Remembering Link lust

One thing I haven't mentioned here is what a video game geek I used to be. I say used to be, because I still probably would if I ever had time to play them anymore. But my tastes leaned toward the adventure and RPG types, so that's much more of a time investment than I'm willing to give anything right now. That doesn't stop me, however, from charting the sexuality of one of the hottest elf-men to ever be in 8-bit graphics. But as fans of the series might notice, the sexuality of our hero is a bit difficult to determine over the series.

Link in the short-lived cartoon version -- the Friday version of the Super Mario Brothers Super Show -- was a bumbling oaf and an insensitive clod who always ignored the feelings of that fairy thing on the left. His biggest ambition seems to be getting a kiss from Princess Zelda much to the detriment of all the hero stuff he's supposed to be doing. And he looks to be hitting the carbs pretty heavily.
Kinsey rating: 0, or a Ray Romano

Arguable the best of all the Zelda games, A Link to the Past finally gave Link the back story that Zelda and Ganon had been hogging all that time. This Link had a sensitive side, reuniting feuding brothers, delivering mushrooms to witches and numerous other good deeds outside of the old saving Zelda gig. He didn't even laugh when the obese fairy makes an appearance at the end. But our man here is undoubtedly hetero at the core, as he almost lets a wicked thief confuse him Elmer Fudd style when he disguises himself as a beautiful woman.
Kinsey scale: 2, or a Hugh Grant

The Ocarina of Time featured the first video game version of Link who could really be considered a hottie (the adult version, at least). He was a hit with the ladies in the game -- not only Zelda, but also that horse farm chick whose name I forget. In all, he was pretty darn manly. But come on. The whole game revolved around him playing a flute. That sort of counteracts everything, yes?
Kinsey rating: 3, or a James Galway

Ah, the wonderful old standard that brought me into the world of adventure games. This little pixelated wonder wasn't much to look at, and his main goal was largely hetero -- save the princess. But then again, this is the game that taught us the importance of accessorizing. Did Mario need to carry around bombs, candles, bows, pieces of meat or what have you? And the boy could decorate. With a well-placed bomb, he could create a little square-doored cave with a working staircase. And he wasn't really all that excited when you finally found Zelda. In fact, you had to play the whole damn game again. Also, the Link in this photo appears to be broke, which means he could totally be one of my ex-boyfriends.
Kinsey rating: 4, or a Ty Pennington

Fans of the series cringed when they saw the graphic design of the most recent Zelda game, The Wind Waker. Any moves toward realism were suddenly replaced with the cartoony, cel-shaded Link you see on your left. Through the convoluted tale, it turns out that this guy isn't even the real Link. Or something like that. But what matters here is that this Link is a real mama's boy. Or grandmama's boy, in this case, as his grandmama gets deathly ill when he leaves her. Not only that, this Link has a fashion sense! Do well in the game, and what's your reward? You get to play in a whole new outfit!
Kinsey rating: 5, or a Gianni Versace

In the subpar second game, The Adventure of Link, the plot would seem to be the most hetero of all. Zelda's been put to sleep, and Link must scramble to wake his girl and prevent Ganon's resurrection. They even mark the end of the game with a behind-the-curtain (those drape things you see there lower at the end). But let's look at the evidence against him. He has a magic spell that turns him into a fairy. He fights something called an Ironknuckle. And most damning of all, the "enemy" he faces at the end is his own shadow -- which either is a Judy Garland reference or is some sort of coming-out-of-the-closet metaphor. The beard thing with Zelda will never last. You are the gayest Link! Hel-loooooooo!
Kinsey rating: 6, or a David Gest

Coincidentally, I'm writing this because it's a slow news day

One of the worst things about working on a Saturday rotation schedule as a small-town journalist -- besides the fact that you're working on Saturdays, naturally -- is those daily, disposable "events" you always have to cover.

Take a look at a small-town Sunday or Monday paper and you'll see what I mean. You'll see those stories about dinky church events, town festivals, police barbecues or something similar that might have some sort of news peg -- the organizers are trying to start an annual event, or it's the town's 45th birthday or something to that effect -- but it's usually not enough to make the event interesting to anyone who didn't have the desire to attend it in the first place.

Ivory tower journalism professors might use these as an excuse to show how every story should count and how a good reporter could use it as an opportunity to find the a compelling story among the chaff. OK, perhaps, and this might work out in some cases, but realistically, the reporter, who in most cases is working the day alone, probably wants to get in and out of the event in about 45 minutes and doesn't have time to get the life story of every attendee to see who wins queen for the day. After all, the reporter doesn't want to miss any real news that's breaking, because trust me: The editor isn't going to care how great the Annual Tree Lighting story came out if the reporter missed a murder that occurred that day.

