When Every Night Is Saturday Night

I am valiantly making my way through the first season of "Saturday Night Live". This I am doing partly aided by "Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live" by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller, which provides enough of a glimpse backstage to account for (and more importantly, explain) whatever odd or incongruous thing might be happening in front of the cameras.

Normally valiant is not an adverb I would use to describe anything I do, let alone watch television, but here I think it's apt. As much as the purists would disagree, it's been pretty hard going. For all the accolades that would eventually accrue to the Not Ready For Prime Time Players they're not quite ready for them yet. Still, it's nice to see people who would later come to feel entitled to their fans - more specifically Chase and Belushi - here still working so hard to earn them.

Ahead lay four more seasons of considerably better material. Chevy Chase, of course, left after the first season and took his ego with him, leaving a spot just big enough to hold Bill Murray's talent. But for the most part, leaving SNL was a mixed bag for the cast: for some it led to a peculiar kind of famous obscurity (Garrett Morris, Laraine Newman), for others lousier and lousier movies (Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase), and even early death (John Belushi, Gilda Radner).

It took a decade and a half for Jane Curtin to dispel the curse and finally be ready for prime time with a star turn in "Third Rock From The Sun", probably because she alone refused to believe her own hype. She has mostly refused to speak about (and thus capitalise on) the cultural moment that was SNL, and hasn't participated in any televised reunions. By all accounts she alone didn't attend the bacchanalian round of parties which surrounded the show and so didn't suffer like the rest from having smoke blown up her ass. When it came time for her to step back into another ensemble she was able to without hesitation. To this day Mary Albright remains one of the best drawn sitcom characters, and a personal favourite of mine.

I just finished watching the episode starring Ron Nessen. Who is Ron Nessen, you ask? Why, none other than press secretary to President Gerald Ford. Now, imagine any of the stooges who've held the same position within the current Administration doing a thing like that. If the show has one failing now it's in how slick it's gotten; in Season One it's still raw.

Still, there's the ethical dilemna: how can one watch a show meant for 11:30 Saturday night be watched at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday without causing serious damage to the viewer? I mean, I'm afraid of opening a rift in the time-space continuum, or at least I'm afraid I won't be able to close it if I do.
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Photo Essay: BC Place

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Department of Good Christians: Archbishop Desmond Tutu

"Archbishop Desmond Tutu blasted the African Anglican Church on Friday over its rift with the Episcopal branch and its positions on gay clergy. The African Anglicans are reportedly refusing to sit at a table with Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori at a global Anglican meeting in Tanzania next month.

"Said Tutu: "I am deeply disturbed that in the face of some of the most horrendous problems facing Africa, we concentrate on 'what do I do in bed with whom'. For one to penalise someone for their sexual orientation is the same as penalising someone for something they can do nothing about, like ethnicity or race. I cannot imagine persecuting a minority group which is already being persecuted. The God I worship would not consider that [gay clergy] to be a priority concern."

"Tutu added that "churches should instead be thinking about poverty, HIV/AIDS and conflict resolution."

[SOURCE: Towleroad]
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Cobra Video Owner Murdered

"The charred remains of Bryan Charles Kocis were identified by Pennsylvania authorities earlier today and a formal murder investigation has begun. An autopsy revealed that he was stabbed to death. They believe that his house was intentionally set on fire to cover up the murder and his remains had to be identified by dental records, several PA newspapers are reporting.

"No formal suspects have been named, but Citizen's Voice is reporting that police have questioned three California men he was involved in a "business dispute" with, one of which presumably is Sean Lockhart.

"Kocis, 44, was best known for his complicated ongoing legal battle with Lockhart, better known as gay porn star Brent Corrigan, 21. Jason Curious is reporting that the two were seen hugging at Krave in Las Vegas earlier this month and that they had finally reached a settlement to their legal dispute that would have involved them working together again.

"Kocis, a convicted child molester, was the owner of Cobra Video, a popular bareback twink studio; he directed and produced all their films. Cobra and Kocis were thrust in the spotlight in 2005 when Lockhart/Corrigan announced that he was underage when he filmed Every Poolboy's Dream a year earlier. When I interviewed him, Lockhart told me Kocis gave him a car for filming Poolboy, and speculated that Kocis has made well over $1 million from it.

"Copies of the movie were promptly pulled off shelves after Lockhart's disclosure. Lockhart later alleged that he was romantically involved with Kocis at the time of the filming and that Kocis was well aware that he was underage. Kocis claimed claimed to have proof on file showing Lockhart was legal at time the time of shooting.

