Is That A Bruise Or A Kiss?

2008 has been a great year for me in the sense that, this year alone, 3 of my favorite bands reunited and toured again after not having performed in years. It started in June with Superdrag, then in September with My Bloody Valentine, and finally, this last Sunday evening, when I witnessed the return of Shudder To Think.

My heart sank immediately when I entered the Fillmore, as there were literally less than 20 people in the entire place. The opening act, whose name escapes me completely, took the stage to the most uncomfortable silence I've ever witnessed at a show. It wasn't that the audience was inattentive, there simply was no audience.

But by the time Shudder To Think finally took the stage shortly after 9pm, the auditorium had filled up with a few hundred people and my great unease evaporated immediately the second they hit the opening notes of "Red House". The small turnout also afforded me the best possible spot imaginable, right up front between singer Craig Wedren and guitarist Nathan Larson (see above pics). I think I must have taken over 100 photos.

They played everything I wanted to hear, almost as if I had hand-selected the set list that night personally, and they played every song masterfully. Craig's voice was better than I ever remembered it being, and although he seemed a tad surly in his overall demeanor, Nathan played blindingly and beautifully.

The only thing that made the experience of seeing them perform again even better was meeting and chatting with Craig for a few minutes after the show. I did my best not to appear like too much of a giggling sycophant.

Much to my initial embarrassment, Craig told me that he enjoyed watching me from the stage having so much fun down front during the show, and that he really appreciated the support. What struck me was that he really meant it, and I was really touched by the sentiment, especially since their music has made me so happy over the years.

Just before thanking him and finally heading out into the night, I asked what their plans were. "Are you going to make a new record? Do some more touring?" He looked genuinely puzzled at how to answer. "Who knows....?" was all he finally said with a shrug and a smile.

I don't want to unduly speculate, but something tells me that I might have to wait a long, long time for an answer to that question... Until then, I know the memory of this night will stay with me for much longer.

Please Watch Your Step...

Mike took this picture of me on the bus this past Sunday evening, and yeah, I know I look sorta cute in this pic, but please note my expression.

Please also note the fact that mere seconds prior to boarding said bus, I inadvertently stepped in full-on man poop, which is clearly visible on the sole of my shoe.

It should also be noted that Mike took this picture from across the aisle.

49 Square Miles Surrounded By Reality...

Oh, San Francisco, so much to answer for...

I'm not going to make this one of those smarmy I-left-my-heart-in-San-Francisco diatribes, but I will say this right outta the gate: I love San Francisco. I've traveled all over the United States and I can't imagine living anywhere else in this country. Well, except for maybe NYC, but that would only happen if I won the lottery or something, and I could only handle it for a few months at that. If I left the country altogether I would most certainly be Guadalajara-bound, but that's another story for another day.

I moved to San Francisco on August 31, 1997, the day Princess Diana died. What a strange and portentous marker that has been for me, but that's another story as well. With the exception of the year I lived in England going to school (1987-88), I had spent the previous 27 years living in Washington State, where I was born and raised, the last 10 years of which were spent in Seattle.

My reasons for leaving Seattle were many. I was 28 years old at the time and I needed a change, I guess. It has never been something I could put my finger on specifically, I just knew it was time to go.

At the time I left Seattle, almost everyone I knew was from somewhere else. Most of the people I'd known growing up had moved away, either out to the suburbs or onto other cities. The Grunge regime was being laid to rest, and in its wake was a city I no longer felt I knew anymore. Everything had changed in such a short amount of time and I felt like a stranger there.

So in the end, I broke up the band I had been in for more than 5 years, sold and/or gave away most of my belongings and off I went. It was one of the scariest things I've ever done. I wasn't just moving, I was moving away, quite possibly for good, and I didn't have the first clue as to what the fuck I was doing...

San Francisco was a city that I felt I had always known on some level. My first visit was at the age of 5, and I paid many visits in the years since, establishing friendships with people who lived here long before I ever left Seattle that continue to this day.

But as anyone who lives here will tell you, visiting San Francisco is nothing like actually living in San Francisco, and I found that first year to be one of the most difficult periods of my life. To be fair, timing had a lot to do with that, as my arrival coincided with the peak of the Dot-Com boom, when the vacancy rate was less than 1%. It took me 9 months to find an apartment in the city, after living in the East Bay for a few months, followed by a protracted spell of couch-surfing with various friends.

But after a year of struggling, I finally felt like I actually lived here, and I never looked back. Believe me, this is one city that, once you make the decision to live here, you have to commit to it with every fiber of your being, and some people just aren't able to do it.

