I've come to a realization that I think is going to make life so much simpler for me: I'm not a leading man. You know how the leading man is the focus of the movie (or TV show or play or whatever)? Among the various characters, it's his story that we watch with the greatest anticipation. We want to see him succeed at the end of the movie and get the guy or girl (depending upon the kind of movie you're watching). He's the focus of our attention.
Well, I'm not that guy.
I'm a character actor. I'm a supporting player. I'm a featured actor. I'm there to have a funny line or two, perhaps help the leading man in his quest, but not to take over the story. Sure, I may get a few moments to shine, and I might, briefly, steal the picture from the star, but he'll get it back in time. He always does.
I'm Claude Rains. I'll be in a lot of movies/lives, and people will always remember me in some fashion or other, but I won't be the one who has to "carry" the entire picture. Lots of people in Hollywood made a good living as character actors, actually. I'm thinking of people like Agnes Moorehead and Thelma Ritter and Ward Bond and Andy Devine. There are hundreds of others like them, and none of them were ever really, truly the star of a movie.
Billy G. tried to tell me something like this one time. We were in the cafeteria talking about his performance in The Rocky Horror Show. He kept telling me that I would be great on the stage, and he kept suggesting roles like Brother in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I suppose I should have realized then that I'm not really cut out for the part of Brick, but I guess it had never quite dawned on me that I would be better suited for the supporting part. I guess I should be grateful that he didn't suggest Big Daddy (although that time is coming rapidly).
Before you start in on me, consider this. In my students' lives, I'm not the lead. They are the leads. I'm just there for a few hours a week. The rest of the time is all focused on them. That's really being a character actor. It's not as if I am not memorable at times--perhaps so, perhaps not--but I'm only temporarily the focus.
And with friends, it's pretty much the same. They have lives of their own in which they are starring. I get my few minutes now and then to shine, and then I get to recede into the background while they carry out the main plot.
This realization is going to save me so much time.
If I'm not the lead, then I don't have to worry about how things are going to turn out. That's someone else's concern. I also don't have to fret about being single any longer. Since I'm not the star, it doesn't matter if I'm paired up with someone else. My job is to be there for the lead and whomever he chooses.
By the way, the lead never chooses the featured player as a partner. It's not in the script because no one would believe it. He wants another lead.
I will, at times, be part of an ensemble cast. Think, for example, of a department meeting. Well, I suppose the department coordinator running the meeting might nominally be the lead, but everyone has a role to play and all of us are involved to some degree or another. It's much more equal in terms of the players, yet it too is only temporary, once a month for a couple of hours. At other times, I will merely be background, a bit player, a face in the crowd, little more than an extra. I'm thinking of those Opening Day convocations with hundreds of employees all listening to speeches. I've spoken at four or five of those over the years, but even then I was only a featured player, not the real star. If you don't believe that to be the case, ask our current college president who she thinks is the focus of Opening Day. Some of you already know the answer to that one.
Now that I've accepted my character actor status, I'm going to have it so much easier. I won't continue to be hung up on finding another leading man. Certainly, the supporting actor sometimes finds someone to be his partner in life, and I'm not giving up on that possibility, believe me. However, knowing that I'm not the star of some romantic comedy gives me less of a burden. I'll just remember my job is to display some wit now and then and perhaps even draw attention away from others momentarily, but eventually (inevitably?), someone else will take over the greater amount of work.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Dog Days
When I first moved into this apartment complex, no pets were allowed. None. No dogs, no cats, nothing. Many of the residents had pets, of course, mostly cats, but we all had an understanding among us that we would never tell the owners or property managers. When it came time for one of our annual inspections (fire alarms, water, whatever), all of the cats would have to disappear for a day--to avoid any unpleasant encounters with the maintenance crew conducting the inspections. If you got into the elevator on the night before an inspection, you were very likely going to be sharing the ride down with a cat in a carrier.
The new property manager, however, brought a dog with him. He was a bit upset to find that dogs were not allowed, primarily because they have an annoying tendency to bark when their owners aren't at home, thereby disturbing the other residents. No matter. He just changed the rules to allow dogs in some of the buildings, not all of them. Thankfully, mine is not one of the "lucky ones" to allow dogs. I've lived under those circumstances before, and I wouldn't care to repeat it.
However, everyone who lives here has noticed the change whether or not you live in a "dog-friendly" building. People walk their dogs a lot around the complex, and there's hardly any time during the day when you can't see a pooch and her/his master on the sidewalk. I frequently pass five or six dog-master combos on my morning or evening walk around the block. Some of the dogs are friendly, naturally, but others of them apparently have to be kept on a very short leash. It makes me wonder sometimes why anyone would want a dog so prone to attacking others. Wouldn't that put the owner at risk too, given the dog's usual behavior?
Nevertheless, the biggest change isn't the presence of the dogs themselves. It's the dog shit. Yes, some owners are very good about taking a plastic bag with them on the walk. Others, however, are very inconsiderate and leave behind their dog's turds. There was a time not too long ago when you could just crank up the iPod and walk around the block without having to worry about stepping into something that would ruin your shoes. You won't do that nowadays if you're smart.
