Eating and drinking with Barbara and Shane last night, I mentioned that, when I was a kid living in Altus, Oklahoma, my mother once encouraged me to run away and join the circus.
At the time, having already given up ambitions of being a missionary to Africa (to see wild animals) or a veterinarian (to play with other people’s pets), I was determined to train animals for the circus. I was eight, maybe nine.
So when the Clyde Beatty-Cole Bros. Circus came to Altus, my parents and I went—back in the days when circuses were still under a big tent top, smelling of straw, cotton candy, popcorn butter, and animal feces.
During the opening parade, as the afternoon’s performers gaily circled the rings, my mother pointed out a baby elephant, its trunk twirled around its mother’s tail.
“Go,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Run jump on the back of that baby elephant.”
“Wha-?” I mumbled.
My dad was occupied with his 8-mm camera, shooting feathery pink-sequined trapeze artists in fishnet stockings.
“Hop on the baby elephant’s back,” my mother repeated. Seriously. “Do it. This is how careers are made.”
I didn’t, and my mother didn’t push the matter further, except vaguely to convey her low opinion of my gumption.
It’s not much of a story, I know. But my friends thought I should write it down. If I weren’t going to write my own bestselling memoir, I could at least offer it up as fodder for aspiring writers to use in their work. (Again, you see, the question of my gumption, or lack thereof.)
Anyway, here it is, then, written down.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Message Is You Don't Kill Gays in South Carolina Unless You Love Your Mother
The guy who delivered the fatal blow to William Sean Kennedy last year appeared in court today in Greenville, SC, for sentencing. Kennedy was 20 and gay. His assailant was 18.
Although the arrest warrant stated that the reason for the assault was dislike of the victim’s “sexual identity,” the original charge of murder was reduced to manslaughter, presumably because “no malicious intent” was involved—just a friendly punch in the face—fuck it if queers have no sense of fun.
The defendant was found guilty, but today the judge reduced the 5-year sentence to 3 years, minus the 7 months the killer has already spent in the custody of his mother, after being released from jail on $25,000 bail. He could be released on parole in 2 years.
I’m not a vengeful, eye-for-an-eye sort of guy, but I find it hard to swallow that this senseless death has been dealt with justly.
Jesus. Wesley Snipes got 3 years in jail for not paying all his taxes—and he was sentenced to real jail, not to his old bedroom at Mother’s.
(Postscript--Last month an Egyptian court sentenced 5 men to 3 years in prison just for being homosexual.)
Although the arrest warrant stated that the reason for the assault was dislike of the victim’s “sexual identity,” the original charge of murder was reduced to manslaughter, presumably because “no malicious intent” was involved—just a friendly punch in the face—fuck it if queers have no sense of fun.
The defendant was found guilty, but today the judge reduced the 5-year sentence to 3 years, minus the 7 months the killer has already spent in the custody of his mother, after being released from jail on $25,000 bail. He could be released on parole in 2 years.
I’m not a vengeful, eye-for-an-eye sort of guy, but I find it hard to swallow that this senseless death has been dealt with justly.
Jesus. Wesley Snipes got 3 years in jail for not paying all his taxes—and he was sentenced to real jail, not to his old bedroom at Mother’s.
(Postscript--Last month an Egyptian court sentenced 5 men to 3 years in prison just for being homosexual.)
Dear Congressman David Price, North Carolina
Dear Congressman Price:
I strongly support Dennis Kucinich's call for impeachment proceedings against President George W. Bush and urge you to lend your support to this measure.
If only for the evidence supporting allegations that the President and his staff knowingly and willfully led the U.S. Congress and the American people into war with Iraq under false pretenses, the President's actions in advocating for and conducting the war require the close scrutiny and authority that a legal trial would confer.
Failure to give this matter at least equal weight with the investigation of former President Clinton's alleged dishonesty regarding his moral conduct in office would be a grievous inequity in our system of checks and balances. To leave the matter entirely in the hands of the media and public opinion to debate and settle would fail to bring the necessary gravity and scrutiny to the matter of why the United States entered into this conflict.
Thank you for your consideration of my request.
I strongly support Dennis Kucinich's call for impeachment proceedings against President George W. Bush and urge you to lend your support to this measure.
If only for the evidence supporting allegations that the President and his staff knowingly and willfully led the U.S. Congress and the American people into war with Iraq under false pretenses, the President's actions in advocating for and conducting the war require the close scrutiny and authority that a legal trial would confer.
Failure to give this matter at least equal weight with the investigation of former President Clinton's alleged dishonesty regarding his moral conduct in office would be a grievous inequity in our system of checks and balances. To leave the matter entirely in the hands of the media and public opinion to debate and settle would fail to bring the necessary gravity and scrutiny to the matter of why the United States entered into this conflict.