"Kocis responded by suing Lockhart for trademark violation for use of the name "Brent Corrigan", contract violation and a few other charges, much to the chagrin of Lockhart who often railed against Kocis and Cobra on his blog and to the press, and even held a web cam fundraiser to pay for his mounting legal fees. To avoid a legal entanglement with Kocis, Falcon Studios called Lockhart "Fox Ryder" in Velvet Mafia. Cobra continued to release movies featuring Lockhart as recently as August 2006, when they released Take It Like A Bitch Boy and Fuck, Me Raw, which featured Corrigan on the cover with a drop of cum poorly photoshopped to appear if it was dripping out of his ass.

"Although Kocis never faced child pornography charges for producing Every Poolboy's Dream, he was charged with it in 2002, when police found a videotape of Kocis having sex with a 15 year old boy. He pled guilty to sexual abuse of a child and was sentenced to one year probation."

[SOURCE: Gay Porn Blog]
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BC Place: Money Walks and Bullshit Talks

That means the Home Show is on, leaky roof and all. Gee, you'd think with a thousand contractors on hand one of them would know what to do about a thing like that.

Still, it's nice to look out my window of a morning and see the Dome again, though this story (as is usually the case with stories such as these) is still far from over.
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A World Gone Mad

The best part of my job? There's no water cooler.

The worst part of my job? Yup, there's no water cooler.

All that talk you're only supposed to do around the water cooler can happen anywhere.

It happened today. I'm trying to do my job and all of a sudden out it comes:

"Whattaya think about this Isiah Washington?" This from my coworker, a very gentle but very large black man.

I suppose I could have answered: "Who?"

Only I'm a little too smart for my own good; no one who's ever met me would ever think I wouldn't know who Isiah Washington is, even before his scandal broke. Since plausible denialbility is out the window, I know I can either tread lightly or else I can barge through.

I decide to drop a gay bomb and dash. "I know, huh, a black guy said 'faggot'. Next thing you're gonna tell me Michael Richards uses the n-word."

It took him a moment to start laughing and by the time he stopped I'd gotten clean away.
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It's On!

Thus begins the most frenzied month of back-stabbing and self-aggrandizement in Hollywood since... Well, since last month.

It's the Oscars, or what Robin Williams (likely via Bruce Vilanch) once called "the grand-daddy of all chachkas". Some have also called it the gay Super Bowl, which is another misnomer. The real gay Super Bowl is the regular Super Bowl watched only by gay men, complete with bitchery and minus the homoerotic subtext.

Needless to say, don't be fooled into thinking the nominees (let alone the winners) are selected based on the merits of their performances. Not that there aren't some fine performances here, but these nominees are the end results of millions of dollars of PR. The winners themselves represent the laboured machinations of white guilt on the part of literally hundreds of limousine liberals. This explains why 3-6 Mafia won Best Song last year over Dolly Parton.

Personally, I think the fact that Sharon Stone could get all the way through "Basic Instinct 2" with a straight face is more a testament to her acting ability than Meryl Streep's chewing of scenery. Not to mention Sharon's doctor, who is a dab hand with a Botox needle.

Plus, Ellen's gonna rock!

Performance by an actor in a leading role

Leonardo DiCaprio - BLOOD DIAMOND
Ryan Gosling - HALF NELSON
Peter O'Toole - VENUS
Will Smith - THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS
Forest Whitaker - THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND

Performance by an actor in a supporting role

Alan Arkin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jackie Earle Haley - LITTLE CHILDREN
Djimon Hounsou - BLOOD DIAMOND
Eddie Murphy - DREAMGIRLS
Mark Wahlberg - THE DEPARTED

Performance by an actress in a leading role

Penélope Cruz - VOLVER
Judi Dench - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Helen Mirren - THE QUEEN
Meryl Streep - THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
Kate Winslet - LITTLE CHILDREN

Performance by an actress in a supporting role

Adriana Barraza - BABEL
Cate Blanchett - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Abigail Breslin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jennifer Hudson - DREAMGIRLS
Rinko Kikuchi - BABEL

Best animated feature film of the year

CARS
HAPPY FEET
MONSTER HOUSE

Achievement in art direction

DREAMGIRLS
THE GOOD SHEPHERD
PAN'S LABYRINTH
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
THE PRESTIGE

Achievement in cinematography

THE BLACK DAHLIA
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE ILLUSIONIST
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE PRESTIGE

Achievement in costume design

CURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER
THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
DREAMGIRLS
MARIE ANTOINETTE
THE QUEEN