I don't know what possesses someone to allow a dog to use the sidewalk for a bathroom without cleaning it up. And it's not as if it's always a small...um..."offering" that's left behind. I've been careful so far and have managed to avoid the need to wash my shoes before entering the apartment, but why can't these owners just follow the rules and pick up after their pets.
This is one reason I've never had a dog in the city. Well, that and the thought of having to carry around a bag of dog shit. When we were growing up, we almost always had a dog, but we lived in the country. If the dog went into the woods to do nature's bidding in nature itself, no one cared. Here, though, we should be paying more attention to the people who live around us, and far too people seem to be concerned about the consequences of their and their dogs' actions. You know how you're supposed to train dogs not to go to the bathroom inside your home? I'm starting to think that might be necessary to use on owners who don't clean up after their dogs. So, if you come to my neighborhood and you see someone whose nose looks like it's been rubbed in dog shit, you'll know I've finally had enough.
The new property manager, however, brought a dog with him. He was a bit upset to find that dogs were not allowed, primarily because they have an annoying tendency to bark when their owners aren't at home, thereby disturbing the other residents. No matter. He just changed the rules to allow dogs in some of the buildings, not all of them. Thankfully, mine is not one of the "lucky ones" to allow dogs. I've lived under those circumstances before, and I wouldn't care to repeat it.
However, everyone who lives here has noticed the change whether or not you live in a "dog-friendly" building. People walk their dogs a lot around the complex, and there's hardly any time during the day when you can't see a pooch and her/his master on the sidewalk. I frequently pass five or six dog-master combos on my morning or evening walk around the block. Some of the dogs are friendly, naturally, but others of them apparently have to be kept on a very short leash. It makes me wonder sometimes why anyone would want a dog so prone to attacking others. Wouldn't that put the owner at risk too, given the dog's usual behavior?
Nevertheless, the biggest change isn't the presence of the dogs themselves. It's the dog shit. Yes, some owners are very good about taking a plastic bag with them on the walk. Others, however, are very inconsiderate and leave behind their dog's turds. There was a time not too long ago when you could just crank up the iPod and walk around the block without having to worry about stepping into something that would ruin your shoes. You won't do that nowadays if you're smart.
I don't know what possesses someone to allow a dog to use the sidewalk for a bathroom without cleaning it up. And it's not as if it's always a small...um..."offering" that's left behind. I've been careful so far and have managed to avoid the need to wash my shoes before entering the apartment, but why can't these owners just follow the rules and pick up after their pets.
This is one reason I've never had a dog in the city. Well, that and the thought of having to carry around a bag of dog shit. When we were growing up, we almost always had a dog, but we lived in the country. If the dog went into the woods to do nature's bidding in nature itself, no one cared. Here, though, we should be paying more attention to the people who live around us, and far too people seem to be concerned about the consequences of their and their dogs' actions. You know how you're supposed to train dogs not to go to the bathroom inside your home? I'm starting to think that might be necessary to use on owners who don't clean up after their dogs. So, if you come to my neighborhood and you see someone whose nose looks like it's been rubbed in dog shit, you'll know I've finally had enough.
Friday, June 26, 2009
By the Way
At what point will Americans stop being surprised when some right wing tool who has set himself up to be a paragon of virtue and morality turns out to be a hypocrite? Have we not had enough examples yet for them to get the picture? Whenever someone, particularly in the political arena, starts passing judgment on the behavior of another person and taking what is supposed to be some sort of moral high grind, you just know it is only a matter of time before we find out what inappropriate behavior he (and it's always men, isn't it?) has been up to himself. I hope the rest of the country catches on soon because, frankly, I'm tired of being shocked that other people can't see how prevalent hypocrisy is among conservatives. And these are the folks who get to decide whether or not I can get married? Ludicrous.
A Tough Week
It must now be the fate of people my age to start witnessing the loss of so many icons from our past. I was stunned to learn yesterday that both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson had died. Jackson's death was particularly shocking because he was still young (only about five years older than I am) and had not been ill like Fawcett had been. His death was completely out of the blue; I was listening to the radio on my way to get dinner last night and couldn't figure out why the station was playing so many Michael Jackson songs in a row. Earlier in the week, we also lost Ed McMahon, and I was struck again by how much I missed the old Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and him.
What I always liked about Ed was how willing he was to play along with whatever Carson was doing. A particular favorite of mine was watching the two of them interact when Carson was doing his Carnac shtick, especially when Ed would laugh right along with the insults he received. And how can you top Carnac asking for "complete silence" and Ed responding, "That's what you have received many times." The slow burn Carson would do after that remark was priceless. As Carson said on the final show they did, the two of them were friends and you can't fake that. For all of those years that they were on, I felt like they were my friends too. I never warmed to Jay Leno as host. My mother did, but I never quite got over the loss of Carson and McMahon.