Still, I don't even blame the editors for assigning them, because the stories serve a few purposes, after all. They're an easy way to get a community that doesn't make news very often in the paper. They're useful filler for the thick Sunday editions or usually news-dry Monday editions. Most importantly, they're a chance to put in cute pictures of kids.

That's also the horrid part for the reporter, however: interviewing those kids. Little is more excruciating than trying to mine a 7-year-old for a quote, because in my experience, kids rarely say the darndest things. In fact, they rarely speak in sentences that are more than four words long when put on the spot by a reporter, so that's why you'll see quotes like: "It's a lot of fun," 6-year-old Paducah resident Caitlyn (they're always named Caitlyn) Williamson said. "I liked the horses." And despite journalism school's best efforts to teach aspiring writers that quotes should be a garnish used sparingly in the story, the mindset in the real world pervades that if a person isn't quoted, they're not really in the story. So Caitlyn's monosyllabic grunts make the cut.

My point in bringing this up is to give a little perspective for the next time you see one of these eyeroll-invoking stories in the paper. I like to defend those usually budding journalists when I can, because I know they get a lot of flack. They probably didn't want to write the story any more than you wanted to read it. So just skip it over and think of how happy Colton's (they're always named Colton) parents are that he's on the front page.

To be fair, I guess I should link to one such story I had to write. It took some digging, but I found one, copied onto Free Republic of all places. Scroll down a bit, and it's there. It was one of those "Rally for America" things that took place at the beginning of the war. You know, when it was actually popular in the South? It's a bit more newsy than the events I was talking about, but keep in mind that one of these things was going on every weekend in those days, so it was a stale story going into it. I did, however, manage to invoke the imagery of red, white and blue vomit rather high up in the story, so I guess that's worth something.

Weekend review roundup

Howard Katz
Given the dismal reviews, I expected "Howard Katz," Patrick Marber's dark comedy now playing at the Laura Pels Theatre, to be a disaster. It wasn't. But a horrible flaw in the play left the nastiest aftertaste I've gotten from the theatre in some time. The dependable Alfred Molina plays the titular character, a toothless shark of an agent who represents reality show cast-offs and commercial actors and watches his life dissolve as he dares to question his purpose. Like Job, he suffers calamity after calamity that shatters everything in his family and career. But while Molina and the supporting cast -- which includes Alvin Epstein and Elizabeth Franz -- are excellent, Katz's suffering is unpleasant and hollow to watch. So many characters make the point of what a horrible, soulless man he is, but none of the plot backs that up. Sure, he's distant from his wife, but he doesn't really mistreat her or cheat on her, either. He doesn't have much respect for his clients, but they don't seem to have much respect for him. We even find out that he's been financially supporting someone else in his family. Thus, watching the self-destruction of this pathetic man is no more pointed or satisfying than watching some earnest fool blow his paycheck on 500 Mega Millions tickets. Although, speaking of gambling, I will admit that the scene about the blackjack table anchor we all love to hate was rather funny.

Fugue
While the melody of "Fugue" -- a Lee Thuna work now playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village -- is engaging, a distracting counterpoint makes this two-and-a-half hour play about amnesia ultimately forgettable. Deirdre O'Connell is a treat as the mysterious Mary, a woman suffering from the "fugue" type of amnesia, meaning her memory is running away from a past trauma. Director Judith Ivey does a great job here of staging the ephemeral memories that come in and out for Mary in the form of her family and acquaintances, but the play loses steam every time the play shifts its focus to her helpful doctor John Oleander (Liam Craig). The simple set -- a hospital room with a catwalk overhead -- is effective, and the ensemble is strong. But even they can't elevate the script above another melodramatic "doctor with a purpose" tale. Perhaps this fugue would be better served as a monophonic piece.

Introducing Inimeg Ranul Eht Productions

I felt like I was in Dexatrim ad today. Someone was asking to see a photo of me -- don't ask -- and photos of me online are somewhat limited. So I found a goofy little photo I had taken with Patti LuPone when I lived in New Jersey, and imagine my horror when I realized:



OK, I knew I had lost some weight since moving to New York, but my God I was fat! Just look at my face. As a comparison, here's a more current, post-weight-loss photo:


OK, ignoring how greasy I look...and I had always hoped that if I had anything in common with Oprah, it would be her ability to give out diamonds as party favors. But this got me thinking back to my attitude toward food in New Jersey. Even though I was working out three times a week or so, I was largely sedentary. Still, I never felt like I was getting enough food. I probably eat half of what I ate when I ate there. But there's a reason for that.