Thank you for your consideration of my request.
Monday, June 9, 2008
KKBB
Harry Lockhart: She had something, that gal tonight, this quality. Like the girl from high school ... the one that got away. You know what I mean? That haunts you still.
Gay Perry: Yeah, I had that.
HL: You did?
GP: Bobby Mills.
HL: Huh. Well, maybe you should try to get in touch with him. I got 5 bucks says you could still get him.
GP: Really? That's funny. I got a 10 says, "Pass the pepper." I got two quarters singing harmony on "Moonlight in Vermont."
HL: What?
GP: Talking money.
HL: A talking monkey?
GP: Talking monkey, yeah. Came here from the future. Ugly sucker. Only says, "Ficus."
--KISS KISS BANG BANG, writ. and dir. Shane Black (2005), with Robert Downey Jr. as Harry Lockhart and Val Kilmer as Gay Perry
Nobody writes dialogue like this ... only Shane Black and Groucho Marx. Black is the highly paid screenwriter of a series of "L" action movies--LETHAL WEAPON, THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT, and THE LAST BOY SCOUT, which gave Bruce Willis the quip, "I think I fucked a squirrel to death ..." (trust me, in context, it was hilarious).
Black's 2005 directorial debut, KISS KISS BANG BANG, is an under-appreciated, media-savvy noir comedy, with bullets and one-liners flying in rapid-fire succession. And like other Black screenplays, KKBB centers on the Christmas season, with a distinctive L.A. (i.e., neon decadent) gloss. Black is one of a small band of screenwriters (Quentin Tarantino, Woody Allen, Charlie Kaufman) whose scripts have distinctive tendencies.
And this one has a gay private detective, nicknamed Gay Perry, played, without affectations, by Val Kilmer. As a development in the action genre, this is kind of a big deal because the unwritten rule in action films is that heroes are 100% straight and gay characters are good only for punchlines and a punch in the face.
Black's previous screenplays bear an undercurrent of homoeroticism (typical buddy film pairings and male bonding) and occasionally a sense of homosexual menace--like Taylor Negron's Milo, the psychotic sissy in TLBS--not to mention the obligatory climactic torture scene in which Mel Gibson or Bruce Willis has to be stripped and drenched--or, in Geena Davis's case in TLKG, water-boarded till her blouse is see-through.
Gay Perry is not a typical Hollywood gay--neither the righteous long-suffering role model nor the funny, flighty sidekick. He is, in his own words, "not a nice guy." He can handle himself in a fight. And he's not idealistic or sentimental about the work he does. Like most noir heroes, he apparently has got his demons--something in the past certainly turned him into the half-jaded cynic that he is.
But apart from the passing reference to "Bobby Mills" and some significant eye contact with a male nurse, we don't see Perry in sexual situations. His gay/straight buddying with Harry Lockhart parallels (and significantly illuminates) the black/white buddying in LW, TLKG, and TLBS.
Typically you won't hear me call for sequels, but I think I would enjoying seeing Gay Perry and Harry team up again sometime--perhaps in KISS KISS KISS BANG BANG BANG.
Gay Perry: Yeah, I had that.
HL: You did?
GP: Bobby Mills.
HL: Huh. Well, maybe you should try to get in touch with him. I got 5 bucks says you could still get him.
GP: Really? That's funny. I got a 10 says, "Pass the pepper." I got two quarters singing harmony on "Moonlight in Vermont."
HL: What?
GP: Talking money.
HL: A talking monkey?
GP: Talking monkey, yeah. Came here from the future. Ugly sucker. Only says, "Ficus."
--KISS KISS BANG BANG, writ. and dir. Shane Black (2005), with Robert Downey Jr. as Harry Lockhart and Val Kilmer as Gay Perry
Nobody writes dialogue like this ... only Shane Black and Groucho Marx. Black is the highly paid screenwriter of a series of "L" action movies--LETHAL WEAPON, THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT, and THE LAST BOY SCOUT, which gave Bruce Willis the quip, "I think I fucked a squirrel to death ..." (trust me, in context, it was hilarious).
Black's 2005 directorial debut, KISS KISS BANG BANG, is an under-appreciated, media-savvy noir comedy, with bullets and one-liners flying in rapid-fire succession. And like other Black screenplays, KKBB centers on the Christmas season, with a distinctive L.A. (i.e., neon decadent) gloss. Black is one of a small band of screenwriters (Quentin Tarantino, Woody Allen, Charlie Kaufman) whose scripts have distinctive tendencies.
And this one has a gay private detective, nicknamed Gay Perry, played, without affectations, by Val Kilmer. As a development in the action genre, this is kind of a big deal because the unwritten rule in action films is that heroes are 100% straight and gay characters are good only for punchlines and a punch in the face.