When Charlie's Angels debuted, everyone in my school watched. We would talk about the previous night's show on the bus ride and then all day between classes. People quickly picked favorites among the three actresses. Most, of course, were Farrah fans. I was more of a Kate Jackson person myself--you know, she was supposed to be the "smart one," code for not as pretty as the other two, complete nonsense by the way. It was later, actually, that I became a fan of Farrah's work, especially her dramatic work in Murder in Texas and The Burning Bed and Extremities. I remember feeling so grown up watching The Burning Bed, in particular, because it was about adult subject matter (spousal abuse) and I was finally old enough to be able to watch without having someone question whether it was appropriate for me (VERY different from when I had wanted to watch Elizabeth Montgomery in A Case of Rape). Farrah was so good in those movies. I never owned the famous swimsuit poster, but many guys in my school did, so I was quite familiar with it. My stepbrother, as I recall, owned the t-shirt with the famous photo of Farrah on it. She was such a beautiful young woman then, so full of life and energy, and that smile certainly made you like her instantly.
Before all of the craziness and the accusations and odd marriages and all, there was the music. I grew up listening to the Jackson 5, and I was one of the first people to own a copy of Off the Wall, Michael's solo album that came before the monster Thriller. I loved "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" and played it over and over and over again. I must have driven my grandmother crazy. I can also recall the day that the video for the song "Thriller" debuted. I was living in a dorm at the time, and everyone in the building was in the television room. No one was playing pool or foosball. (And no one was going to class, either.) For the fifteen minutes that it took for the video to play on MTV, no one spoke. Sure, we had a few laughs when he said, "I'm not like other guys," but otherwise, we were too entranced to talk. Don't lie. You know you've watched the video and tried to do that "dance of the undead" yourself. Everyone did. It was THE style of dance everyone wanted to emulate, but no one could really do it justice. Michael was one of a kind.
I have among my possessions a trophy that I won at an all-night skating rink party in 1984. It's for third place in a Michael Jackson dance-alike contest. (No, you can't see it.) I used to be able to do a pretty mean moonwalk before my center of gravity shifted. I never owned a zipper jacket (despite what Missy Elliot might say), and I never wore the one sequined glove, but I certainly had friends who did. Everyone I knew owned Thriller, and we knew all of the words to every song on it. (Personal favorite: "P.Y.T." Runner-Up: "Human Nature.")
I have written before on this blog about famous people who have passed away. I don't know if I'm truly a very late member of the Baby Boomer generation or an early member of Generation X or something in between. I just know that I am having a tough time reconciling all of this loss of icons from my childhood and young adulthood. There have been and will be many tributes to these three, but what I'm offering here is not really a tribute. It's just a simple recognition of the role they played in my formative years, the influence they had in making me who I am today. That will have to be what sustains me now that they are all gone.
What I always liked about Ed was how willing he was to play along with whatever Carson was doing. A particular favorite of mine was watching the two of them interact when Carson was doing his Carnac shtick, especially when Ed would laugh right along with the insults he received. And how can you top Carnac asking for "complete silence" and Ed responding, "That's what you have received many times." The slow burn Carson would do after that remark was priceless. As Carson said on the final show they did, the two of them were friends and you can't fake that. For all of those years that they were on, I felt like they were my friends too. I never warmed to Jay Leno as host. My mother did, but I never quite got over the loss of Carson and McMahon.
When Charlie's Angels debuted, everyone in my school watched. We would talk about the previous night's show on the bus ride and then all day between classes. People quickly picked favorites among the three actresses. Most, of course, were Farrah fans. I was more of a Kate Jackson person myself--you know, she was supposed to be the "smart one," code for not as pretty as the other two, complete nonsense by the way. It was later, actually, that I became a fan of Farrah's work, especially her dramatic work in Murder in Texas and The Burning Bed and Extremities. I remember feeling so grown up watching The Burning Bed, in particular, because it was about adult subject matter (spousal abuse) and I was finally old enough to be able to watch without having someone question whether it was appropriate for me (VERY different from when I had wanted to watch Elizabeth Montgomery in A Case of Rape). Farrah was so good in those movies. I never owned the famous swimsuit poster, but many guys in my school did, so I was quite familiar with it. My stepbrother, as I recall, owned the t-shirt with the famous photo of Farrah on it. She was such a beautiful young woman then, so full of life and energy, and that smile certainly made you like her instantly.
Before all of the craziness and the accusations and odd marriages and all, there was the music. I grew up listening to the Jackson 5, and I was one of the first people to own a copy of Off the Wall, Michael's solo album that came before the monster Thriller. I loved "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" and played it over and over and over again. I must have driven my grandmother crazy. I can also recall the day that the video for the song "Thriller" debuted. I was living in a dorm at the time, and everyone in the building was in the television room. No one was playing pool or foosball. (And no one was going to class, either.) For the fifteen minutes that it took for the video to play on MTV, no one spoke. Sure, we had a few laughs when he said, "I'm not like other guys," but otherwise, we were too entranced to talk. Don't lie. You know you've watched the video and tried to do that "dance of the undead" yourself. Everyone did. It was THE style of dance everyone wanted to emulate, but no one could really do it justice. Michael was one of a kind.