I don't know if there's a such thing as reverse anorexia, but if there is, I had it. As a kid, I was quite skinny. I was a picky, to be sure, but I ate well when it was something I liked. That didn't stop everyone -- friends, family, nosy adults -- from telling me I was too skinny, gangly, sickly or whatever other adjective that came to mind. I felt like I was never eating enough, so I ate horribly in order to compensate. Even as my weight started to creep up when I hit college, the feeling that I wasn't eating enough still lingered. I would eat when I wasn't hungry because I thought I had to do it to be healthy. It wasn't until I put myself on a calorie-counting diet that I realized how wrong I had been. Think about that before you tell one of those hackneyed "can't see you sideways" or "slide you under the door" jokes to a kid like this:

Gay dating in the styx (part 4)

Moving to New York from southern New Jersey was a famine to feast move in regards to a dating scene, but -- if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor -- I quickly learned that not all fishing holes were created equal. In particular, it was only a matter of months before I learned to avoid Splash on a Saturday night, that awkward mix of eager tourists and natives equally eager to exploit them.

A little debauchery is fun, sure, but I found out how fast it turned to awkwardness thanks to Igor. While he was cute and sweet, he was one of the zero to 60 gays, meaning he seemed to be ready for a long-term relationship shortly after meeting. But as I always say, I'll go out with almost anyone once, so I agreed to a date. In Brooklyn. My first venture into the outer boroughs, not counting the airports.

Unfortunately, Igor was not the easiest person to understand, thanks to an incredibly thick Polish accent, so his directions to me were a little flawed. Simply telling me to take the "express train," I assumed he meant the A train, the only express train near me. It was only until I was nearly in East New York that I realized he had meant the 2 train, which isn't anywhere near me, and it took me a good 90 minutes of wandering through Brooklyn to right this wrong.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was battling a somewhat nasty cold during this date, so arriving weakened from walking so long and nearly two hours late really set the tone for the evening. As luck would have it, he had prepared the dinner that any sick boy would dream about: heavy sausage, potatoes and sauerkraut. I ate as much as I could -- mostly in silence, as he was angry with me for misunderstanding his directions -- and I was trying not to be intimidated by the giant photo of John Paul II staring at me from the mini-shrine in his honor ("You like?" he asked me, motioning to the Pope, to which I feebly answered yes).

I was ready to call it a night after dinner, but he insisted we return to Splash, where I sat nearly comatose at the bar for about two hours with the rather, er, interesting videos that were playing. Let's just say the men in the videos were pretty darn handy and put their all into their work.

Not surprisingly, I tried the fade away after that date, but karma never has been kind to me in the dating department. The first time I ever returned to Splash, nearly six months later, guess who was there to greet me? Ah, how quickly I was reminded why I should never return to my passive aggressive ways. I certainly don't want to eliminate every going out opportunity in the city for me.

Still, Igor was a gentleman, which is more than I can say for...well, we'll get into that one the next time.

Same phlegm next year

The pathetic little cold I've been battling the last few days would be hardly worth mentioning except for one fact: It seems to be turning into an annual event.

I remember having the same cold at this exact time last year for three reasons. First of all, I remember it coming right after a yearly corporate black tie event, which was last Monday. I also remember having it when calling my youngest sister on her birthday, which was last Sunday. And most of all -- I remember having it on one of my worst dates in recent history, on which I'll go into more detail about tomorrow.

But whatever. This cold is so unoriginal. It's even the exact same progression of symptoms: A day of a scratchy throat, a day of sinus pressure and then a few days of pointless hacking. Shake it up a little next year, little microbes! Or better yet -- find somewhere else to vacation.

Stars of screen and stage -- simultaneously

After seeing uncredited guest appearances by Jon Stewart, ragin' Cajun evangelist Jesse Duplantis and Papa Smurf on the Off-Broadway stage, I must declare enough!

The first time I saw a working television as a part of a play was "Hurlyburly" a few years ago. It was an interesting convention, seeing the Smurfs or Go-Bots or whatever other "Hey, it's the 80s" statement they wanted to hammer in. And I suppose closing out with Johnny Carson had a plot purpose.

Then, a few weeks ago, I caught "Stone Cold Dead Serious," which treated us to a pre-show QVC extravaganza of sports memorabilia as barely lucid Dad napped on the couch. OK, the QVC appearance figured into the plot, too, although the later appearance of Duplantis was just bizarre. And it was a show about media -- largely video games, but television, too -- so it gets a pass. Barely.