Achievement in directing

BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
THE QUEEN
UNITED 93

Best documentary feature

DELIVER US FROM EVIL
AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
JESUS CAMP
MY COUNTRY, MY COUNTRY

Best documentary short subject

THE BLOOD OF YINGZHOU DISTRICT
RECYCLED LIFE
REHEARSING A DREAM
TWO HANDS

Achievement in film editing

BABEL
BLOOD DIAMOND
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
UNITED 93

Best foreign language film of the year

AFTER THE WEDDING
DAYS OF GLORY (INDIGÈNES)
THE LIVES OF OTHERS
PAN'S LABYRINTH
WATER

Achievement in makeup

APOCALYPTO
CLICK
PAN'S LABYRINTH

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)

BABEL
THE GOOD GERMAN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)

"I Need to Wake Up" - AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
"Listen" - DREAMGIRLS
"Love You I Do" - DREAMGIRLS
"Our Town" - CARS
"Patience" - DREAMGIRLS

Best motion picture of the year

BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
THE QUEEN

Best animated short film

THE DANISH POET
LIFTED
THE LITTLE MATCHGIRL
MAESTRO
NO TIME FOR NUTS

Best live action short film

BINTA AND THE GREAT IDEA (BINTA Y LA GRAN IDEA)
ÉRAMOS POCOS (ONE TOO MANY)
HELMER & SON
THE SAVIOUR
WEST BANK STORY

Achievement in sound editing

APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST

Achievement in sound mixing

APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
DREAMGIRLS
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST

Achievement in visual effects

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
POSEIDON
SUPERMAN RETURNS

Adapted screenplay

BORAT CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
LITTLE CHILDREN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL

Original screenplay

BABEL
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN
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Walls

I was going to entitle this collection "Up Against It", but given the gallows tone of the previous post decided I'd better not. Then I thought I might give it a smartass title, like "All's Wall That Ends Wall", but even I get tired of smartass once in awhile, so again I made the grown-up choice.

* * *

The textures of our built environment in all their variety fascinate me, and feature as one of the strongest motifs in my portfolio. Sometimes photography feels to me like the archaeology of the moment, and sometimes I'm just trying to make sense of the bewilderment of patterns which is life in my little corner of the Earth.

If any of these interests you, feel free to contact me and I'll be glad to send you a copy. Coincidentally, any of these would make an excellent wallpaper for your computer.
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Arbeit Macht Frei

For as much as I grumble about my job, it really has given me more than I've given it. Not that I haven't worked - I have a workaholic's loathing for laziness and the people who practice it - it's just that kind of job.

Sometimes it gives me time to read, and so I've read. Due to the numerous inevitable interruptions my job entails I've had to read in nibbles rather than gulps, which must be why the books I've read at work have made such indelible impressions upon me. I've also learned to select reading material for work that has short sections or scenes to make this even easier, which in turn has taught me that working more efficiently is a way to work harder and less simultaneously.

Sometimes it's given me the kind of vantage point that other photographers would die for, or else access to the hidden places where the workings of the modern world are kept. Places like boiler rooms for instance, or rooftops. I feel about a boiler room the way Leonardo must have felt about La Gioconda, and I feel about a rooftop the way he must have felt about the soldiers and labourers who posed for him. (Okay, that may be stretching things a bit; a gorgeous muscular Florentine is always preferable to a rooftop. But, put the two together and you'll be closer to Heaven in more ways than one.)

My job has also given me the opportunity to do my own work in the middle of the night, when the world is silent and Internet traffic virtually nil. It's given me the money to purchase the bones of a collection - books, music, DVDs - suitable to a place called the Pop Culture Institute. Whether I've needed isolation or companionship it's given me these things as well. It's given me exercise and relaxation, feedback and contemplation, time to write and material to write about.

The stresses of evil co-workers, stupid or needy members of the public, and sixteen hour days have in time all fallen away, to the point where now when I encounter any of these things they no longer bother me, since I know that even a couple of days hence the stress they're causing me in the moment will be forgotten. Even the cold shoulders caused by feline neglect have faded, now that I can afford to buy the good food.

I realise the title I gave this post is a reminder of Nazi atrocities (it appears wrought in iron over the gates of Auschwitz) and therefore some people will oppose my using it out of principle. But there were days when I felt like the heartless company I work for was determined to work me to death, and I used this slogan (powered by extra-strength gallow's humour) to cheer myself up. The queer in me enjoys the irony of reclaiming the sentiment; like the swastika is a thousand year old emblem of power destroyed by the Nazis, so possibly was the real message of these words: Work Shall Set You Free.