That is not meant to imply that I'm some formidable tower of strength or anything, but it does take a certain type of mentality to really connect with this city. Paul Kantner himself once said to me: "San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality." I think he was quoting someone else at the time, but I have never forgotten that statement because it always rang true to me.

After living here for last 11 years, the one thing about San Francisco I can say with the utmost certainty is that it attracts damaged people in droves. I have never known more people with drug problems and emotional issues, and that is really saying something after having lived in Seattle.

But at the same time I feel totally at home among them all. I mean, I'm a damaged person as well, and who doesn't have baggage? But there is something here, something strange and unidentifiable where it all seems to make perfect sense to me, and I know I'm not alone there.

An older gentlemen that I was acquainted with around the time I moved to San Francisco, Lenny, a university professor, once observed that San Francisco was like a nature preserve for freaks. I didn't quite understand that at the time, but I understand it now.

San Francisco is full of freaks. Some of the most gloriously weird people I've ever known are right here, all around me, and again, I count myself among them happily. Perhaps that is why this city has always been such a breeding ground for art. I mean, after all, a lot of what art is about comes from a place of pain and suffering, as a means of expressing our inner demons. And let me tell you, people suffer here daily, and they do it willingly.

It's strange how people move to LA or NYC to "make it", but San Francisco is populated with more talented and creative and truly artistic people than either of those 2 cities combined. I firmly believe that.

There is no other city like San Francisco in the world, and there is no other city that I could call home, and I am truly home here, at long last. Everything I could ever need is right here. I even met my partner of 10 years here, Mike, who is quite possibly one of the biggest freaks next to myself (he's certainly the most talented) that I have ever met. It's a perfect fit, and he's someone I know without a doubt I was always meant to meet, but it could have only happened here.

I, like many others, often have that fantasy of "...if I decided to move, where would I go?" I can never find an answer to that question. Guadalajara is the only other city besides San Francisco I've been to in my entire life where I felt an instant connection to, as if I was meant to be there. But I don't think I'm ready for that yet, that is something for down the road, and another adventure to look forward to and learn something else about myself in the process when the time comes.

So until then I am here in San Francisco, my own private freakshow, and I am home.

Mon Cousin Belge

As some of you may know, I was a member of SF indie art-rock outfit Mon Cousin Belge a few years ago. I played bass and sang backing vocals in the band for about 2 years, during which time we played tons of amazing shows with some equally amazing bands, as well as recording what would become their debut CD "Quelle Horreur" (World Famous In San Francisco), which was just recently released.

I have to say that out of all the bands I've been involved with, and all the recordings I've ever been on, I am by far the most proud of this album, not to mention the fact that the band is comprised of some of the most talented musicians I've ever had the honor to work with.

The band has undergone several incarnations since I was a member, but they finally resurfaced a few months ago on the live music scene to promote the release of the album. This last Wednesday evening was the record release party at Cafe du Nord here in SF, and I was invited by band leader/impresario Randy Walker (aka "Emile") to join in the festivities.

If you know nothing of this band, I'll give you a quick recap: "Emile" is a Belgian ex-pat who speaks almost no English and is addicted to plastic surgery (39 surgeries to date, I believe). He cavorts around onstage in a series of freakish costumes that include wigs, garish make-up, sunglasses and surgical bandages.

"Emile" is, of course, a character portrayed by Randy Walker, who, in my humble opinion, is one of the most amazing vocalists ever. He is the only singer I know who can silence absolutely everyone in a club the second he opens his mouth. Jaded hipster audience members, bartenders, doormen, coat-check girls... it doesn't matter; he leaves everyone who witnesses his performance completely awestruck.

Being something of a singer myself, I found working with Randy to be one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. He was the first singer I've ever worked with who really pushed me to explore and experiment with my falsetto range, which was something that I had previously been somewhat embarrassed by, but he allowed me to embrace it wholeheartedly with absolutely no fear.

So at the record release party I joined the band onstage for the songs "Sodomy" and "Lola", which are 2 songs in particular where Randy and I performed duelling falsettos in such a way that I once commented "It sounds like Prince having sex with himself". If you've heard these songs I'm sure you'll agree.

In addition to that, I performed dressed as an "Emile" impersonator (and yes, that is me pictured above), which was my little surprise gift to Randy, almost as a kind of tribute in a way. I screamed, flailed my arms, and bashed my tambourine against my hip so hard that it actually fell to pieces. I had such a wonderful time, it was really great to be onstage with them again, even for the short period of time that it was.

It was one of those humbling moments that made me truly appreciate just how lucky I have been to have worked with so many amazing and talented people over the years. They all have my love and respect.

There Are Days And There Are Days...