Then, Wednesday, I caught "Dying City," during which an episode of "Law & Order" played on the sparse set as the audience wandered in. Yes, again, "Law & Order" figured into the dialogue, but later on, when the television started playing "The Daily Show" -- which also had been a part of the dialogue -- it was the most distracting moment of all. Some in the audience were actually chuckling at Jon Stewart's quips rather than pay attention to the acting on stage. Hear that, directors? Your props are upstaging your actors!

Listen, guys and gals. We might be an over-stimulated generation, but we still have the capability for a slight suspension of disbelief. Just like we know that there's not a big transparent wall in someone's apartment that's letting the audience peer in, we also could probably accept that a blank television set is not actually playing "Law & Order," "The Tonight Show," "Jerry Falwell's Old Time Gospel Hour" or whatever.

Because you know what the extra media element brings me back to? That dreadful tour of "Starlight Express" with the 3-D movies in lieu of races. And trust me: That's one theatrical memory you do not want me to dredge up while watching your show.

The sum of all queers

Oh, how times have changed. It seems like only yesterday Terrence
McNally was sparking fiery protests with his gay Jesus allegory "Corpus Christi." Now he's getting titters out of the blue-hair crowd at Second Stage Theatre with jokes about bathhouses, online booty calls and even...gasp...gay marriage with his latest work, "Some Men," now in previews for a March 26 opening.

It's the M-word that's at the center of the show, a series of vignettes throughout gay history bookended an unseen couple's nuptials. The scenes--spanning from an underground Harlem nightclub to the inevitable future of legalized gay marriage--all tie to the various wedding attendees, a veritable who's who of gay archetypes portrayed by a deft ensemble.

McNally's writing is as good as ever in many spots, particularly in the large ensemble scenes. The trite subject matter of a gay Internet chat room is freshly humorous, the nightclub owner's onstage antics in talking of the coded messages sent by gay songwriters to their lovers is an exquisite monologue and the furor created by a drag queen's appearance in a piano bar neighboring the Stonewall riots would make a striking 10-minute play by itself.

Unfortunately, a few scenes don't work at all, like the beach rendezvous of a Jewish Wall Street broker and his Irish chauffeur, and others, like a modern group therapy session, drag on far too long. The second act as a whole could use a good trim, as the play clocks in at about two and a half hours including intermission. And it seems pointless as characters suddenly reveal family relationships with all the characters from the older scenes. After all: One of the seasoned gay characters responded incredulously when a young upstart referred to gays as a "people." So why the need to make further ties between the scenes other than merely the diverse gay experience?

Standouts in the strong ensemble include Don Amendolia in a variety of "older man" roles, Kelly AuCoin as the recurring character of Bernie who makes the decision to come out when it wasn't en vogue and the honey-voiced David Greenspan as the foul-mouthed drag queen.

It's telling that my three choices are all the "older" ensemble members. Perhaps it's generational, but the older characters ring much truer than the younger and run together much less. Poor Pedro Pascal has so many similar roles that I couldn't even remember where his wedding guest fit in the story fabric by the end of the show. But he looks good in a towel, so all is forgiven.

Despite the cliche scenarios and stereotypical characters, however, this Cliff's Notes of gay history seems necessary. Perhaps it's that familiarity that makes it palatable with some of the same people who might cringe over a gay Christ-like character. With the crescendo of verbal crassness and physical violence toward gays that's been around in recent months, it's delightfully sobering to watch these disparate histories converge into the conclusion of equality, for better or for worse.

Behead me, baby!

I have a problem with the new miniseries "The Tudors."

That's King Henry VIII, by the way, as played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Therein lies the problem. Henry VIII is on the short list of historical figures about whom I should never have impure thoughts! Right between Mahatma Ghandi and Walt Whitman. Yes, I know the man was quite a looker in his younger years, but don't put me in the position to have to picture my not-so-secret little crush Johnny with a turkey leg hanging out of his mouth.

Of course, the show promises "gratuitous nudity," so maybe it has some redeeming qualities after all.

Review roundup

I've fallen behind in my reviews, thanks to being overwhelmed by a visit from the parents and everyone else under the sun (there were seven people sleeping in my two-bedroom apartment at one point last weekend). So, in the interest of space, here are a few quick capsule reviews of the shows I saw during their visit:

