The Gayest Show on TV

I know. I’ve failed miserably at this posting once a day thing. Gonna keep trying though. Onward…

There is so much fucking TV to be watched over the next couple weeks I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack. I’d hazard a guess 85% of the shows I’ve told BoyfriendTivo to record will be deprogrammed by the end of the month but I gots to give shit a shot, you know? Oh and the Emmys? Opposite the Cowboys/Giants? I’ll let you guess which I’ll be watching. Hint, it’ll be the one where I don’t already know how it ends. I can hear Matt Weiner chiseling his acceptance speech into stone now.

But let’s talk about Glee, shall we?

I’ll give it this — it is unabashedly, unashamedly what it is: the gayest show on TV. In fact, it’s probably the gayest show in the history of television. And I’m including on that list Sex and the City (a tale of friendship between four gay dudes trying to make it in Manhattan) and Entourage (the story of four bestest lesbian girlfriends looking to get laid in Hollywood). Glee is gayer than them all put together, times ten, wrapped in a pride flag and shot out of a canon while singing “I’m Coming Out”. This is not a judgment merely a statement of fact.

If we’re talking judgement, I can find lots of things to complain about with this show. They make choices I just wouldn’t make – like the fact that the cheerleaders NEVER wear regular clothes, or that Will’s wife is a totally horrible, hate-able, awful, lying, cunt fuck succubus who I want to stab in the face before throwing off a cliff into a pit of starving, carnivorous wildebeests. I have less then zero idea why he married the bitch in the first place not to mention why he’s still with her. It makes me hate him. And while I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to hate her. I am positive I am not supposed to hate him. Oh and don’t get me started on the slickly produced musical numbers that sound not at all like they’re coming out of the mouths of those singing them (if it looks/sounds like Dan Tyminski’s voice is actually Clooney’s, you should be able to find a way to make Matt Morrison look/sound like he’s actually singing when, you know, he is). I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Jane Lynch, aka the reason I’ll keep tuning in for a while. Her character is a ridiculous, mustache twirling villain who, in the hands of a lesser actress, would be more hate-able than that cunt whore wife of Will’s. And yet, she’s EASILY the most love-able thing about the show.

Here’s the thing, all this shit that makes me crazy? I can’t really argue with any of it. It’s right for them. It’s just not my bag. My hide gets chapped because it SHOULD be my bag. I mean, I went to theater school for fuck’s sake. I was one of these Glee ClubKids. I should love this and yet… There are no characters, only cartoons. There’s no plot, just shit that happens to get you to the next musical number. Ryan Murphy is the gay Tarantino. Eschewing plot and character for set pieces. Now, there’s no rulebook to this shit. While my personal philosophy is that the foundation to any good movie or tv show is well-drawn characters taking you on a carefully constructed journey with a beginning, middle and end, Inglorious Bastards made a bajillion dollars so clearly people disagree with me. I will argue this though, taking the tact of “fuck character and story, let’s dance! (or throw blood all over the screen, in Tarantino’s case)” only works if you’ve got the wind of the zeitgeist at your back. Reservoir Dogs caught a cultural wave that Quentin’s been riding ever since and Glee’s timing couldn’t be more perfect.

Many of my gay/fruit fly/musical theater nerd friends are in passionate disagreement with me on this subject. Facebook explodes each Wednesday night with their squeals of delight. I get why they dig it. It celebrates them. Again, unabashedly and with so much fucking pride. I’m glad for them, even as I’m sad for myself. Talk down the tube all you want but it’s a cultural mirror. Everyone should be able to flip and find some sort of reflection of themselves. I have Friday Night Lights and So You Think You Can Dance Dance Revolution, I’m doing fine.

Not being a gay man, I may be speaking out of turn here, but I’m going to press on anyway…

(I’m not able to conflate the lesbian experience with that of gay men. It all feels separate so I’m going to leave the ladies who loves ladies out of this discussion. Feel free to take up arms in the comments and tell me all the ways I’m wrong.)

We seem to be straddling a cultural fault line when it comes to homosexuality. Or maybe a better way to put it is that we’re in the midst of an interregnum (as it’s been defined by Prof. Taplin): a period of time in which the old is dying but the new cannot yet be born. Yes, there are still plenty of places in the USofA where you’ll get the shit kicked out of you if you walk down the street with a swish, and yet, Tim Gunn and Neil Patrick Harris are beloved, millions read Mario’s bullshit gossip everyday and Glee is a hit show. Performance of sexual identity doesn’t just happen underground in some downtown drag club anymore. It’s everywhere. But in the not too distant future, I suspect it’s all going to become a bit redundant and dare I say, boring. I still love Reservoir Dogs and I still wish I’d walked out of Inglorious Bastards at the 90 minute mark.