...and today, I know exactly how these guys feel. I mean, srsly.

"Celebrate Diversity!"

I work as a video editor for a fairly large gay porn company, where I've been for the last 5 years now, and during my tenure here as an employee, I have certainly been witness to all manner of "gay in-fighting", at least in terms of where our community is concerned, and all the usual self-serving political agendas that tend to go along with that.

In addition to that, we have regularly received in the mail the usual unsolicited religious tracts from all denominations and faiths, all sent anonymously of course, telling us what kind of degenerate sodomites we are for promoting such a destructive and unhealthy lifestyle. We've also received a death threat or two here and there. It's pretty much par for the course, and one of those things you simply have to expect from working in an industry of this nature.

Usually one of my coworkers will put one of these pieces of "Christian" propaganda on the fridge in the kitchen here at the office, where it remains for a few weeks or so, just long enough for everyone to get a giggle or two out of it, before being replaced by the next arrival and the whole thing starts all over again. Believe me, we never tire of receiving things like this, but it never ceases to amaze me at just how ingnorant and close-minded people are in this world.

But then take for example what happened today, when a coworker of mine forwarded the following email to me from a disgruntled customer, who was complaining about the nature of our films, specifically the direction with which they seem to be heading, at least in the way he sees it:

Excerpt:

"...if this is any indication of where your studio is heading “Artistically” ..I ,for one, Have NO desire to see men covered in tattoos or naked NIGGERS…Both may be all the rage in Californis [sic],But this is one old Kentucky Queer that will not watch it, and CERTAINLY will not pay for it…"

My mouth must have hung open for a full minute. I simply could not believe what I was reading. This was coming from another gay man. Sure you might say, "Well, he's from Kentucky..." but so what? What exactly does that excuse? Besides, there are plenty of gay people like that (Les Natali, come on down!) right here in San Francisco, the self-described "Mecca of Tolerance".

But at the end of the day, stuff like this really shouldn't surprise me, or anyone else for that matter, especially when you hear news like we did last week, about how the openly-gay owners of Manhunt.net have been donating money to John McCain's Presidential Election Campaign, effectively taking money away from gay community and using it to support someone who stands for everything we are against.

And we wonder why we haven't progressed farther in society than we have?

I am so sick and fucking tired of gay people who do nothing but sponge off the community, reaping the benefits of all it has to offer, such that they may be, and then give absolutely nothing back. And I'm not even talking about the typical, closeted-Republican types here, who vote for anti-gay initiatives and then get caught sucking some dude off in a public restroom.

I'm talking about out and proud gay people who move among us in our community. Because they're the first ones to jump up on their soapbox and scream at the top of their lungs about how "We deserve the same rights as everyone else!" while making inane racist comments like the aforementioned customer did.

That's why I always wince a little whenever I hear that word "community" coming out of the mouths of other gay people, or the even more cringe-worthy "Celebrate Diversity!" sloganeering that gets thrown around so casually.

If we expect to really move forward in society as a people, it can only be done if we truly embody the meanings of those words and concepts. Otherwise, we run the risk of becoming as prejudiced and ignorant as the people who continue to persecute, and in some cases, kill us daily.

The Fatal Flaw

www.myspace.com/rockthefatalflaw

Dig if u will this band. I played tambourine on their record.
So, please, love them.

Oh, the irony...

("Yeah, that's right bitches... check out THESE piss-stained choppers.")

Today John Edwards finally copped to the fact that he did have an affair with a woman who worked for his campaign (while his wife was ill with life-threatening cancer, no less) after repeatedly denying it to the media.

All I can say to that is: "Quelle muthafukkin' surprise."

But in denying that he had fathered a child with this woman, was he trying to portray himself as being somehow more noble than the typical lying, adulterous, hypocritical scumbag that the world of politics seems to attract in droves?

As far as I'm concerned, he may as well have said, "Well, okay, yeah... I fucked her, (scrunches up his face) but I didn't do THAT."

Way to go, dumbass, and welcome to the club. Now sit the fuck down. I mean, really...

The Brown Bunny

Say what you will about Vincent Gallo and/or his films, but after viewing The Brown Bunny a few times now, I'm thoroughly convinced that he's one of the most underrated filmmakers around today.

Yes, the film does contain an infamous and much-ballyhooed fellatio scene between Mr. Gallo and Chloe Sevigny at the film's, um, climax, which goes on for a good 5 minutes or so before he totally nuts in her mouth. And yes, the blowjob is for real, folks. But while a great many people felt this scene in particular to be unnecessarily gratuitous, I was not among them.