"Curtains"
Perhaps it was my hunger from my recent lackluster experience with "The Pirate Queen," but few shows in recent memory have left me with as pleasant an aftertaste as "Curtains," now in previews for a March 22 opening. Although the show--a murder mystery set among the colorful characters trying out a show in Boston--is far from perfect, the cast is pretty darn close to it. As the theatre-loving investigating police lieutenant, David Hyde Pierce is his usual nebbish self but manages to do so in a way that feels delightfully fresh, unlike some others who have fallen into that type (paging Matthew Broderick). Debra Monk, as the producer, stops the show with her brassy numbers, and leading man Noah Racey is probably the best dancer on Broadway right now -- and that includes the entire cast of "A Chorus Line." Even Edward Hibbert, whom I usually find cloying, scores here as the director. Some songs are certainly better than others, and I found myself not really giving much of a damn about the whodunit aspect, but overall, this is truly a crowd-pleaser that might not be a critical darling but certainly deserves a decent run. And I finally broke my Ernie Sabella curse! He was out when I saw "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum" and "Sweet Charity," but the third time was the charm. EDIT: I can't believe I forgot to mention Karen Ziemba and Jason Daniele, both of whom also are excellent, and ditto what I said about Racey for Ziemba.

"Prelude to a Kiss"
What began as a seemingly dull and trite romantic comedy cliche actually turned into an engaging evening of theatre. The absurd plot centers around an idealistic but morose young bride (Annie Parisse) who somehow switches bodies with a feeble old man (John Mahoney) on the day of her wedding. The early scenes detailing the courtship of Peter and Rita drag on for quite a while, and one almost expects to see the Lifetime logo in the bottom corner of the stage. But oddly enough, Rita becomes a much more entertaining character when she's played by Mahoney. Alan Tudyk is fine as the befuddled Peter, but show-stealing honors go to Robin Bartlett and James Rebhorn as Rita's parents.

Lea Salonga in "Les Miserables"
I hereby recuse myself from ever reviewing "Les Miserables." I have far too much of a history with that show. Yes, I was one of those teenagers who had all three CDs of the complete symphonic cast recording memorized, and I've probably seen that same darn production of it more times than any other show, and like a dear old friend, I can love it despite its faults. So just a few words about it's new leading lady. Following the departure of the much-maligned Daphne Rubin-Vega, Lea Salonga--star of "Miss Saigon" and former Eponine--is a fine fit for the overly tragic role of Fantine. She does what she's supposed to do: sings the hell out of "I Dreamed a Dream," gets abused in a few scenes and finally gasps her last, vanishing (save the well-disguised appearance as a boy at the barricade) until her ghost comes back for the finale. Hey, you wanted nuance? This is "Les Miserables." If I want nuance, I'll go watch "Grey Gardens." But let's see Christine Ebersole try that deathbed scene!

Be my test audience, please

Hello, all. I've been invited to do a little comedy routine at a certain event, and there's some new material I'd like to try out. I'm going to write out the routine, and I want you all to be brutally honest. Is it funny? Here goes:

I really don't understand the big flap over the so-called "anti-Christian" bloggers employed by John Edwards. The last thing they should do is apologize for using the word "godbag." The last time I heard the word, it was from a casual acquaintance of mine who goes to a Lutheran church or something like that, so obviously it's not offensive to any Christian anywhere.

If anything, decrying the use of the word "godbag" would be offensive in of itself, as it would leave no alternative but for us to be "evolutionbags," and heaven knows that crap never happened! But enough about that. Here's what the bloggers should do next:

1) Start a Web site called "Global War on Christians" today.
2) Begin writing essays calling for the cleansing and purification of society via the mass murder of Christians.
3) Distribute videos on the Web site showing the actual murder of Christians.
4) Circulate instructions on how to bomb Southern Baptist churches in the South.
5) Circulate a "battle dispatch" to give specific information on America's most notorious Baptist churches.
6) Apply for a job at Liberty University.

Laughing yet? No? Surely you're laughing as much as I was when I read this column by Mike S. Adams over at Townhall.com. Even more of a riot were the comments below it. I particularly loved the one by the appropriately named "Handy": Whenever a gay guy comes on to me, I ask him if he's into "fisting." Regardless of his answer, I put one on his nose just for good measure.

Ha ha ha ha ha! It's funny because it really happens. Truly, Townhall, you should be proud.

So that's where you've been, charming Billy

Forget an ill-timed joke and a trip to Florida. The clod of the year award prematurely goes to the Prince Philip of American television, Bill O'Reilly, who wasted no time in turning the tragic Bronx fire into a diatribe against immigration.

Never mind that he doesn't even know whether the children killed in the were here legally. No, he points his finger squarely at those who don't agree with his immigration stance and says, "You helped this to happen." Jerry Falwell would be proud!

His paper-thin link of the two stories centers around the living conditions at the Bronx building. Granted, they weren't ideal. I would, however, suggest that O'Reilly take a tour of the housing options open to people in New York who cannot afford more than $1,000 a month in rent. Having a green card does not get you any credit toward a better place, I'm afraid. As Kirsten Powers noted, there are plenty of legal citizens -- a group in which these folks might very well be included -- who live in similar conditions. From all accounts, this fire was the result of nothing more than a space heater, missing batteries and understandably panicked reactions from some very frightened people.