I have among my possessions a trophy that I won at an all-night skating rink party in 1984. It's for third place in a Michael Jackson dance-alike contest. (No, you can't see it.) I used to be able to do a pretty mean moonwalk before my center of gravity shifted. I never owned a zipper jacket (despite what Missy Elliot might say), and I never wore the one sequined glove, but I certainly had friends who did. Everyone I knew owned Thriller, and we knew all of the words to every song on it. (Personal favorite: "P.Y.T." Runner-Up: "Human Nature.")
I have written before on this blog about famous people who have passed away. I don't know if I'm truly a very late member of the Baby Boomer generation or an early member of Generation X or something in between. I just know that I am having a tough time reconciling all of this loss of icons from my childhood and young adulthood. There have been and will be many tributes to these three, but what I'm offering here is not really a tribute. It's just a simple recognition of the role they played in my formative years, the influence they had in making me who I am today. That will have to be what sustains me now that they are all gone.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Up
Will there be a more poignant sequence in movies this year than the one early on in the movie Up that takes Carl and Ellie from their days as young newlyweds to her death? It's a completely wordless sequence, yet it conveys a range of emotions so clearly and powerfully. There's one moment, in particular, that had me in tears, and all of the sequence is beautifully rendered. After you watch that sequence, you know why Carl has to go on the adventure that the movie depicts.
And will there be a more uplifting moment in movies this year that when you see all of those balloons rise from behind the house, lifting it slowly off the ground so that Carl can finally escape the city and begin his journey to Paradise Falls in South America? You know before you enter the theater that the moment is going to happen, but nothing quite prepares you for the beauty of it and sheer audacity of someone like Carl taking this chance to live out a lifelong dream.
At this point, Up is my favorite movie of the year. However, I don't think it's a movie for kids at all. I think only a grown-up can truly appreciate the depth of its characterization. The kids at the screening I attended were very restless, and one even asked to leave early because she was bored. I think her father was enjoying the movie far more than she was. The folks at Pixar made one of my favorite movies of last year, Wall-E, and now they've done it again, but just like with the earlier film, I think Up truly belongs more to those of us who are mature enough to understand the story.
Hence, the Name
I don't feel this way all of the time, but occasionally, the words to this song ring very true.
Glen is singing it a bit faster here than on the record, but that's okay. For some reason, the words are clearer and more distinct in this live performance.
Glen is singing it a bit faster here than on the record, but that's okay. For some reason, the words are clearer and more distinct in this live performance.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Notes on Pride
This year, at the urging of my friends S and J, I went to both the Los Angeles Pride Festival and Parade. I hadn't been to the parade in about five years, the last time being at the insistence of my good friend J (a different one). As for the festival, well, it's probably been at least ten years since I attended. I remember that Partner At The Time and I went a few times when we together, but it's been more than seven years since we broke up.
I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good seeing S and J, two friends from my days in graduate school here in California. They are both charming hosts and sharp wits. We walked around a bit, enjoying the different types of music and the various booths for organizations and vendors. We ate some tasty kabobs and had more than our share of beer. We watched some performers on the so-called Main Stage, and we shopped for rings together. No, not those kind of rings, but the ones we found were quite nice.
Some observations I made during the day yesterday:
Where would the organizers of the festival be without American Idol? Among the performers this weekend were Fantasia Barrino, Syesha Mercado, and Blake Lewis, one winner and two finalists. Of those three, I saw Mercado (whom I initially thought was Rihanna thanks to her performance of two Rihanna songs back to back) and Lewis, and both are assured singers, Lewis being the more experimental and edgy of the two. However, if it weren't for the TV show, the gays would be left with Teri Nunn and Berlin (whom I also saw) and Deborah Cox and Expose, none of them performers at the top of the charts these days.
The dance "tent" should be renamed The Land of the Ken Dolls. I've not seen so many shirtless guys with the same basic body since, well, the last time I was at Pride. There is definitely a specific body that is prized among gay men, and you can tell they've put in some heavy duty hours in the gym to achieve it. I just find it sad, though, that you could take the head off one guy and put it on another guy's body, and no one would be able to tell. And the body type cuts across ethnicities too. It's not just white guys who have "the look."
It's almost embarrassing to watch porn stars with any clothes on. Several boys from Randy Blue (some of you know what I'm talking about) marched in the parade and then walked around the festival site yesterday. My friends and I have, naturally, seen some of these guys' work. It's very disconcerting, though, to see a handsome, muscular young man wearing a pair of baby blue shorts when you know what he looks like naked. And in various positions.
The parade always starts with Dykes on Bikes. I have never figured out why. There must be a story about how they became the traditional beginning of the parade. Nevertheless, here's my proof that there was, indeed, a parade:
I received a signed baseball cap from Pat Rocco yesterday. He was one of this year's honorees, and I was apparently the only person in my area who recognized him. I applauded him as he passed, and he waved me over to the convertible and presented me with the cap. It was really a surprising moment, and he's a very generous man. Here's someone who helped to found the festival and has gone on to have an intriguing career as an independent/underground/experimental filmmaker. You'd think he would have needed a lot of caps to distribute. (The cap came in handy, too, as the sun came out and proceeded to scorch us for most of the afternoon.)