For one thing, when I'm watching a film, I always try and give the director the benefit of the doubt, at least in terms of where my suspension of disbelief is concerned, wherever and whenever possible. Taken out of context, yes, the scene is rather unsettling in and of itself, but within the context of the entire film, I simply viewed it as part of the story. Nothing more.

Being a lover of the medium of film, there is nothing I love more than really well-crafted cinematography. I love watching a film made by a director who really knows how to use a camera to frame a really amazing shot. And for me, the scene that most exemplifies this comes about halfway through the film.

During his cross-country trek, the film's protagonist, Bud Clay (portrayed by Gallo), stops at the Bonneville Salt Flats to ride his motorcycle. A very simple shot done in a single take, with the depth perception on the camera lens completely flattened out and compressed, Bud puts on his helmet, revs the engine and then takes off. And off he goes... on and on and on and on into the distance for what seems like forever, until he is a speck on the mirage-distorted horizon.

I must have rewound this shot 20 times. It is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sequences I've seen on film in a very long time. No amount of CGI can come close to capturing that kind of raw visual impact, no matter how much you tart it up or how much money you throw at it.

I only wish more filmmakers and studio executives in Hollywood understood this.

Stanley Likes To Watch...

I have what some of my closest friends would call a rather unhealthy obsession with Stanley Kubrick. I have all of his films on DVD, and I have seen every single one of them literally thousands of times over the years. I also have just about every book ever written about him and/or his films, as well as original posters and other assorted collectibles.

One of my most prized possessions is an actual working script from the set of The Shining, which was not only signed by Stanley Kubrick, but also Jack Nicholson and Stephen King as well. I got it on eBay for $30. The guy I bought it from didn't even know what he had, and what he subsequently let slip through his fingers. It was quite the coup.

My favorite film of all time is, of course, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and I recall several years ago reading about an auction at Sotheby's, mere days after the fact, where the actual reddish/orange spacesuit, worn by Keir Dullea in his iconic role as astronaut Dr. David Bowman, was sold to a private collector for a paltry $5000.00. I was livid. Had I known about this auction beforehand I would've scrounged up the money myself, and it would be standing in my living room right now, enclosed in glass.

As it is, I think I've done pretty well over the years. So what then, one might ask oneself, do you get the Stanley Kubrick fan who has just about everything already? Well, if you're my friend Spencer, you present me with a t-shirt with the image shown above, like he did for my birthday a few weeks ago, scoring an unassailable 1000 points in the process. It has quickly eclipsed all else as my new favorite t-shirt in my entire wardrobe, and I wear it with pride.

But then there are moments like yesterday, when a coworker noticed my t-shirt as I was passing him in the kitchen and he asked me, "Who is 'CUB RICK'? Is that like, a Bear thing?" I could feel the blood drain from my face.

Me: "It's 'Kubrick', as in 'Stanley Kubrick', the filmmaker..."

Coworker: (blank stare)

Me: "You know... 'A Clockwork Orange'?"

Coworker: (blank stare)

Me: "'2001: A Space Odyssey'???"

Coworker: "Omigod, that movie was so STUPID!!!"

Me: (blank stare)

But I digress...

Later that same afternoon, as I was relieving myself at the urinal, I was delighted to find that, due to the double image on the front of the t-shirt, the Stanley on the bottom was looking up at me while I held my penis in my hands.

Now THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a gift... Thanks, Spencer!

Mondrian

It occurred to me today just how much I love Mondrian. I work in video post-production, and part of my job entails tacking on color-bars at the beginning of just about any kind of video sequence, from trailers to full-length features and everything in between. As I was running something out to tape today, I was amazed at how I'd never seen the Mondrian hidden in the color-bars.

Art is everywhere, people. I mean, srsly.

R.I.P. Estelle Getty

Rest easy golden girl... you earned it.

The Dark Knight

Okay, I have to say it: Heath Ledger's performance as The Joker is truly amazing, and really just downright fucking freaky. Expectations were completely surpassed. The film succeeds.

"I'm 39!"

Yes, it's true. Happy Birthday To Me and things.

Shudder To Think

This morning the heavens parted...

Shudder To Think announced today that they have officially reunited and are hitting the road, playing The Fillmore in San Francisco on November 2nd. I haven't been this excited in a long, long time. Anyone care to join me?

Shudder To Think occupy a space in my Top 10 All-Time Favorite Bands list. They formed in Washington, D.C. in the late 80's and released their first few albums on pioneering punk label Dischord, before glamming things up a notch or five, jumping ship to major label Epic Records and relocating to NYC in the early 90's. Things fell apart for STT at the close of the 20th century, with its members scattered to the wind amongst their own various musical projects in the years since.