Black's previous screenplays bear an undercurrent of homoeroticism (typical buddy film pairings and male bonding) and occasionally a sense of homosexual menace--like Taylor Negron's Milo, the psychotic sissy in TLBS--not to mention the obligatory climactic torture scene in which Mel Gibson or Bruce Willis has to be stripped and drenched--or, in Geena Davis's case in TLKG, water-boarded till her blouse is see-through.
Gay Perry is not a typical Hollywood gay--neither the righteous long-suffering role model nor the funny, flighty sidekick. He is, in his own words, "not a nice guy." He can handle himself in a fight. And he's not idealistic or sentimental about the work he does. Like most noir heroes, he apparently has got his demons--something in the past certainly turned him into the half-jaded cynic that he is.
But apart from the passing reference to "Bobby Mills" and some significant eye contact with a male nurse, we don't see Perry in sexual situations. His gay/straight buddying with Harry Lockhart parallels (and significantly illuminates) the black/white buddying in LW, TLKG, and TLBS.
Typically you won't hear me call for sequels, but I think I would enjoying seeing Gay Perry and Harry team up again sometime--perhaps in KISS KISS KISS BANG BANG BANG.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
"Let It Be Known that Homosexuals Are Not Cowards"
Willem Arondeus, 1894-1943
"Let it be known that homosexuals are not cowards": These are the last words of Dutch artist and author Willem Arondeus, executed for his actions in resisting the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands.
The son of theater costume designers, at age 17 Arondeus announced his homosexuality to his parents, who strongly opposed this path for their son. He ran away from home at age 18.
Through most of the 1930s, he lived with his young lover, Jan Tijssen, away from the city, in the Dutch countryside. His income was modest, and his paintings, poems, and fiction brought him little income and no fame.
Soon after the Nazis invaded the Netherlands in 1940, Arondeus and Tijssen broke up, and Arondeus, aware of the Nazi plan to ship Dutch-born Jews to Poland for extermination, founded an underground periodical to urge other Dutch artists to resist the Nazis and create subversive, anti-fascist artworks. He also personally forged false identity papers to assist Jews attempting to escape the country.
In 1943, he and others bombed the census bureau in Amsterdam, to prevent the Nazis from accessing the names and addresses of "registered" Jews. He was caught and executed by firing squad, along with 11 cohorts, a month before he would have turned 49.
The post-war Dutch government awarded him a posthumous medal of honor, but, despite his last wishes, the public was not informed of his homosexuality until 1990.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Sweet Silver Song of a Lark
I've been on a weird Rodgers and Hammerstein jag lately. In the past 120 hours I have watched the old movie versions of South Pacific (twice), Carousel, Oklahoma!, The King and I, and, for the first time in my life (amazing for any 55 year old gay man), The Sound of Music.
I used to reject these shiny confections without giving them a second thought; now I'm hooked on them, and for the exact reasons I used to reject them--their easy sentimentality and glossy professionalism.
The vast outdoorsiness of South Pacific, Oklahoma!, and, to a lesser degree, The Sound of Music (whose Alps try a little too hard to impress, I think), knocks my socks off. I can reconcile myself to Josh Logan's use of color filters to further de-realize the musical numbers in South Pacific, but the crisp Coplandesque vistas of Oklahoma! take the prize.
"Bali H'ai," "Happy Talk," "You'll Never Walk Alone," "Climb Every Mountain," and "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" are the hymns of my new church. And the merry melancholy of the "Carousel Theme" reduces me to sobs, as it always did, on an old LP compilation I owned as a teenager, long before I knew the ill-fated love story for which it is the background.
And speaking of hymns, God bless the paganism of these old musicals--"the hills ARE alive," God damn it, and NOT with intelligent design--take, for example, the King of Siam's heartfelt rejection of Moses in favor of Darwin, Ado Annie's pity for all the undervalued dick of the world, Aunt Eller's appreciation for French nudes imported all the way from Kansas City (where they've gone about as "fer as they can go") and her heroic embrace of pioneer hardiness (which, not God, is the only help for a broken heart or the loneliness and neglect of old age), Bloody Mary's "saxy" mysticism, and Jigger Craigin's one redeeming moment of insight as he sings, "There's nuthin' as bad for a woman as a man who thinks he is good." Even Christlike Mother Superior urges the ADHD Maria to "find [her] dream," rather than bury herself in cloistered sanctity.
You'll find no Sondheim doom and gloom in Rodgers and Hammerstein, no Webber and Rice irony--still, the rascals receive more sympathy than the prudes, and ultimately they (usually) prove themselves morally superior to the audience's first impression of them--Luther Billis, Max Detweiler, the Baroness, Kralahome, Mrs. Mullins, and Ali Hakim, all grow hearts before taking their final bows.