As indeed it shall. Some day, with much work, I'll be free of my job, free to work full time at my career. Not luck, but work. The people I've worked with - for the most part sluggish and complaisant, working to rule - will still be stuck in their same dead end jobs or else some other dead end jobs while I'll be following my dreams to wherever they take me.
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When Life is Too Good

I've never wanted to be one of those people who is only creative when life sucks, because I really don't fancy going out and getting hit by a car just so I can blog. No, life is pretty good, and I'm doing everything in my power not to let stabillity become boring.

Work is proceeding again on "The Barington Encounter", a novel in progress which one day will be excerpted here. Yesterday I used up one of my last Christmas presents from my mother, and HSBC gift card, to buy the second season of "Chappelle's Show" and the first season of "Saturday Night Live" on DVD, came home and laughed my freakin' ass off. That's a pretty good way to spend an evening.

Also, I bought new headphones. If there's been a crisis in my life the last couple of weeks it's that the recent cold snap ruined my iPod headphones, which rendered my iPod unlistenable. I'd come to look forward to some tunes on my walks to and from work, and without them, well, it didn't really make much difference, except that when I want something I want it and I couldn't have it in this case. I suppose even a bad thing like this becomes a lesson in patience and forbearance (not to mention a restraint on my seemingly massive entitlement complex). I mean, there are children in Darfur who, in addition to not owning iPods (or the computers to load them or the CDs to supply them) are also being ethnically cleansed.

Also, not making New Year's resolutions really helps. Instead, I decided to make life resolutions, the main one of which is to celebrate what I have, not yearn for what I don't. While it's not always possible, it's at least probable, which is the next best thing (and not in a crappy Madonna movie kind of way).

So while it's currently rainy and grey outside, at least it's not as cold as last week. I may have no boyfriend but the love I have to give a man accrues to me instead. I'm 98% blessed, which is better than most people.

Plus, I just got a blog entry out of it, which makes me 99% blessed.
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Ask and Ye Shall Believe

Well, any notion that I'm typing away in the dark at words that no one else will ever see have been firmly dispelled. Not only do I have readers I have strangers for readers. Strangers I have things in common with, even, which opens up a whole new realm of possibilities with regards to what I can or ought to write about. I've also learned that I need to spend a few more minutes checking my facts before I post (sorry Matt Drudge, I called you fat and you're not).

I learned that Big Ass Belle is not only on a self-improvement kick but a sensitive writer with a difficult job to do. Her post about visiting the shaken baby should be mandatory reading for all expectant parents. Without meaning any disrespect (which is hard for anyone as snarky as me) can I say that I was shaken by reading this post. I learned that Evil Ganome is just about as curmudgeonly as me (except that he's had a dozen more years than I have to perfect it, and it shows). I learned that "Don" thinks I'm cute and that I can't access his profile to return the smile. I also learned that JoeMyGod (apart from being its own wonderful thing) is a breeding ground for alot of other wonderful things.

All of which makes me begin to reverberate in expectation over the coming weeks and months. I mean, once I actually figure out how to work this thing the possibilities are endless. Which, when it comes to possibilities, is just how I like them.
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Political Hack Made Environment Minister

Here it comes, another post about politics. Those with weak stomachs are encouraged to skip it.

Less than one week into his new job, new Environment Minister John Baird is already embroiled in a scandal concerning his last job as President of the Treasury Board. In that job he killed a transit project in Ottawa for obviously political reasons.

Great. First we have a ninny who gets easily dazed by camera flash, and now we get some slavering toady in the job of safeguarding the environment (by like, oh, I dunno, adding more public transit). Yeah, he should be able to find nonpartisan solutions to the problems facing the environment. As long as the solutions don't interfere with the aims and ambitions of the Tory's donors.

Hug a tree today; they're going to need it.
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Water Water Everywhere

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The World's Largest Air-Supported Dome

"The late evening sun casts its long shadows over the roof of BC Place Stadium, in Vancouver."


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BC Place: Up In The Air?

There is a movement afoot in the province's highest offices to demolish BC's iconic BC Place Stadium sometime after it hosts the world in 2010. (There's some kind of event going on here then, I guess.)

Naturally we here at the Pop Culture Institute will always favour restoration to rebuilding. For the city to lose one of its icons, not to mention one of its places in the record books -- World's Largest Air-Supported Dome -- at a time when we are poising (yet again) to take our place among world-class cities would seem, at its very heart, disloyal to Vancouver's brand. Although it would increase the value of several of my better photographs, it would decrease my spirit not being able to see my old friend again except in them.

Given the general capitalist ugliness that accompanies any expenditure out of the public purse, I'd also hate to give Premier Campbell's cronies and developer donors another slurp at our trough. (Just so you don't think I'm biased, the unions are just as bad: more building = more jobs = more $$$ in union dues.) Either way, most of our money ends up offshore.