One of the most truly unique and gifted group of musicians ever, they released the incredible "Pony Express Record" in 1994, an album that, upon first listen, frustrated and confounded me beyond belief, probably moreso than any other album I've ever heard. I stuck with it, however, and then, one day, I suddenly just got it.

I honestly can't remember what it was exactly that did it for me, except to say that suddenly everything made sense and I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "Oh my God..." It truly is one of the most amazing albums ever, and even after 14 years of enjoyment, it has never lost any of its appeal for me.

Like watching a Kubrick film for the 1000th time, I come away with something new each time I listen to it. And yet, describing their music is almost impossible, as it only serves to do them a gross injustice. Progressive punk? Math-glam? It's in moments like this that words fail me completely.

If you know and love this band as much as I do, then this is all academic, but if you know nothing about them, I would highly recommend that you seek out "Pony Express Record" immediately. Listen to it and let it grow on you, and then, once you've fallen under their spell like I did, go to the show with me.

Sweet!

The new iPhone is out!

A Moment...

My partner Mike sent me this to me today from his phone. I had no recollection of where or when this series of photos was from and, since it's been awhile that I had a full beard, I asked him, "When were these taken?"

His reply: "Grubsteak after the bar one night...you were drunk and wouldn't eat...remember?" to which I replied, "Obviously...since I don't remember."

It's Late...

Please keep an eye on all personal belongings.

Needs...

So do I, baby, so do I.

The Cremaster Ritual

I was hanging out on the patio of the Lone Star Saloon last night, wishing America a Happy Birthday, amongst other things, when the conversation between the group of people I was with turned into a lively and spirited discussion concerning the art of Matthew Barney.

Everyone had an opinion. Of course, the subject of Bjork was inevitably bandied about for a brief time, as one can never seem to discuss Mr. Barney without an acknowledgment of their relationship, almost as a kind of footnote. But it was when the focus shifted to the topic of Barney's film series The Cremaster Cycle that I quickly grew uneasy.

For the uninitiated, the scope of Matthew Barney's work can be, to put it mildly, rather disturbing. But it wasn't the subject matter that caused my discomfort, it was that word: Cremaster.

The mere mention of it caused a sudden and dramatic plunge into that bottomless pit of terror that is "total recall"; a truly unwanted memory.

Back in 2004, I was the unwitting recipient of a horrific back injury on the job. I was driven immediately by a coworker to the emergency room at St. Luke's Hospital, where I was whisked into a room, which was really just a bed in the corner with a thin, gauzy curtain drawn around it. I was instructed by the nurse to strip to my underwear and to put on one of those notorious open-at-the-back hospital gowns. She then told me to lie on the bed and wait for the doctor who would be with me momentarily.

It was easier said than done, given my inability to either bend over properly or stand up straight, due to the excruciating spasms of pain in my lower back. I took my time, struggling to kick my shoes off as delicately as possible, then wiggle out of my jeans, then raise my arms to remove my shirt, which proved to be the most problematic procedure of them all. Once this was accomplished, I slipped into the gown and arranged myself on the bed, wincing in agony as I lowered myself slowly to lie flat on my back.

It seemed an age passed as I lie there, twitching and shifting on the bed, trying to find the smallest degree of comfort. Finally, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The curtain was abruptly yanked aside and my attending physician, at long last, suddenly appeared, looming over me. It is usually at this point where one would feel a sense of relief, that one's needs are finally being seen to. Oh, but no. It was at this point I realized immediately that my problems were far from over.

It was the way he ogled me. Or should I say she?

I am not one of those insecure, self-loathing gay male types who get all bent out of shape when another of our kind really queens it up in public. On the contrary, I've certainly had my moments, just ask anybody.

My doctor looked like Jim J. Bullock and acted like Christopher Lowell. A winning combination and a sure-fire hit, some would say, and I would likely be in agreement at any other time, but not now, not at this moment, not here.

He leaned in close and his shadow was on me, and his eyes remained wide and unblinking. His lips parted, his teeth showed and the corners of his mouth slowly spread and curled upwards in a Cheshire Cat grin. I could almost see the little puffy hearts and twittering birds chirping and fluttering around his head as he batted doe-eyes at me. This dude wanted me.

Not wanting to sound boorish, but I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of an unwanted advance. Usually the person has had a few drinks and they say something they probably shouldn't, at least not right after "Hello..." But this was different. I wasn't in a bar or hanging out in front of Starbucks in the Castro. I was lying on a gurney in an emergency ward in a state of complete helplessness.

Granted, that may seem like an overstatement, but the fact of the matter was that this guy made me instantly uncomfortable, and my whole body tensed as he drew near.