I touched on the issue of feminism a while back, putting it in a somewhat similar context. To sum up: I think it’s bullshit to walk through life carrying the banner for the sisterhood. Yes, I know many women had it much harder than I do, that I’m standing on the shoulders of others who sacrificed, what’s your fucking point? Can’t I just enjoy the life I’ve been gifted? Why do I have to screech and tear my hair every time I brush up against some sexism? I feel like the gays are about 20 or so years behind us ladies on this one… They’re in the screaming, rending garments, lighting themselves on fire phase because they can and, I suspect, should. Politically, they finally have a voice in mainstream America. This open’s up a lot of space for them to celebrate who they are in the culture (or maybe it’s the other way around but that’s another post for another day). But soon, there are going to be a lot of bald, scalded dudes with no clothes making this sort of display seem terribly unappealing. The zeitgeist will move on and such “I’m Coming Out!” cultural moments will only be interesting to the die hardest of fans. Then again, Inglorious Bastards did make a shit ton of cash so what the fuck do I know?

My point, if I can find it amongst all this talking in circles, is that I suspect Glee caught the last wave in this set. The show’s success largely stems from acceptance of the performance of homosexual identity in the culture at large and kudos to them for that. Really. But I’m suspicious as to whether or not they can sustain this success when fitted knee length sweaters and show tune versions of former top 40 hits become a bit of a bore. Guess we’ll see, won’t we?

A Story…

So, I’m still working on this once a day thing but it’s a bit of a chore. The question is, do I post for the sake of posting and end up telling you what I had for dinner? Or just give it a rest and post when I have something to say? Anyone who has an opinion, feel free to share it. This is the internet after all where you’re pretty much required to take a stance on anything and everything, regardless of it’s relevancy to your life. So come on now, you know you wanna.

Well, until a consensus is reached…

For dinner tonight, I decided I wanted to eat something from the garden. Problem is, the only thing (other than herbs and strawberries) that was ready to be harvested was the cabbage. And while I don’t have any particular problem with cabbage, not once in my life have I said, “You know what I would really be in the mood for tonight? Cabbage.” Oh well. That’s what the garden was gifting. I wonder if this is what it was like in olden times?

Now, I consider myself an all right cook. With a little knowledge and some practice, I’ve worked up a small stable of dishes that I’m confident cooking and folks tend to enjoy. Beyond that, it’s a bit of a crap shoot. I’ve never cooked cabbage before so I found a simple recipe that involved butter. Really hard to go wrong with butter.

(I have one piece of advice I’ll offer to anyone who enjoys to cook but doesn’t really know dick about it. Buy good butter. Everything else can be mediocre and if you’ve got good butter, well, shit’s gonna taste good. Plugra’s my favorite. Use that shit when you scramble your eggs. Mind guaranteed to be blown.)

At any rate… Simple recipe. Good butter. Still, I wasn’t confident. The thing came out of the blanch and it was possibly too crunchy but I figured throwing it back in the boiling water after having let it cool and cutting into it was riskier than just sautéing it for longer than instructed (I never follow recipes. This is part of my problem.) Plus the center was chunky in a way that lead me to believe I’d picked it too early. But I pressed on. There was still going to be butter. I took solace in that.

My faith was founded. That shit was delicious. Super, duper, slurped and inhaled every last bite delicious.

As I was letting it simmer, I came across this article written by the president of Slow Food. The whole thing’s worth a read but I’ll quote the relevant passage. On the subject of what to bring to one of Slow Food’s Labor Day “Eat-In” Potlucks…

People asked, “Does all the food have to be organic?” “Will it all be local? Should it be produced within 50 miles, or 100 miles?” “Do we have to serve vegetarian food?” My inevitable response–”Just bring food you can believe in”–sometimes got blank stares. For those who didn’t get it right off the bat I explained that all food has a story behind it. It is a story about the environment, about the economy, about people, and about community. I told them, “Just make sure it is a good story. One you like.” They did.

Anyone who has a little bit of land, or even a balcony with room for some pots, you won’t regret planting and tending to something you can eat. Makes for a delicious story when you can’t figure out what the fuck to write about on your blog.

Cue Righteous Indignation, Part the 8,796,239th.

I was gonna do a lil ditty on Mr. West today but then Rich went and did his thing and now I kinda feel like, well, why bother? So go read it. Really, he’s my favorite dude in the innertubes. Though the only way I can get on board with his riff on Madonna is if I typed the opposite of every word he wrote.