Lots of people distribute promotional material during the parade and festival. You get lots of lube and condoms, unsurprisingly, and plenty of fliers for various events and clubs. I also got a paddle, courtesy of the Pleasure Chest, which says "Spank Someone Happy." Not sure when I'll get to put that to use, but I suppose it will be good to have it handy just in case. However, the most interesting thing I got was a flier for a "dating" service. A very young Asian guy was distributing the cards to selected men only, and I happened to receive one of them. (S and J were not invited.) It's for a website called Gay Sugar Daddy Finder. Now before you start, let me assure you that he didn't think I was on the market to find a sugar daddy for myself. I must look like a potential sugar daddy to him. Sigh. I guess I should be flattered, but it's tough not to wonder if that is what life has left for me. I don't make anywhere near enough money to be considered a sugar daddy, and I'm not especially interested in younger men anyway, but perhaps this is where you wind up when you reach my age.
I will admit that I don't often feel like I'm truly a part of the gay community. What tends to represent our community is the image of the young, muscular, hairless type of guy, the Ken Dolls I spoke of earlier. That's not me. It never has been me. Oh, of course, I've been young, but the guys my age who come to Pride now are really of two camps, for the most part: guys who are trying to look like they're still young and guys who just want to look at those who are still young. I'm neither of those. I was always skinny until I hit my late 30s. Then I guess my metabolism changed, and I got lazy. I'll never be a cover boy, and frankly, I don't have the time and energy to become one. As for the hairlessness, well, I'm on my way, but in all the wrong places, sadly. I'm close to joining the Bald Brigade, as I dubbed them yesterday.
However, despite all of that, I did feel at times that I belonged yesterday. I still love watching guys dancing together in the country music pavilion. It's a thrill I could never have imagined growing up. People were, for the most part, very kind to each other. I managed to get through the entire day without one beer being spilled on me by someone, for example, and I figure that has to be a major accomplishment. And I even got to speak to a couple of people who struck up conversations with me. Of course, most of them were lesbians or bisexual women or fairy godmothers, but the point remains that I wasn't completely invisible. That's quite refreshing for me to realize, considering how often I feel as if I am that way.
I still want to attend Pride someday with someone I love. I still want to hold hands with someone and walk around and dance together and listen to the performers and buy useless crap for each other and eat cheap food and drink too much. And I still want to talk after the festival is over about how much fun we had and how much we're looking forward to the next one.
I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good seeing S and J, two friends from my days in graduate school here in California. They are both charming hosts and sharp wits. We walked around a bit, enjoying the different types of music and the various booths for organizations and vendors. We ate some tasty kabobs and had more than our share of beer. We watched some performers on the so-called Main Stage, and we shopped for rings together. No, not those kind of rings, but the ones we found were quite nice.
Some observations I made during the day yesterday:
Where would the organizers of the festival be without American Idol? Among the performers this weekend were Fantasia Barrino, Syesha Mercado, and Blake Lewis, one winner and two finalists. Of those three, I saw Mercado (whom I initially thought was Rihanna thanks to her performance of two Rihanna songs back to back) and Lewis, and both are assured singers, Lewis being the more experimental and edgy of the two. However, if it weren't for the TV show, the gays would be left with Teri Nunn and Berlin (whom I also saw) and Deborah Cox and Expose, none of them performers at the top of the charts these days.
The dance "tent" should be renamed The Land of the Ken Dolls. I've not seen so many shirtless guys with the same basic body since, well, the last time I was at Pride. There is definitely a specific body that is prized among gay men, and you can tell they've put in some heavy duty hours in the gym to achieve it. I just find it sad, though, that you could take the head off one guy and put it on another guy's body, and no one would be able to tell. And the body type cuts across ethnicities too. It's not just white guys who have "the look."
It's almost embarrassing to watch porn stars with any clothes on. Several boys from Randy Blue (some of you know what I'm talking about) marched in the parade and then walked around the festival site yesterday. My friends and I have, naturally, seen some of these guys' work. It's very disconcerting, though, to see a handsome, muscular young man wearing a pair of baby blue shorts when you know what he looks like naked. And in various positions.
The parade always starts with Dykes on Bikes. I have never figured out why. There must be a story about how they became the traditional beginning of the parade. Nevertheless, here's my proof that there was, indeed, a parade:
I received a signed baseball cap from Pat Rocco yesterday. He was one of this year's honorees, and I was apparently the only person in my area who recognized him. I applauded him as he passed, and he waved me over to the convertible and presented me with the cap. It was really a surprising moment, and he's a very generous man. Here's someone who helped to found the festival and has gone on to have an intriguing career as an independent/underground/experimental filmmaker. You'd think he would have needed a lot of caps to distribute. (The cap came in handy, too, as the sun came out and proceeded to scorch us for most of the afternoon.)