"I understand you're in a lot of pain..." he breathed almost into my ear. "Let me just check your Cremaster..."

The word had barely escaped his pursed lips when I felt his hand slip under the gown and between my legs, cupping my scrotum. I practically flew off the bed. I had no control over my reaction. So great was my fight-or-flight response that I completely forgot the reason I was there in the first place. The exquisite stab of pain in my back brought me around immediately and I fell back onto the bed, blinking white and shaking. The doctor bolted upright and his hands flew to his sides, a look of sheer terror on his flushed and hot face, his mouth agape.

It seemed a few minutes went by where neither of us said a word. He stood there and I laid there and we just looked at each other. A line had definitely been crossed: He was mortified and I was horrified. But it was then I realized that even though he had clearly taken advantage of me, I still felt kind of sorry for him in some strange way. Not to mention, I also felt wholly responsible for the way I reacted. I couldn't even begin to imagine what this guy must have been feeling at that moment.

There was a flurry of activity all of a sudden, the nurse reappeared, clinical jargon was spoken, x-rays were ordered, and then my doctor disappeared in a whoosh of the curtain and he was gone forever. I was given several types of pain medication and sent home, where I spent the next week in bed recovering from my injury. I returned to work the week after that.

So, yeah, that's kinda what Matthew Barney's stuff is like. And I'd like to thank him for that.

Shouts out also to Jim J. Bullock and Christopher Lowell, who both helped in ways innumerable.

And as always, I'd like to thank Bjork, almost as a kind of footnote.

Independence Day

I've never been the kind of person to get all pumped up about Independence Day. Oh, when I was a kid, sure, because the 4th of July always meant blowing up mailboxes with M-80's. But as an adult, however, my sense of "Patriotic Pride"(TM) has been stung more than a few times, and I know I'm far from alone there. That's an understatement to say the least.

However, it shouldn't go without saying that I do not, and never have considered myself unpatriotic or ashamed of my country. I have certainly been ashamed of a great many things that my country has involved itself with over the years, whether in my lifetime or not, but I have never been ashamed to be an American.

Being an American for me, just like being a gay man, was something I had absolutely nothing to do with. It just happened that way without any effort on my part. Having traveled to many different countries and been exposed to many different cultures in my lifetime, I can say with certainty that I feel very fortunate to have been born in this country. But having said that, I've never been the kind of person to flaunt it as though it was my God-given birthright, as many in this country have a tendency to do.

I could have very easily been born in Darfur.

So as our country celebrates its 232nd year of Independence, I still hold out hope that, as the current regime comes to an end, we will move away from this collective sense of righteous indignation and stand-alone isolationism and learn to view our place in this world with more humility and humanity.

Oh yeah, and Jesse Helms died today. Sweet! Now if you'll excuse me, I got some mailboxes to blow up.

Because Reading Is Fundamental

Literacy is good and stuff.

From Minneapolis To Manchester

(I wrote this a few years ago, and I'm posting it here at the request of a few people who wanted to read it. A word of warning though, it's a long read.)

Minneapolis. Manchester. Two cold, grey, northern, working-class cities, half a world away from each other, separated by a common language...

I have always understood what it means to be Northern. I am intimately acquainted with the cold, the lowly angle of the sunlight in the southern sky in winter, the long daylight hours in summer, and the sheer remoteness, whether real or imagined. As a child growing up in northern Washington State, the vast expanse of the Canadian tundra was a mere stones-throw away from our farm.

We actually received Canadian television stations via "rabbit-ears" better than those coming from Seattle to the south. The same thing applied to radio. I can remember in 1980 hearing early British post-punk and new-wave bands broadcasting from stations in Vancouver, BC a good 2-3 months before the Seattle stations caught on and lamely proclaimed "the latest thing from England!"

I was tuned into one of these Vancouver stations in early 1984, sitting in the front seat of my dad's avocado green Dodge Dart in the parking lot of Thrifty Foods, when I heard a song lyric that would change my world forever:

"I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving,
England is mine - it owes me a living."

The music was urgent and bouyant, new and yet somehow familiar, but it was the tone and the delivery of the singer that grabbed me. He wasn't a great singer as such, but I knew immediately that he was an important singer. I remember almost blushing at the nerve: Who did this person think he was? And just who was he that England, or anyone else for that matter, owed him anything?

He was, of course, Morrissey, and his band was The Smiths, and over the course of the next four years they did everything in their power to answer that question for me.

Growing up in Stanwood, WA meant cultured society (not to mention the nearest decent record store) lay either to the north or to the south. Finding records by The Smiths meant, more often than not, an hour-plus drive into Seattle.