And as an addendum… I would have been angry with Kanye had he not done something like this. And the schadenfreude of his targeting of Swift was sweet. I can’t say I’ve spent much time with the girl and her music but what little I’ve heard leads me to believe a lil’ adversity might do her some good.

Oh and, I implore you all, please resist the urge the be the 207,621,983rd person to make some variation of the “now you can put baby in a corner” crack. You can do better. We can all do better.

Merry Christmas!

Satisfaction, thy name is “first Sunday of football season.”

I haven’t seen the VMAs yet but I heard the word and just so we’re clear, Team Kanye all the way.

Sweet Jesus, Bill Maher

Worse than Jimmy fucking Fallon in his heydey at SNL. Worse because not only does he crack up at his own shit but he waits for laughter that never comes. Come on man. You’re a professional, get it together.

I Set Out To Get You With a Fine Tooth Comb…

Pandora just changed my life, again. That site might be close to eclipsing KCRW when it comes to sheer number of musical gifts from a single source.

As a general rule, I have no interest in covers of Dolly Parton tunes. The White Stripes’ Jolene is an exception but don’t get me started on Whitney. Show off. Dolly’s just special. Her voice is unique and glorious and I have no need to hear anyone but her sing the tunes that were a soundtrack to my childhood. Leave it to Feist to change my mind.

But Dolly’s still tip tops in my heart…

Speaking of Karma…

Josh Olsen, screenwriter of movies I’ve never seen, has penned a rant entitled, “I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script.” I take umbrage with it.

There is a way to be and a way to fucking be, dig? This asshole needs to go back to fucking grammar school and learn how to play nice with the other fucking children.

If you don’t want to read his whole tirade (and you know how I love me some tirade) I’ll sum up for you… When asked for script notes by a non-professional writer, Mr. Olsen has a stock speech prepared to tell folks sorry but no. It usually works. When it doesn’t and he’s guilted into reading someone’s terrible work, someone who’s sworn they really want his honest opinion, he spends copious time giving them what they say they want only to be considered a dick for his honesty. Ergo, he will not read your fucking script.

But make no mistake, he’s still a dick.

He’s also not completely wrong. Amateurs who ask professionals for thoughtful, tough notes on their work often lack an understanding of what that entails, the time and effort it takes. And they usually want encouragement, not notes. On this, Mr. Olsen and I agree. I’m going to leave the semi-pro out of this discussion, the up and coming writer who’s got talent and a small amount of skill but needs guidance. I’m rather confident these are not the folks to whom Josh is referring. He’s talking about your dentist, or your sister’s best friend’s cousin from Weehawken who has a really funny story about this thing that happened to her in college. And yes, of course, the chance that one of these scripts will be worth anyone’s time is about as likely as Sarah Palin stumping for single payer. But here’s the thing, if you’re guilted into reading work you know is shit, it’s your own fucking fault. And if you then feel compelled to spend hours obsessing over a perfectly worded email to convey what you knew before you read it, that it’s shit and that the guy should keep his day job, you are a fucking masochist who deserves the pain you feel. What the hell did he expect? “Oh, THANK you wise, professional, respected screenwriter for finally revealing to me the folly of my dreams.”

It’s really simple. Just say no. Politely and firmly. And if this friend of a friend won’t take no for an answer, it is not your job to remove the wool from their eyes. Skim the shit, find one nice thing to say and one bit of constructive criticism and move on. They’re hurting no one but themselves. It’s not your job to save them. And if you feel compelled to try, knowing full well they do not want to fucking hear it, you have no right to bitch when they’re dismissive of your input. You knew what you were getting into.

Interestingly enough, I found this hairball of an article thanks to a tweet from John August who is one of the most generous and thoughtful working screenwriters around. His blog is a gift to anyone who’s ever dreamed of writing movies and I would like to take this moment to thank him for his kindness. I’m sure it’s not a completely selfless act and that he gets as much out of it as he puts in but his tone and the respect with which he treats his readers is incredibly refreshing in a town full of cynical, insecure, egomaniacal assholes. Kudos to you sir. Way to fucking be.

Karma

Well that didn’t last long. So much for one post per day.

Maui was a much needed reset button. Before leaving, I’d been tethered to the tubes all the livelong day, finding myself entangled in arguments with strangers. So dumb. Such a waste of my time and brain function. I’m working on being kind and respectful but it’s damn near impossible when the majority of the faceless folks who populate imaginary internet communities have no interest in such things. I hoped Maui would knock me back into the present, the here, the now… And it did. And when I returned, I just couldn’t bring myself to type more than a few words on Facebook. Or drive over 35 mph.