Perhaps O'Reilly should visit the Tenement Museum in the Lower East Side and learn about the conditions in which some of his (presumably legal) ancestors used to live. Then perhaps he might give a little consideration before tossing out a speciously seasoned piece of red meat to his base in an effort to capitalize on someone else's tragedy.

A little shameless self-promotion

Since I know a good portion of the people who either visit regularly or just stumble upon this blog are New Yorkers, I have to throw in a quick plug for my upcoming concert.

OK, not my upcoming concert, but I will be one of more than about 100 men (and a few women) performing in the New York City Gay Men's Chorus' "Classically NYCGMC" concert at Merkin Concert Hall on Monday and Tuesday.

Having worked with several different styles of choral directors in my lifetime, I can't say enough good things about our director for this concert, Casey J. Hayes. He's done an impeccable job from start to finish, from picking the music to getting me feeling as prepared as I've ever been for any performance. The "classical" designation is purposely loose, as we'll be doing well known favorites like Offenbach's "Barcarolle" and selections from "Die Fledermaus" and "Carmina Burana" as well as some lovely new works -- terribly modern, as Vera Charles would say -- that are being recorded for the first time. Our guest artist, Met mezzo Kathryn Day, is worth the price of admission alone.

Or look at it this way: For anyone who has ever hated one of my theatre reviews, here's your chance for revenge.

Tacky? Or a breach of trust?

When it comes to a crisis, I don't think many would mistake Mayor Mike Bloomberg for Winston Churchill. Or even Mike Brady. Just a few weeks after he orders a rash of parking tickets during the worst winter storm of the season, he gets caught in an incredibly insensitive quote following one of the most horrific fires in the city's history, which killed nine people, including eight children, in the Bronx on Wednesday.

In talking about criticism that he did not cancel a planned trip to Florida after the fire, he told the Daily News: "Some people think I'm here for spring break. But actually I was thinking about doing a movie in South Beach -- 'Mayors Gone Wild.'" Not exactly the best tone for the moment, to be sure.

Whether he should have canceled his trip is a different debate entirely, and I tend to fall in line with the Daily Intelligencer in saying no. Somehow, I don't think knowing the mayor's in town is going to be of much comfort to the families involved, and stirring up controversy over it is a distraction from the tragedy. But there's no question his joke was ill-timed. Still, rather than place the blame entirely on him, I'd also question the reporter's judgment in using it in the story.

When a reporters have to build rapport with sources, they'll often have off-the-cuff conversations with them. Trust me: If you've ever lost a loved one in a car accident, you don't want to hear the way police officers sometimes talk about accident victims. It can range somewhere between indifferent and joking. I certainly can understand why -- they see this stuff all the time and can't fall apart over it every time something happens -- and I certainly never used any of it in my stories. Not only would it have been insensitive to the families involved, but the officer in question never would have talked to me again.

Now, I'm not comparing Bloomberg with a first responder. He's not a warm, comforting presence, and he probably never will be. I'm just saying that it wouldn't surprise me if this joke occurred in the conversation long after the talk had moved from the fire itself. If not, it should have been put in better context within the story. If it was jarring to me, I can't imagine what it was like for someone who had a much closer connection to the tragedy than merely living across the river from it.

The Magic Kingdom comes to the Emerald Isle

Forget "The Little Mermaid." The void left by the shuttering "Beauty and the Beast" is already being filled at the Hilton Theatre by a musical that is every bit as Disney -- it just doesn't admit that it is.

I caught the first preview of "The Pirate Queen," the latest from the "Les Miserable" and "Miss Saigon" team Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg, last night. Given that it was a first preview and has a while before opening, I'll naturally be selective in my criticism and try to focus on the things I'm sure will not change before its official opening April 5.

Elizabethan history buffs might be familiar with Grace O'Malley, the Irish clan leader in the sixteenth century who later forged a short-lived truce with Queen Elizabeth I. Well, the Grace O'Malley now at the Hilton -- played by Stephanie J. Block -- seems to be her as imagined by Michael Eisner. Every bit as plucky and lovely as any of the other Disney princesses, O'Malley swashbuckles and grapples as well as any man in an era in which women were not given respect. Yes, that theme is hammered in throughout the show to the point where it seems like every character is the ancestor of those people destined to find themselves watching mandatory workplace sexual harassment training videos today.