Fortunately for me, there was Nick Tanner. One year my senior, he was an accomplished musician and had played in several bands, a fact that always impressed me. He also had a huge record collection and a car. In a very real sense, it was Nick who first opened up the world to me. He had everything by The Smiths and made incredible mix tapes of all their albums and even their rarest b-sides and BBC sessions for me.

Often on Friday nights I would tell my parents I was going to the movies and I would ride with Nick into Seattle, dancing until dawn at ultra-cool underage clubs like The Monastery or Skoochies or City Beat. I would blissfully creep into the house at first light, reeking of clove cigarettes with "Master And Servant" by Depeche Mode still ringing in my head. My devoutly Christian parents despised him.

It was also through Nick that I was introduced to the music of another artist whose affect and long-lasting influence on me was as equally profound and immediate as Morrissey's. That artist was Prince.

At first glance, the obvious incongruity of these two artists would seem to preclude the existence of any form of common ground, let alone similarity. But for me, in those dreary days of the early 1980's, life simply could not have existed without either of them.
Yin cannot exist without Yang.

I, like many others of my generation, first became aware of Prince in the period of time before he became the scourge of Tipper Gore. "Controversy" had happened, "1999" was here, and "Purple Rain" was but a soft-and-wet dream. It was in this climate that The Purple One dropped the dance-floor equivalent of an f-bomb. It's name was "Erotic City".

"We can funk until the dawn,
Making love til cherry's gone.
Erotic City can't u see,
Thoughts of pretty u and me."

Clearly the lines had been drawn.

Even with the benefit of hindsight, I'm always amazed at just how incredibly sexless the early 1980's were. The hedonistic excesses of the 1970's were behind us, and there, in its wake, waiting in the wings, was Ronald Reagan, crack addiction and AIDS. Suddenly, seemingly overnight, nothing was sexy anymore. Fashion and music both became equally cold, clinical, asymmetrical, and plastic. The mood had quickly changed, and the party was definitely over. We were operating in hostile territory.

And yet, here they were, in the midst of all this, in all their resplendent glory:

Morrissey & Prince. The Damp One and The Wet One.

Where Morrissey abstained, Prince indulged. A lot. And while on the surface it appears that they couldn't have been any more different from each other, their underlying plea remained one in the same: Reject what is in front of you, reclaim your own sense of power and be who you are without shame or apology. Granted, this wasn't particularly anything new, as the punk movement had loudly proclaimed this kind of battle cry years before. But no one had ever proclaimed it quite like this.

"I'm spellbound but a woman divides,
And the hills are alive with celibate cries.
But you know where you came from,
You know where you're going,
And you know where you belong.
You said I was ill and you were not wrong."

Never before had there been a pop star who so shamelessly and defiantly foisted his own sexlessness onto the public. There simply was no precedent, and people laughed openly at the very idea of Morrissey. His avowed celibacy was viewed as yet another tired gimmick by the masses, and to be fair, looking back, I can certainly see their point of view. But it was the sheer power of his presence that made it so much more than that for me.

The pendulum from which Prince tea-bagged, however, swung far and away to the opposite end of this spectrum. While Morrissey indifferently denounced sex, Prince was hellbent on it. It oozed from his pores. He was sex incarnate. He was the little purple satyr in high heels doing scissor-kicks whilst writhing on satin sheets.

"My sister never made love to anyone else but me,
She's the reason for my, uh, sexuality.
She showed me where it's supposed to go,
A blow job doesn't mean blow.
Incest is everything it's said to be."

At a time when sex was seen as dangerous and ugly, if not downright deadly, Prince spun delicately obscene pirouettes on the tip of this very issue, gloriously wrapping himself in every aspect of sex and sexuality. He came here to fuck, and he didn't give a fuck.

"Am I black or white?
Am I straight or gay?"

Controversy indeed. This was the man who, at a diminutive 5'2", famously paraded on stage in support of the Rolling Stones at the Los Angeles Coliseum in 1981, dressed in bikini briefs and thigh-high stiletto boots in front of tens of thousands of people. Of course, he was booed off the stage almost immediately and pelted with anything people could throw at him. Perhaps the world wasn't quite ready for this.

Oh, but I was. Not only was I ready for it, I needed it. The problem for me was that, as a result, I found myself walking that tightrope of duality where most other people seemed to fall to one side or the other. I had a pompadour and I wore parachute pants. Contradictory, yes, but to me it made perfect sense.

All flowery notions of image and artifice aside, Morrissey and Prince were also both Northern, as I was. Reared in the same type of dank working-class environs where the only future available to you was that which you could make for yourself, if at all. The government didn't care about you, unemployment was rampant, and the consistently foul weather precluded any delusions of California dreaming.