Lots of people distribute promotional material during the parade and festival. You get lots of lube and condoms, unsurprisingly, and plenty of fliers for various events and clubs. I also got a paddle, courtesy of the Pleasure Chest, which says "Spank Someone Happy." Not sure when I'll get to put that to use, but I suppose it will be good to have it handy just in case. However, the most interesting thing I got was a flier for a "dating" service. A very young Asian guy was distributing the cards to selected men only, and I happened to receive one of them. (S and J were not invited.) It's for a website called Gay Sugar Daddy Finder. Now before you start, let me assure you that he didn't think I was on the market to find a sugar daddy for myself. I must look like a potential sugar daddy to him. Sigh. I guess I should be flattered, but it's tough not to wonder if that is what life has left for me. I don't make anywhere near enough money to be considered a sugar daddy, and I'm not especially interested in younger men anyway, but perhaps this is where you wind up when you reach my age.
I will admit that I don't often feel like I'm truly a part of the gay community. What tends to represent our community is the image of the young, muscular, hairless type of guy, the Ken Dolls I spoke of earlier. That's not me. It never has been me. Oh, of course, I've been young, but the guys my age who come to Pride now are really of two camps, for the most part: guys who are trying to look like they're still young and guys who just want to look at those who are still young. I'm neither of those. I was always skinny until I hit my late 30s. Then I guess my metabolism changed, and I got lazy. I'll never be a cover boy, and frankly, I don't have the time and energy to become one. As for the hairlessness, well, I'm on my way, but in all the wrong places, sadly. I'm close to joining the Bald Brigade, as I dubbed them yesterday.
However, despite all of that, I did feel at times that I belonged yesterday. I still love watching guys dancing together in the country music pavilion. It's a thrill I could never have imagined growing up. People were, for the most part, very kind to each other. I managed to get through the entire day without one beer being spilled on me by someone, for example, and I figure that has to be a major accomplishment. And I even got to speak to a couple of people who struck up conversations with me. Of course, most of them were lesbians or bisexual women or fairy godmothers, but the point remains that I wasn't completely invisible. That's quite refreshing for me to realize, considering how often I feel as if I am that way.
I still want to attend Pride someday with someone I love. I still want to hold hands with someone and walk around and dance together and listen to the performers and buy useless crap for each other and eat cheap food and drink too much. And I still want to talk after the festival is over about how much fun we had and how much we're looking forward to the next one.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Foreign Languages
I ventured out of the house yesterday to see the movie Rudo y Cursi at the Beverly Center. It's a film from Mexico starring Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna (so memorable together in Y Tu Mama Tambien) as brothers who dream of being star soccer players. It was the second foreign language film I'd seen in a week. I had earlier gone to the Arclight to watch Departures, the Japanese film that won this year's Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. I've always enjoyed watching movies from other countries. It's good to get a different perspective on filmmaking, and you wouldn't find two more different movies than Rudo y Cursi and Departures.
Rudo y Cursi is, of course, in Spanish, and my knowledge of Spanish is pretty limited to reading it with a low level of fluency. I can't usually detect every word when people are speaking in Spanish, but I usually get the gist of the conversation. I know enough Spanish to realize that some of the subtitles for the movie were way off from what the characters were saying, but I think that's likely to be the case regardless of the movie. Both of the lead actors in Rudo y Cursi are great, and I liked watching their rivalry develop over time as each plays for a different team. It's a pretty interesting depiction of the vagaries of fame and the evolving bonds between family members.
Departures, being in Japanese, demanded much more of my attention. I spent a great deal of time reading because I know no words in Japanese. It's a much quieter movie than Rudo y Cursi. It deals with a cello player whose orchestra folds and he must take a job preparing bodies for funerals (or "departures"). It's a beautifully delicate film in many ways, nuanced and silent at times but with touches of humor as well. Watching the rituals associated with preparing a body to be placed in a casket was quite intriguing, and I think the movie has a lot to say about the respect that we give our dead and even to the living who must work with the dead.
Having said that, I'd like to point out that when I went to see Rudo y Cursi yesterday, there were three other people in the theater. Four people total, that's all. Even in Los Angeles, with its large Spanish-speaking and/or bilingual populations, you'd think there would be more people going to see this film. People are missing a funny rendition in Spanish of the old Cheap Trick song "I Want You to Want Me," if nothing else. The audience for Departures was larger, of course, no doubt a result of its having won an Academy Award. There must have been at least, oh, twelve people in that theater.
There's an article in last week's Entertainment Weekly about how "grown-up movies" are an endangered species in Hollywood. So many movies that are targeted to people above the age of 25, say, are failing to take in a lot of money these days, so the studios are going to keep unleashing gross-out comedies and sequels and torture porn and such because those are the kinds of movies the kids want to see. But who's going to see foreign language films these days? When you can only muster about a dozen folks to see the movie that is being advertised as the surprise Oscar winner, what does that say about the future of these movies? I worry that we're going to become so insular that the market for films from other countries will only be on DVD, and even those are not easy to come by sometimes. You'd have to have some incredibly strong word-of-mouth to get people to rent a foreign language film.