My fear is that the recent damage to the famous roof will hasten the demise of the entire structure, a sentiment being cautiously echoed in the local press. So far the bias (even in the Sun) seems neutral; rather than, 'Oh well, she's had a good run' the Sun seems to want to see one of its own recover from its injuries better than ever. (Perhaps the recent devastation in Stanley Park has softened all our hearts toward what is after all our tangible heritage as Vancouverites, even the heartless villains of the fascist press.)

Today, the Vancouver Olympic Committee, which is organising our little shindig, released the following statement:

"BC Place has a highly experienced team of professionals and we have
every confidence in the ability of their engineers to rectify the situation.
It's a terrific facility that has a rich history of hosting some of BC's most
memorable moments and we look forward to hosting our Ceremonies in BC Place
for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games."

Guy Lodge
VANOC
Vice President - Services and Overlay

That seems to me to be a positive reference, resume-wise, for BC Place.

Not that this story is over by any means; expect more news and commentary on this issue as the drama unfolds...

[Postscript: Should the stadium go, the title World's Largest Air-Supported Dome would go to the current runner-up: Paris Hilton's skull. And nobody wants to see that happen. -- MSM ; ) ]
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Before The Fall

Here's a picture of BC Place Stadium, the world's largest air supported dome, before wind and sleet had their way with her.
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Overcoming Poverday

It never fails. Month after month, the day before the first paycheque of the month I'm sipping cold ketchup soup by candlelight, forced to talk to myself because I had to hock the cat to buy the ketchup.

I call it Poverday, and like any regular occurrence, be it a holiday or a weather pattern, certain rituals have emerged, as though organically. Every Christmas, right after dinner, someone puts a hand into the waistband of his pants. No one knows why, and it doesn't do anything except make him look like Napoleon masturbating; still it's like it needs to be done for it to be Christmas. Also some little kid gets tricked into pulling a finger. Every year, someone in West Texas gets on the news to describe what the tornado looked like; the fact that it looked exactly like the hundreds of others you've heard described in your lifetime is immaterial. Every year thousands of kids hear the story for the first time and mark it with a necessary rite of passage of their own: either they shout "Cool!" and their parents start to worry, or they become emotional and that's the day they decide to move away from a place known as Tornado Alley (and their parents really start to worry).

Poverday's rituals actually begin on Pay Day. Coins are collected for the poor. The fact that this is Canada assures that the poor will be very well-looked after; Canadians carry more coins than pirates. Foodstuffs are gathered, like Mr. Noodles and... Well, really just Mr. Noodles. Still, they are put away as insurance against famine, which in North America really just means 'the absence of a glut'. In the general celebration of Pay Day there is always the grim realisation that one day next month will be another day exactly like yesterday, and a silent vow is made: Never Again.

Lately, I've been taking that vow more and more seriously, and coasting into Poverday well-fed and fancy free. I mean let's face it, none of us is really poor, and we're only broke because the bill of goods Madison Avenue keeps selling us is designed to stay out of our price range. Also, if there's something in my life I don't like (ie: always being broke) whose job is it to make sure I'm not broke? Obviously not some social worker assigned to me by Revenue Canada. My Pay Day now (both of them, and twice a year three) is entirely about preventing the full horror of past Poverdays from being realised. It's like, instead of lighting candles every Hanukkah, you spent eight nights consecrating olive oil and fortifying your house against the Maccabbees.

"Charity begins at home" is the universal message of Poverday, and without getting too Ayn Rand about it, a pretty valuable sentiment at all times of the month. Not to be greedy, but just to try and apply your generosity where you can see it do the good it does. Certainly, if I have extra and my friend is in need, I give. If a friend asks to borrow money, and I have it, I give my friend money. Yet I'm utterly hesitant when it comes to giving money to strangers, via agencies, with paid staff. Hey, that's just me.

When I was on welfare my single goal in life was to get off welfare. It may not have looked like it sometimes (I often disguise ambition with indolence - it's a writer thing) but it was all I thought about every minute of every day. Now I use Poverday to reflect on that time in my life when I was really deprived. Not that I was then either. In those days I would use Poverday (always a Tuesday in BC) to commemorate the time Poverday forced me to leave Vancouver, driving my life off the rails for a decade, and to remind myself that survival is an effort. It doesn't just happen.

The evolution of Poverday from a masochistic wallow in broke-motherfucker-hood to empowering festival of self-sufficiency wasn't easy, but like most hard things was entirely enjoyable. By looking back at where I've been, I've come to appreciate where I am. Within five years I've gone from one $530 paycheque a month to two $750 paycheques a month, not to mention whatever fortune I'm able to pluck from the universe via my art. I pay all my bills on time, make a snappy dresser, and pretty much do what I want to do.