So here I am. Wading back into watering the blog (holy mixed metaphor, batman!). Promising myself it won’t lead to countless hours of arguing for the sake of it. So far so good. Ain’t got no need for such acrimony as life is incredibly good. This is one of those posts that I suspect will incite some folks to want to throw pies at my head. Or maybe something heavier and more likely to inflict damage. I’ll live with that as I feel an overwhelming need to express gratitude to, I don’t know… God, Jesus, Buddah, St. Christopher, the Universe, my friends, my family and anyone else who will listen. That’s you.

Now, there’s some interesting career stuff brewing but I’ll get into that if and when it becomes anything worth talking about. In the meantime, I’d like to tell you about my new house.

Ok, it’s not mine. And it’s not really new. I haven’t given up my apartment yet as the whole thing reeks of “this is way too fucking good to be true” but yesterday I moved into a giiiiiaaaaanormous house, a mansion really, in the Pacific Palisades where I’ll be housesitting indefinitely. The owner lives in London most of the year. We have a mutual friend, someone who’s known me since I was in diapers. He called a couple days after I returned from Maui to ask if I’d be interested in the arrangement. He had no details but he’d hung out at the place many times and selfishly wanted access to the pool. Well, that and he knew it would be a good set up for me. I contacted the owner. My friend had already gushed about me, sealing the deal and the next day I was sitting in her once-appeared-in-Architectural-Digest library chatting about the business. With in five minutes, she’d asked to read my work and was mulling who she knew who might be able to help me get a job. She works in half-hours, not really my bailiwick, but she’s been around forever and knows most folks in town. She was talking about karma and how important it is to help people, how every time she’s done something nice for someone, it’s immediately come back to her. As she’s saying all this, I’m wracking my brain, “so what in the world have I done to deserve this?”

The place is amazing. Three stories, countless bedrooms and bathrooms. A fucking spa for Christ sake. Wrap around porches. A playboy grotto-like pool. A guest house. A stunning view. TVs everywhere. It’s just completely insane. The owner was adamant I have parties. It’s important to her that folks have fun here. Understandable. The house screams, “Let me entertain you!” When I inquired about whether or not she had DirecTv and if it would be all right if I ordered Sunday Ticket she responded, “You’re a football fan? Sounds like a necessity.” I then offered to send a check to her business manager to cover the cost and she said, “Oh no. That’s not how this relationship works.” My only responsibilities? Feeding the fish once a day and taking care of the veggie garden. Oh yeah, there’s a veggie garden. And a strawberry patch. And an orchard of lemon, lime, peach, apple and avocado trees.

She was shocked when I told her I was keeping my apartment. It was all happening so fast. I’d planned to be in my little place till I could afford to buy something. I just redecorated. Bought a new couch. It was way too much to process. I got home and called one of my girlfriends to recount the development. I was telling her about the karma conversation and before I could get to the question, “So what the fuck did I do?” She said, “Well, you did just take us all to Hawaii.” Oh yeah. I did do that, didn’t I?

I moved in yesterday. I wandered around aimlessly for an hour or more, trying to grapple with the overwhelming feeling of having gone from a teeny, tiny studio apartment to this… this… estate. I feel a need to carry everything with me. My phone, my laptop, my water bottle, my glasses… I’m so used to having everything I might need a few steps away, it’s a bit anxiety making to realize I need to keep my phone’s ringer on at all times as I will with out a doubt lose it somewhere in the house. I’ve long lived simply. I don’t have much stuff and what stuff I do have is organized and labeled and stacked, a necessity when you live in a really small space. But here… There are closets EVERYwhere and they’re all filled with random shoved-in stuff. Once I learn where everything is, I won’t have to go routing around in chaos and the anxiety will subside but at the moment, I kinda feel like my life just exploded. When I need to pee, I have a choice. There are some places in the house where there are two bathrooms equidistant from where I’m sitting. Such options feel so… so… silly.

The owner has a housekeeper who’s been with her family for twenty years. She keeps her on 5 days a week, whether someone’s living here or not. Jauna’s a lovely woman who won’t let me clean anything. This morning I left my room to make coffee and when I went back in, my bed was made and the tub was freshly scrubbed clean. She wouldn’t let me wash my breakfast dishes. Though I’m sure I’ll be able to adjust to such luxury, at the moment it all makes me rather uncomfortable.