All you could do was sit in your bedroom and craft your art, honing your manifesto to razor-sharpness and waiting for that moment when you could finally unleash it onto the world. Prince hermetically and obsessively composed music in the basement of the house where he lived with his childhood friend and future bandmate Andre Cymone and his family. Morrissey shut himself away in a darkened bedroom and scribbled reams of prose, dreaming always of the one he couldn't have.

They came from broken homes, irrevocably damaged by the trauma of divorce. It is no wonder then, that their subsequent world view that reflected in their work was that of complete and utter insularity: I have no one but me.

However, these bleak prospects were seemingly offset by the fact that they both came of age in cities with flourishing independent music scenes. Here, at last, was their chance, perhaps their only chance. Just as Seattle would be for me a decade later, Minneapolis and Manchester each became centers of the music world for a time, and both Morrissey and Prince each held court as their respective hometown rulers, all the while remaining completely untouchable islands unto themselves. They gave themselves freely to the world, but you still couldn't have them.

Another key factor for me was the fact that they both were (and still are) staunch vegetarians in a world where the burger was king. Prince may have been inspired by his own uniquely bizarre spiritual aspirations, but for Morrissey, it was far more basic than that.
He called it murder.

As a child of a farmer, I saw this daily. We raised cattle for beef and pigs for pork, and I had firsthand knowledge of the cruel ways in which these animals were treated, and ultimately slaughtered. And when The Smiths released their album "Meat Is Murder" in 1985, it was as if Morrissey had reached through the ether and pleaded to my very soul.

I remember vividly to this day the first time I heard the title track, with its haunting opening sound effects of terrified cows over the buzz of a meat saw. This was a sound I would hear lying in bed at night, emanating from our barn in back of our house, and here it was coming through my speakers into my room from someone who lived thousands of miles away and knew nothing about me. The message was clear and horrifically personal.

"Heifer whines could be human cries."

Of course, as with most of their proclamations, people simply laughed at them. They just didn't get it, but I did. And I still do. It seemed at the time that all everyone else wanted to do was to forget about the real world and dance with ridiculous abandon to Madonna and Duran Duran. That's all well and good, and absurd escapism has its place, surely, but when death and destruction are all around you, it seems silly to be found rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. It was as clear to me then as it is today.

Prince showed me how things should have been. Morrissey showed me how things were.

Fast forward to the 21st Century: Morrissey, Prince and I all now live in California.

We don't take tea together, and we have never, to my knowledge, crossed paths at the beach. Morrissey is no longer celibate, Prince no longer makes love til cherry's gone, and my receding hairline long ago concluded my ability to produce a respectable pompadour. And I no longer wear parachute pants.

What we have retained after all these years, however, having long ago left behind the cold, dark homes that bore us, is that unifying thread that tied us together from the start. As Morrissey once famously quipped, "When you're Northern, you're Northern forever."

From his lofty perch atop the sun-drenched Hollywood Hills in a mansion built by Clark Gable, I can still see Morrissey curled up in his bedroom, the curtains drawn, scribbling away ferociously, railing against everyone and everything he sees as unjust and hateful. While across town, sequestered away in his palatial Los Angeles spread, I am quite confident that at this very moment, Prince is holed up in his basement, crafting his next magnum opus all by himself.

And here I remain, stretched out and waiting, lying in awe on the bedroom floor at the fact that I, now middle-aged, still find solace as I commune with my fellow lonely Northern souls. And that's all this tremulous heart requires.

Respect The Cock

In an effort to better understand ourselves, and by extension, to allow other people to better understand ourselves, we sometimes feel the need to reach out and, in a way, make some sort of apology to people, as if to say, "I'm so sorry that you don't get me. Please, let me explain..."

It is in moments like this where I find myself empowered in some strange way by a precept put forth by a character portrayed by (of all people) Tom Cruise in the film Magnolia.

Frank T.J. Mackey is a cartoonish yet grotesquely sexist men's self-help sex-advice guru, imbued with all the douchey swagger only an actor of Mr. Cruise's calibre could mustre.

His manifesto is simple and to the point: Respect The Cock.

As I watched this film tonight, probably for the 487th time, I was surprised to find myself nodding numbly in agreement during one of Mackey's sweaty, long-winded rants:

"I will not apologize for who I am.

I will not apologize for what I need.

I will not apologize for what I want."

All subsequent sexism aside, I fully understood this mission statement. And it was in a moment like this where I realized that when it comes to other people and the way they may or may not relate to me, no apology is required.

I just feel kinda icky that Tom Cruise had a hand in that realization.