I believe I invented Poverday because the festive feeling I used to get from holidays I now get from self-improvement, and I wanted something that would combine -- or rather re-combine -- the two. It's an approach I've applied to existing holidays as well: Christmas is about inner peace (since without it there is no outer peace), All Hallow's Eve is about reconciling ancestral memory with mortality, my birthday a brainstorming session for the year ahead, and Easter is about celebrating how fucking beautiful the world is at Eastertime.

Yesterday was Poverday. As I drifted off to sleep last night I had eleven dollars to my name; the month before it was three. I call that progress, and that's what Poverday is all about.



Postscript: This is my 50th post; in this way too am I rich. Keeping this blog this year I have relearned a lesson I had forgotten: that I write because I love to write, and that I love to write when I write what I want. Here's to 50, 000 more!
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Leave My Queen Alone, For Christ's Sake

Just in case you're suffering under the delusion that the US is all a bunch of rabid Christers and the UK is somehow immune to evangelical fundamentalism, try this on for size. A Christian group in Britain is lobbying the Queen to repeal all gay-positive legislation, including same-sex marriage.

"The plea to the Queen is being made by the Christian Concern for Our Nation, an offshoot of the Lawyers’ Christian Fellowship, a group which lists more than 2,000 barristers and solicitors among its members. The petition warns the Queen the rules are a ‘serious affront’ to the Gospel. It reads: ‘The regulations purport to eliminate discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation, but have the consequence of discriminating heavily against Christians of all backgrounds and denominations who hold firm to the very Faith which you pledged to uphold in your coronation oath.’"

Now, I fail to see how giving rights to gays takes away rights from Christians, but I can easily comprehend how repealing gay rights when Christians ask gives special rights to Christians. If you have an imagination at all, it makes you wonder which group these bigots will be coming after next. In addition to being bullying, of course, which I imagine is just what Jesus would have done.

Here at the Pop Culture Institute we are opposed to special rights for anyone; in the case of gays, equal rights do not constitute special rights. This is a distinction which is patently clear to me, yet, obviously, beyond the grasp of thousands of British laywers.

And hitting her in her coronation oath is just a low blow, knowing how seriously she takes it. Before she promised to uphold the Gospel, though, she promised to "govern the Peoples of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, Pakistan, and Ceylon, and of your Possessions and the other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs". There may be a tiny little conflict of interest there, since she's sworn to uphold the Gospel yet must also, in theory, govern a Muslim country like Pakistan.

All I'm saying is, just maybe that oath is a tiny bit out of date.

The Queen is Queen of everybody, not just some tiny special interest group, no matter what it might look like to you on the outside. Also, the Queen has no actual power but is the personification of power invested by the people in Parliament. Duh! Again, you'd think lawyers would know this. Somehow, though, the reading of Scripture seems to render otherwise intelligent people babbling idiots.

Britain is a pluralistic, ecumenical, secular society. End of story. Obviously anyone can petition the Queen or the Prime Minister or their MP in such a society. Just don't be too surprised when you bring forth ideas that are twenty years out of date and they're not met with the same enthusiasm you feel for them. If you're not sure whether you should make a case of this nature, next time replace the word "gay" with "black" or "Muslim" and read through it again. You should feel lucky that, of the three, gay response will be the most muted. At least for now.

There are over 1500 references to poverty in the Bible (mostly in the New Testament) and one vaguely worded reference to homosexuality in the Old Testament. I would have thought a group called Christian Concern for our Nation would be more interested in following the word of Christ. Call me crazy, but if they're really concerned for their nation there's plenty to be done without harassing an identifiable segment of the population, along with their friends and family, starting with "judge not lest ye be judged."

[source: Towleroad (news item), Royal Family website (oath)]
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Live-blogging the Hinterland

My grandfather died on Christmas Eve, and so on the 28th I was duty-bound to attend his memorial service. Not that I would have missed it anyway, as duty is something I enjoy. I'm like the Queen that way. And in that way only, you bitches.

I left Vancouver for the wilds of the deepest, darkest Okanagan valley -- Kelowna, to be more precise -- for just that purpose. Well, that and to cement my reputation as a eulogist, which is well-deserved.

[Spoiler Alert: It ends up I couldn't deliver my eulogy; writer's block and emotion got the better of me. - MSM]

Thursday, 10:38 AM -- I left my house to take my keys to my friend Doug's place so he can make sure in my absence that Pandora doesn't waste away to... Well, let's face it, I'd have to be gone alot longer than three days for Pandora to even waste away to her ideal weight. Still, I thought she might like a bit of company now and then while I'm gone.