I know every now and then a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon breaks out and makes hundreds of millions of dollars, but those kinds of hits are becoming fewer and fewer in number. Will there be a market for foreign language movies that have never played in a U.S. theater? I realize that Los Angeles is a major market for foreign language films, but you can count on your hands the number of such movies playing right now in the city. And compare those numbers to, say, the number of screens on which Land of the Lost or Terminator Salvation played, and you'll begin to see what I fear the most. I suppose I could just wait for the inevitable Hollywood remakes, but I plan to keep seeking out movies like Rudo y Cursi and Departures even if it means that, at some point, I'm the only one in the theater.
Rudo y Cursi is, of course, in Spanish, and my knowledge of Spanish is pretty limited to reading it with a low level of fluency. I can't usually detect every word when people are speaking in Spanish, but I usually get the gist of the conversation. I know enough Spanish to realize that some of the subtitles for the movie were way off from what the characters were saying, but I think that's likely to be the case regardless of the movie. Both of the lead actors in Rudo y Cursi are great, and I liked watching their rivalry develop over time as each plays for a different team. It's a pretty interesting depiction of the vagaries of fame and the evolving bonds between family members.
Departures, being in Japanese, demanded much more of my attention. I spent a great deal of time reading because I know no words in Japanese. It's a much quieter movie than Rudo y Cursi. It deals with a cello player whose orchestra folds and he must take a job preparing bodies for funerals (or "departures"). It's a beautifully delicate film in many ways, nuanced and silent at times but with touches of humor as well. Watching the rituals associated with preparing a body to be placed in a casket was quite intriguing, and I think the movie has a lot to say about the respect that we give our dead and even to the living who must work with the dead.
Having said that, I'd like to point out that when I went to see Rudo y Cursi yesterday, there were three other people in the theater. Four people total, that's all. Even in Los Angeles, with its large Spanish-speaking and/or bilingual populations, you'd think there would be more people going to see this film. People are missing a funny rendition in Spanish of the old Cheap Trick song "I Want You to Want Me," if nothing else. The audience for Departures was larger, of course, no doubt a result of its having won an Academy Award. There must have been at least, oh, twelve people in that theater.
There's an article in last week's Entertainment Weekly about how "grown-up movies" are an endangered species in Hollywood. So many movies that are targeted to people above the age of 25, say, are failing to take in a lot of money these days, so the studios are going to keep unleashing gross-out comedies and sequels and torture porn and such because those are the kinds of movies the kids want to see. But who's going to see foreign language films these days? When you can only muster about a dozen folks to see the movie that is being advertised as the surprise Oscar winner, what does that say about the future of these movies? I worry that we're going to become so insular that the market for films from other countries will only be on DVD, and even those are not easy to come by sometimes. You'd have to have some incredibly strong word-of-mouth to get people to rent a foreign language film.
I know every now and then a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon breaks out and makes hundreds of millions of dollars, but those kinds of hits are becoming fewer and fewer in number. Will there be a market for foreign language movies that have never played in a U.S. theater? I realize that Los Angeles is a major market for foreign language films, but you can count on your hands the number of such movies playing right now in the city. And compare those numbers to, say, the number of screens on which Land of the Lost or Terminator Salvation played, and you'll begin to see what I fear the most. I suppose I could just wait for the inevitable Hollywood remakes, but I plan to keep seeking out movies like Rudo y Cursi and Departures even if it means that, at some point, I'm the only one in the theater.
Nutty Neighbors: Uncle Boo and the Bros
I've been so busy watching old movies and preparing for summer school that I've neglected to introduce the new neighbors to you. They moved in about six weeks ago, just before the end of the spring semester. Once again, I can't really tell you how many people are living in the apartment, but I think it might be two guys. Just like with the last set of neighbors, though, it's a little tough to tell. Some nights we get the pleasure of having almost a dozen guys next door, and on other nights, it's seems like there's only one person there. Given the track record of people living in that apartment, I guess it's just a matter of time before I find out. After all, when the notice of non-payment of rent shows up on the door, all of the tenants are supposed to be listed.
I've nicknamed them the Bros because they are all guys in their twenties and none of them seem to have much going on in life. I think they work, but it's tough to tell. Most of the afternoons are quiet around here, as I've found out since I've been on break from teaching for almost three weeks now, but they don't have early-to-bed-early-to-rise jobs. Most mornings the shower next door doesn't start up until about 10 a.m. I know this because I've been sleeping in a lot of days, and a short shower wouldn't be a distraction. I clocked one the other morning that lasted 38 minutes. None of the guys I've seen entering or exiting the apartment are that big, so I don't know what takes so long to wash.
One of them has some sort of movie or TV production job. I know this because he had an extended cell phone conversation with his mother in the hallway outside the apartment. I suppose he wanted all of us on this floor to be able to hear him beg his mother for money. Apparently, the job isn't paying all that well and she only sent him 100 bucks last time. I just kept thinking as the begging continued how pathetic it must be to have a job and a place of your own yet still need to ask your parents for money. If he were in college, I would understand, but this is someone who is acting like he's a grown-up.