All the other stock characters are there, too: wise, benevolent father Dubhdara (the excellent Jeff McCarthy); handsome suitor Tiernan (Hadley Fraser); the vain wuss who Grace must marry, Donal O'Flaherty (Marcus Chait); and the scheming, Snidely Whiplash-esque villain, Sir Richard Bingham (William Youmans). Even Her Majesty (Linda Balgord) is reduced to a shrieking Cruella de Vil in the first act, although her character is given a much better treatment in the second act. I kept waiting for a talking animal sidekick to appear for Grace.

The result is an entirely too broad story, with heroes and villains so black and white that they make a "Dick Tracy" comic look nuanced. Foreshadowing is done with such a heavy hand that I could not only pick out which characters were going to die, but I also could pick out the order in which they would die.

While the story structure seems familiar, it becomes even more familiar at the hands of Boublil and Schonberg. Many of the melodies will seem familiar to "Les Miz" fans. The opening motif sounds almost beat-for-beat like an echo of "Do You Hear The People Sing?". And many of the standard B&S conventions are used, such as the counterpoint confrontation scene that inevitably happens between Grace and Donal.

Some of the tunes are quite lovely. One of Grace's early numbers, "Woman," particularly stands out, as does the duet for Grace and Tiernan, "Here on This Night," Elizabeth's driving "She Who Has All" and Tiernan's "I'll Be There," even though the latter has the misfortune of sharing a motif with the Miss America theme. Others, like Donal's "Boys'll Be Boys," a drinking song reminiscent of "Master of the House," would be better served on the cutting room floor. Much of the rest is rather forgettable. And overall, the lyrics are so banal and predictable that it's easy to see the coming rhyme long before the singing character ever reaches it.

The show's shortcoming are in no way the fault of the actors. Block is talented and doesn't disappoint. Fraser is a nice discovery, and Balgord does great work in the horribly constructed role of Queen Elizabeth. Youmans' character is the most cartoonish, but his acting skills still come through. Chait's performance is the most problematic, as his villainy is so without cause that it actually brought applause when he died. No one applauded when Thuy or Javert died. Even Thenardier, who had no redeeming qualities, is an audience favorite.

I have little comment on the technical aspects, as those are undoubtedly a work in progress. Mostly, the show seems to be in good shape in that regard, although something needs to be done to improve the sound quality in the cavernous Hilton. Elizabeth's soprano numbers were particularly difficult to understand at times.

Despite the similarities, this isn't Disney, and without Disney's marketing muscle, I don't know what's going to happen for this show. While it wasn't my cup of tea, the people, mostly tourists, around me -- I always eavesdrop on the way out of a performance -- adored it. The producers have done what I consider a pretty wise strategy of offering discount $25 for all seats during early previews, in an effort I can only assume to fill the house and build word-of-mouth. Possibly it will work. While I can't imagine going back to see this show when paying more than $25, maybe it will catch on with tourists who will overlook its weaknesses and survive. I wouldn't begrudge it success. I'll make this prediction, however: The critics are going to tear this show to pieces.

At any rate, if Grace O'Malley is still around come next fall, Ariel might have to fight a bit harder for her target audience. But at least she has that singing crab.

Turn around

I have a theme song!

I'd almost forgotten I was even doing this, as I had no idea it would take so long. That's what I get for having more than 1,300 songs on my iPod and, for the most part, exclusively using the shuffle feature without the aid of playlists. This also could explain how my workouts are often driven to a standstill when a song by Jessica Molaskey or Norah Jones comes up, when a Widor organ sonata comes up, or worst of all, the most sluggish song on my iPod: a suite of songs from "Camelot" performed by Julie Andrews shortly before she lost her voice.

But back to the issue at hand. After about six months, the Barbra/Judy duet finally came up, leaving me with only one song: the remix of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." How uplifting!

I do love that song, though.

Close to the maddening crowd

The year of the pig, indeed.

Honestly, by themselves, I couldn't care less about Ann Coulter's latest comments. Read the second paragraph in what I said about Tim Hardaway. Was anyone really surprised? I mean, she's already called Al Gore a fag and insinuated that both Bill and Hillary Clinton are gay. So why should her comments suddenly ascend above a third-grade level now? Meanwhile, as I noted in this blog's early days, the unmarried Coulter has been known to pal around in West Hollywood with lesbian conservative Tammy Bruce -- whom I stupidly called Tammy Baldwin in that post to which I'm referring. Totally different person.