11:24 AM -- I arrive at the bus station. I buy my ticket, get in line behind four racy old ladies, and wait for the noon bus to leave.

12:18 PM -- Still no sign of the bus, despite 114 people waiting to crowd onto a bus that seats 55 including the driver. As clusterfucks go, this is below the Iraq War but worse than Nipplegate.

12:45 PM -- The bus arrives and I shoulder aside the half dozen people who attempted to shoulder me aside. I do allow a pair of siblings on ahead of me because the brother of the pair is cute. I figure on a ride as long as this one I at least deserve a nice view.

1 PM -- I finally eat something. I hadn't eaten sooner because I sort of expected the clusterfuck at the bus station and didn't want to be all nice about it, since there's no way I was taking an aisle seat. The bus ride goes more or less as planned from there. It's a nice sunny day, and after we pass Hope there's snow in the mountains (until about 4:30, when the sun goes down). I listen to music, read the year-end editon of Spin, and a few chapter's of Miri Rubin's fascinating book "The Hollow Crown" about England from Edward II to Richard III (c. 1300-1485). As fascinating as this book is it's better than Ambien, and I manage to catch up on an hour of sleep (only 3,245 and I'll be caught up).

6:30 PM -- I arrive in Kelowna. It's changed even since September (the last time I was here). There are Christmas lights galore and every third billboard bears a reminder that Jesus is the Reason for the Season. I remember why I left.

Friday 1 AM -- Sometime during Craig Ferguson's monologue I drift off into a restless sleep.

10 AM -- I begin anew in my deliberations to write a eulogy, the end result of which (after three long hours) is a decision to ad-lib from notes.

2 PM -- I take my mother's boyfriend's dog for a walk in the hopes that the fresh air will clear my mind. It does, and I take some spectacular pictures of winter in the hideous built environment of Kelowna. Alas, no new inspiration hits, and I half-decide to improvise my eulogy, since I seem to be coping with the whole thing rather well.

[Redundant Spoiler alert: I still can't believe I wimped out. - MSM]

4 PM -- My mother and I go to the funeral home to set up. We put pictures on boards using magnetic frames. Mine is an organised cluster like the ones I have all around my apartment. My mother puts hers up will-nilly; I have to admit that, under the circumstances, hers looks better. It's fun and whimsical, whereas mine is tighter than Martha Stewart. Then again, I have always coped with chaos by imposing rigid order.

5 PM -- My mother goes to her nail appointment. I sit there and read the new Blender, which miraculously has appeared when I needed it most. Since there's no new New Yorker this week, and I've bought all the other new magazines, I nearly had to pass time in a temple of vanity by staring at a wall. One of the women has her hot boyfriend with her. I could have used my considerable powers of bullshit to spend time staring at him (under the guise of my keen interest in the hockey season -- yeah...) but I remember that, other than construction, Kelowna hasn't changed at all, and the Homosexual Panic Defense still applies here, so change my mind.

6:30 PM -- Back at home my mother prepares to cook the life out of a roast (also known as Grandma-style), which in itself is a tribute to my grandfather, who bellieved that the best way to cook meat was well-done. After all, it says what it is right in the name: well-done. She and I and her boyfriend hang around and talk, mess around with the dogs and cats, reminisce about the great man we've lost (my grandfather) while marking the passing of his opposite number (So long Saddam!) and enjoy a cocktail or two each. It's nice to be, despite our sad loss, happy.

9 PM -- Supper's over and a perfunctory clean-up performed. We all drift off to our respective sleeping areas in a meagre effort to defeat fatigue.

Saturday 8 AM -- I am awakened by a series of wet noses and furry bodies, alas all either feline or canine. Well, only half-alas, in the same way the glass is half-full, because it has to be.

9:30 AM -- With a minimum of grief we manage to get ourselves ready, and head off for the funeral home.

9:41 AM -- We arrive at the funeral home.

9:41:10 AM -- I start crying like a bitch.

10 AM -- The memorial service begins. I have so much wet Kleenex in my pocket it feels like an octopus in there. I keep telling myself other, similarly sophomoric, things to give myself the occasional break from crying like a bitch. What I actually manage to see of the service looks beautiful.

11 AM -- The service is over, I stick my face in the ice machine to try and bring down the swelling, and the reception begins.

12:10 PM -- The reception ends, rather too abruptly for my liking, and we clean up.