In my revised vision of heaven, decorated with crystal pentagrams hanging on invisible thread, I would be greeted by shirtless Seabees showering on the beach and tap-dancing cowboys twirling their lariats. It's gonna be a real nice clambake.
I used to reject these shiny confections without giving them a second thought; now I'm hooked on them, and for the exact reasons I used to reject them--their easy sentimentality and glossy professionalism.
The vast outdoorsiness of South Pacific, Oklahoma!, and, to a lesser degree, The Sound of Music (whose Alps try a little too hard to impress, I think), knocks my socks off. I can reconcile myself to Josh Logan's use of color filters to further de-realize the musical numbers in South Pacific, but the crisp Coplandesque vistas of Oklahoma! take the prize.
"Bali H'ai," "Happy Talk," "You'll Never Walk Alone," "Climb Every Mountain," and "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" are the hymns of my new church. And the merry melancholy of the "Carousel Theme" reduces me to sobs, as it always did, on an old LP compilation I owned as a teenager, long before I knew the ill-fated love story for which it is the background.
And speaking of hymns, God bless the paganism of these old musicals--"the hills ARE alive," God damn it, and NOT with intelligent design--take, for example, the King of Siam's heartfelt rejection of Moses in favor of Darwin, Ado Annie's pity for all the undervalued dick of the world, Aunt Eller's appreciation for French nudes imported all the way from Kansas City (where they've gone about as "fer as they can go") and her heroic embrace of pioneer hardiness (which, not God, is the only help for a broken heart or the loneliness and neglect of old age), Bloody Mary's "saxy" mysticism, and Jigger Craigin's one redeeming moment of insight as he sings, "There's nuthin' as bad for a woman as a man who thinks he is good." Even Christlike Mother Superior urges the ADHD Maria to "find [her] dream," rather than bury herself in cloistered sanctity.
You'll find no Sondheim doom and gloom in Rodgers and Hammerstein, no Webber and Rice irony--still, the rascals receive more sympathy than the prudes, and ultimately they (usually) prove themselves morally superior to the audience's first impression of them--Luther Billis, Max Detweiler, the Baroness, Kralahome, Mrs. Mullins, and Ali Hakim, all grow hearts before taking their final bows.
In my revised vision of heaven, decorated with crystal pentagrams hanging on invisible thread, I would be greeted by shirtless Seabees showering on the beach and tap-dancing cowboys twirling their lariats. It's gonna be a real nice clambake.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Capital T
People who talk only about truth seldom care about the facts.
Truth is transcendent, a high ideal, ethereal, its ghostly presence haunting every crusade, every pogrom, every witch-burning. Truth accounts for more bloodshed than the mere facts could muster. Even religion has fewer martyrs and victims than the truth.
When our bigotry and obscurantism need justification, truth is there to do the job for us. It is a cancer of feelings unchecked by knowledge or reason.
The truth is seldom in touch with reality. Reality, after all, is fleeting, down to earth, unambitious, and superficial, but truth is blindly certain, deep, and unchangeable. It can not be figured out. The truth doesn't even have to make sense. It exists beyond doubt, it is immune to inquiry and proof. It demands our acceptance, unconditionally, without reservation.
Truth hurts.
We can argue the facts, but truth is something we gotta die for.
Don't trust people trying to sell you on truth, capital T.
Be a smart animal. Trust the senses, and keep them keen. Test the truth against the hard, cold gleam of the facts. Don't be seduced by the immaterial glamour of truth--or its arrogant half-wit sibling, honor--the facts, hard, limited and finite, are usually enough--the facts and the good sense to reason clearly and justly.
Truth is transcendent, a high ideal, ethereal, its ghostly presence haunting every crusade, every pogrom, every witch-burning. Truth accounts for more bloodshed than the mere facts could muster. Even religion has fewer martyrs and victims than the truth.
When our bigotry and obscurantism need justification, truth is there to do the job for us. It is a cancer of feelings unchecked by knowledge or reason.
The truth is seldom in touch with reality. Reality, after all, is fleeting, down to earth, unambitious, and superficial, but truth is blindly certain, deep, and unchangeable. It can not be figured out. The truth doesn't even have to make sense. It exists beyond doubt, it is immune to inquiry and proof. It demands our acceptance, unconditionally, without reservation.
Truth hurts.
We can argue the facts, but truth is something we gotta die for.
Don't trust people trying to sell you on truth, capital T.
Be a smart animal. Trust the senses, and keep them keen. Test the truth against the hard, cold gleam of the facts. Don't be seduced by the immaterial glamour of truth--or its arrogant half-wit sibling, honor--the facts, hard, limited and finite, are usually enough--the facts and the good sense to reason clearly and justly.
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