across the keyboard. I'm in the zone. It's a pretty euphoric feeling. I forget about the 4-5 days of sheer misery that have preceded this moment, and feel like I've rediscovered my reason for living. By now I've hopefully gotten at least one sentence that I really, REALLY like. That's going to be my punch line at the very end. I'll re-write the whole damn piece if I have to, but dammit I'm gonna make that punch line work.

But not always.... The other day I was reading a review of the musical Spamalot, which is now here in San Francisco. I probably won't see the show, but the review pointed out something really interesting about the writing style of the Monty Python team (stick with me here, I am coming to a very relevant point). Apparently back when they were writing these crazy musical numbers in films like "Holy Grail" and "Meaning of Life," if they didn't know how to end the number, they just stopped. Sometimes they'd say, "Now for something different..." or they'd just move on to the next thing. I think that's what I'm going to do this time. I've pretty much made my point and I'm thinking about going back to bed.