12:15 PM -- Checking the schedule at the bus station, it looks like we have ninety minutes to kill. My mother's boyfriend takes us to Kelowna Flightcraft, where he works. I learn what a "winglet" looks like. It's not even remotely related to the winglets I used to cook at Red Robin. I take some more cool pictures.

2 PM -- Back at the bus station, where I and a couple of hundred strangers are cattle-prodded onto a bus that seats 48.

2:30 PM -- The bus leaves, more or less on time. It occurs to me that if we go off the road on the way home some alien archaeologists centuries from now are going to have one big head-scratcher.

3 PM -- I vow that the next time I take the bus I will put my spine in my carry on luggage, where there's more room.

4 PM -- My iPod's been playing so long it's warm to the touch. This can't be good.

5 PM -- Though I can't see it, I know from memory that the scenery outside is spectacular, a veritable Hinterland winer wonderland. I start humming along to John Mayer's song, which I have renamed "Your Body is A Hinterland", mainly to amuse myself.

6:30 PM - That spot on the top of my right foot my Dayton's like to torture finally loses nerve function permanently. My leg has now not so much fallen asleep as swallowed a bottle of Seconal. My seatmate, despite being the twink fantasy of my dreams, makes his last homophobic text message to his buddy, whose nickname seems to be "fag".

7 PM -- Having stopped now half a dozen times, each time to bring more people on the bus than have left it, I volunteer myself for the overhead bin, where at least I'll be able to stretch my legs. We've stopped at hope, where for eighteen glorious seconds I have a seat to myself. I begin texting my friends in the hopes that if I can keep my fingers along I won't die and be disposed of at the Chilliwack bus station. The Chilliwack bus station was originally designed to be Dante's tenth ring of Hell, but was later scrapped on the grounds no one would believe anything so outlandish.

7:45 PM -- We have finally reached Langley, so I get on the phone and start calling people.

8:51 PM -- The lights of the city appear. I take a breath mint and apply lip balm in preparation for loving up the tarmac.

9 PM -- Back at last!

What happened next is between me, my conscience, and the RCMP (if they even care).
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Egregious Paranoia Department - The End of Gay

Recently Joe. My. God. posted this cheery news, topped (?) by a quote from Martina Navratilova:

" 'For the sake of the animals who will die unnecessarily in these experiments and for the many gays and lesbians who stand to be deeply offended by the social implications of these tests, I ask that you please end these studies at once.' - [written] in a letter to Oregon State University just published on the PETA-affiliated site Stop Animal Testing, in response to research being done on sheep that is meant to help scientists learn how to alter the sexual preference of gay animals.

"Ostensibly meant to help sheep farmers who are burdened by the 10% of rams that prefer to mount other rams, the research has vast implications for gay society. If scientists can discover the "gay switch" or how to prenatally influence the sexual orientation of animals, the switch to human implementation will be immediate, widespread and unstoppable. The "homo vaccine" may be as simple as hormone patch worn during pregnancy. A real-world Twilight Of The Golds could mean the end of homosexuality in this century."

Well I never!

Of course, this issue has been sticking in my craw ever since allegedly gay scientist Simon LeVay started his research into this field, which first came to my attention in 1992.

I responded with the following comment:

"They've been trying to do this for decades. The same Christians who can't condone abortion for any reason will suddenly have a change of heart.

"The best hope is that the human genome is complicated enough that it could be multiple linked factors which "cause" homosexuality.

"The minute they genetically "cure" gay it'll be our responsibility to take our best dyke friend down to the IVF clinic and spunk in a cup for her. Abort the straight ones and there we go.

As for curing gay sheep, I say just keep them away from the farmers and they should be alright. ; ) "

One of my more coherent comments, if I do say so myself, probably because I've had the time to develop some eloquence about the issue. In fact, I believe the straights have been tolerating us as well as they have for the past few years because they're close to making this breakthrough.

Now, I'm not ex-Gay, I'm post-Gay. I've always been a proponent of assimilation on our terms, and isolating the gay gene won't make me run back to the ghetto. I'd consider it my responsibility to continue my missionary work among liberals and single mothers who'd like a son who calls occasionally but does not create a teenage babymama drama. Maybe a gay baby will become a trend among celebrities, like Unicef adoptions and toy dogs are now.

In a world threatened by overpopulation, with more parentless children than ever growing up in foster care, a little gay doesn't seem like a bad idea. Not to mention what it'll do to beauty, fashion, and the stage. The stage will be hit the hardest, I think; metrosexuals might look like us, but they aren't half as bendy.

The most interesting aspect of the whole struggle will be the (initially) laboured justifications offered by religious fundamentalists. You know, the ones who oppose stem cell research and all that now. It'll be an about-face worthy of "Wrong-way" Corrigan.
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