I think this is also the one who had a long conversation in the bathroom one night about marijuana. It was about 1 a.m., and the tile does lend itself to a very clear echo through the walls. He seemed high at the time too. Perhaps he's the one who giggles uncontrollably sometimes. I do know that they keep almost all of the windows of the apartment open all the time; you can see it from the outside of the building. Perhaps they're trying to make sure that the smell doesn't linger for too long?
By the way, just like the last tenants, the Bros don't have a lot of furniture. There's still a pronounced echo coming from next door sometimes, but at least, it's quieter than before. They don't yell all the time. The only problem I've really had with them is when they get home late at night and decide to watch TV to unwind. Loudly. Until about 2 or 3 in the morning. I called to complain a couple of times, but I've been joined by a chorus of other people in the building, and the Bros have gotten better about keeping the noise level down.
You might be wondering by now who "Uncle Boo" is. This past Sunday, I was awakened at noon--who are you to judge me?--by some loud knocking. Our doors are side by side, so it isn't always easy to tell if someone is knocking on my door or on theirs. One of them has a niece who's about 6 years old or so; there was a younger nephew too, but he wasn't talking. When no one came to the door, she called on her daddy's cell phone. She kept saying, "Uncle Boo, we're right outside your door." I don't know which one is Uncle Boo because I didn't stick around to see who opened the door finally, but I have a feeling I'm likely to snicker the next time I have to get in the elevator with one of them.
Just as an aside, to the best of my knowledge, the niece is the only girl or woman who's been in that apartment. Oh, they talk a good game--and they do talk about women a lot--but there's no evidence that any of them has any game.
All in all, these guys are much better neighbors than the last set. As you may recall from previous posts, I felt like Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls were there solely to torture me. I was never so happy as when they moved out. I was initially fearful when the new guys started moving in, particularly since they chose a Saturday at midnight to begin, but after a couple of rocky patches, they've quieted down. I'm hoping that we've reached a truce of sorts. Given my luck, however, they'll probably move within the year, and I'll be stuck next to that all-night roller disco and meth lab combo that I've been dreading.
I've nicknamed them the Bros because they are all guys in their twenties and none of them seem to have much going on in life. I think they work, but it's tough to tell. Most of the afternoons are quiet around here, as I've found out since I've been on break from teaching for almost three weeks now, but they don't have early-to-bed-early-to-rise jobs. Most mornings the shower next door doesn't start up until about 10 a.m. I know this because I've been sleeping in a lot of days, and a short shower wouldn't be a distraction. I clocked one the other morning that lasted 38 minutes. None of the guys I've seen entering or exiting the apartment are that big, so I don't know what takes so long to wash.
One of them has some sort of movie or TV production job. I know this because he had an extended cell phone conversation with his mother in the hallway outside the apartment. I suppose he wanted all of us on this floor to be able to hear him beg his mother for money. Apparently, the job isn't paying all that well and she only sent him 100 bucks last time. I just kept thinking as the begging continued how pathetic it must be to have a job and a place of your own yet still need to ask your parents for money. If he were in college, I would understand, but this is someone who is acting like he's a grown-up.
I think this is also the one who had a long conversation in the bathroom one night about marijuana. It was about 1 a.m., and the tile does lend itself to a very clear echo through the walls. He seemed high at the time too. Perhaps he's the one who giggles uncontrollably sometimes. I do know that they keep almost all of the windows of the apartment open all the time; you can see it from the outside of the building. Perhaps they're trying to make sure that the smell doesn't linger for too long?
By the way, just like the last tenants, the Bros don't have a lot of furniture. There's still a pronounced echo coming from next door sometimes, but at least, it's quieter than before. They don't yell all the time. The only problem I've really had with them is when they get home late at night and decide to watch TV to unwind. Loudly. Until about 2 or 3 in the morning. I called to complain a couple of times, but I've been joined by a chorus of other people in the building, and the Bros have gotten better about keeping the noise level down.
You might be wondering by now who "Uncle Boo" is. This past Sunday, I was awakened at noon--who are you to judge me?--by some loud knocking. Our doors are side by side, so it isn't always easy to tell if someone is knocking on my door or on theirs. One of them has a niece who's about 6 years old or so; there was a younger nephew too, but he wasn't talking. When no one came to the door, she called on her daddy's cell phone. She kept saying, "Uncle Boo, we're right outside your door." I don't know which one is Uncle Boo because I didn't stick around to see who opened the door finally, but I have a feeling I'm likely to snicker the next time I have to get in the elevator with one of them.
Just as an aside, to the best of my knowledge, the niece is the only girl or woman who's been in that apartment. Oh, they talk a good game--and they do talk about women a lot--but there's no evidence that any of them has any game.
All in all, these guys are much better neighbors than the last set. As you may recall from previous posts, I felt like Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls were there solely to torture me. I was never so happy as when they moved out. I was initially fearful when the new guys started moving in, particularly since they chose a Saturday at midnight to begin, but after a couple of rocky patches, they've quieted down. I'm hoping that we've reached a truce of sorts. Given my luck, however, they'll probably move within the year, and I'll be stuck next to that all-night roller disco and meth lab combo that I've been dreading.
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