Life would be so much easier to grapple with if it operated in 1:1 ratios of awesome given to awesome received but there are plenty of wonderful people out there, doing good and being kind who don’t get this kind of grace dropped into their laps on a fairly regular basis. It’s why I’ve always been attracted to the notion of reincarnation. If I previously paid the price for the bounty I now enjoy, there’s no reason to feel guilty when I have so much and others have little. But I’ve got no receipt for such a purchase so I assuage my guilt with gratitude and good works. You’d be hard pressed to find a more grateful girl. Sometimes, when I step back and look at my life thus far, my heart throbs and my eyes well with tears. It’s not that it hasn’t been with out struggle and sadness but the good so far outweighs the bad the scales are broken.

So thanks for that. Anyone and everyone…

And if God/Jesus/Buddah/St Christopher/The Universe decides I’ve had my fill and hits me with a bus, well, I’m ok with that too. In the meantime, I’m going go lay by the pool with a book.

The Field: Act Four

If you haven’t read the teaser, acts one, two and three, there they are.

And now, the conclusion of my pilot, The Field. Act Four…

EXT. CHARLIE’S HOUSE – NIGHT
A cab pulls up. Charlie gets out, drunk. The cab pulls off. He leans on his knees, tries to vomit. Nothing.

SARA (O.S.)
Congratulations.

He whips around, nearly falls.

CHARLIE
Hey.

Sara’s on his porch swing with a half drunk bottle of scotch.

SARA
That was a beautiful speech.

CHARLIE
Thanks.

SARA
She get pissed she didn’t write it herself?

CHARLIE
Little. Maybe.

He stands on the porch, stares at her, considers his options. His head circles his feet like a toy airplane above a crib.

CHARLIE (CONT’D)
No politics, just sex.

She stands, moves to him, only one thing on her mind…

FADE TO:

INT. CHARLIE’S BEDROOM – DAY
Charlie wakes up, alone, in twisted sheets. He looks to the indented but empty pillow, disappointed.

The Field: Act Three

If you haven’t read the teaser, acts one and two, there they are.

Onward with my pilot, The Field. Act Three…

EXT. BSIDES RECORDS – BACK PARKING LOT – DAY
Charlie pulls up next to a beat up sedan. Beebs is asleep inside. The driver’s side window barely cracked. Charlie bangs on it.

CHARLIE
Huddle up, QB!

Beebs grimaces, flips him off.

CHARLIE (CONT’D)
Staff meeting in five minutes.

BEEBS
So why are you fucking with four minutes of my sleep?

Charlie laughs and heads inside.

INT. BSIDES RECORDS – CAMPAIGN HQ – NIGHT
The sign read T-2 DAYS.

CHARLIE
In twenty-four hours?

He sits around the conference table with Elaina, Beebs, Matt and Shooter, the dogs at his feet. Coffee. Laptops. Snacks.

MATT
327,000 hits and roughly a 375% increase in traffic on the site, almost all of it directly linked to the video of you from CNS.

CHARLIE
How many volunteer sign ups?

MATT
Around 4500.

CHARLIE
Flake rate’ll be massive.

BEEBS
We’re fine.

CHARLIE
We’ll hit our goals?

BEEBS
If the universe doesn’t grow anymore.

CHARLIE
What about fundraising?

MATT
Four hundred and seventy three thousand dollars.

The dogs look up.

CHARLIE
You’re lying.

MATT
Nope.

CHARLIE
Wow.

MATT
It came in from all over the place. Ten bucks from a retired school teacher in Waterbury, CT. Twenty-five from a plumber in Duluth.

SHOOTER
You hit a nerve, kid.

CHARLIE
Too bad those nerves don’t vote in Texas. What are we going to do with all of it?

ELAINA
We should have been running ads this whole week.

CHARLIE
It costs 1.5 Million to blanket the state for a week.

There it is again, feeling like an idiot.

CHARLIE (CONT’D)
(to Elaina)
You think you could find a video crew in Houston? Put ‘em on hold? Might need them at Molly’s hotel tonight.

ELAINA
Sure. What are they shooting?

CHARLIE
Maybe nothing. Beebs, can you get us a meeting with Troy Taylor?

Shooter laughs.

BEEBS
I haven’t talked to him since high school.

SHOOTER
Stucker and Taylor went to A&M together. Besides, he loves those Taylor Truck spots more than his children.

CHARLIE
But there’s nothing he loves more than football.
(to Beebs)
Can you make it happen?

BEEBS
I can try.

SHOOTER
You’re crazy.