I'm also not a big fan of the demanding a renouncement game from everyone aligned with a certain political movement, a practice I most commonly associate with Sean Hannity. However, to their credit, a lot of conservative bloggers--including The Lone Star Times' David Benzion and, of all people, Michelle Malkin--had harsh words for Coulter. But of course, a lot of folks out there were quick to jump on any dissenters in an effort to protect their right to call people a faggot -- which they have, of course, but I suppose free speech to them means freedom from criticism as well. And that got me to thinking: This just hasn't been a great year for the gays so far. Let's see:

1) Some pipe-wielding monster in Detroit beats a 72-year-old guy to death after calling him a faggot.
2) A guy gets beat up after leaving a PATH train because he was wearing pink pants.
3) Michael Savage equates Melissa Etheridge raising a child to child abuse.
4) The Tim Hardaway nonsense.

This is all in the course of a matter of weeks. And to think none are related to the other is folly. Degrading someone to subhuman status in speech trickles down the idea that it's OK to beat such a person with a pipe. Perhaps as this nastiness reaches a crescendo, we'll continue to hear more sane voices from the right like Benzion who at least know how to disagree respectfully.

In happier gay news, I didn't realize until now that this guy came out the other day:


Christian Chavez. Never heard of him? He's a singer with pop group RBD, which spun off from the soap opera "Rebelde." Don't ask how I knew who he was. But welcome to the fold, Christian!

For there was no joy at Mambo Palace

As much as it pains me to be the bearer of bad news, I must inform our dear proprietor of Mambo Palace that he's out of the running for a job of a lifetime.

It looks like he, my co-worker, me and everyone else I knew who applied just didn't quite have the "thirst-hand knowledge" to be Four Points by Sheraton's chief beer officer. On the other hand, take a gander at the description of the four finalists. We have:

1) A guy who's visited 340 breweries around the world and tried 2,800 kinds of beers.
2) A guy whose wife works at a bar and who named his dogs Porter and Stout.
3) A woman who already works at a brewery and has received medals from the Great American Beer Festival and World Beer Cup.
4) Another brewery guy who developed a magazine about beer.

C'mon, Sheraton! These people certainly sound qualified, but isn't picking one of them kind of like Bill Gates winning the lottery? Give my buds a bone and let them live the fabulous life these people already are living.

Meanwhile, I guess my own essay, which entailed how it takes me an hour to gag one glass of Guinness down but I was willing to learn beer-love, didn't go over a la Barbara Park's "Skinnybones" like I thought it would. Remember that book? When the kid got to be in the cat food commercial because his essay...? Never mind.

Retreating to my slimy place

I shouldn't have insulted my apartment management. I'm now cowering on my couch after spotting a mouse hopping around my stove, no doubt planted there by the visiting repairman this morning who didn't like his timeliness questioned.

So I'm trying to return to my filthiest memory, something that will make me feel better about sharing an apartment with vermin. And this is what comes to mind.

As a reporter, I saw a lot of awful things: mangled and decapitated bodies in car wrecks, gruesome autopsy photos at murder trials and municipal budget hearings. One assignment particularly sticks out, however.

With my work phone number printed in the paper every day, I got all sort of, let's just say, interesting ideas for stories to pursue. A lot of the times, the people knew me or my family because I had grown up in the area. One in particular was an older woman speaking in a thick Southern drawl, telling me that I had known her grandson in the Cub Scouts and that she wanted my help in finding two of her other grandchildren, given up for adoption by their estranged stepfather in Iowa. I guess she had heard about our vast Des Moines readership. She nearly made a grave error by saying she was reminded of me when watching "Barney and Friends" episodes with her grandchildren, in that I looked like the obnoxious, mugging blond kid (also named Michael) in the show, but my editor and I decided we'd let that unintended insult pass.

The photographer and I drove out to her trailer in Jones Creek, and the second we entered, the smell hit us: a mixture of mold, cat excrement and who knows what else. Dirty dishes lined the kitchen and den as cats writhed all over the furniture. The photographer and I tried to find the cleanest spots possible on the couch to chat with the woman, who was largely unable to walk because of her weight. I asked questions as best I could while I watched the photographer try not to gag. At one point, we saw a huge roach scuttle across his notepad as we exchanged anguished looks. After an excruciating 20 minutes or so, the task was done.

As it turned out, the interview paid off. Grandma reconnected with her grandchildren within a few days thanks to step-dad's acquiescence, and I quietly said thank the Lord when my editor allowed me to do the follow up story by phone.

OK, I'm feeling better. The mouse seems to be gone, hopefully having climbed down the stovepipe into the basement where he belongs. Meanwhile, I know what I'm doing this weekend! Scrub, scrub, scrub. And maybe getting a few hundred cats.

Vacation days on barter

When I first moved to New York, it took me about two months to get my cable installed. Living alone, I had no one at home to let the cable installer in during the week -- and was just starting a new job, so could hardly take a day off for that -- and Time Warner isn't exactly easy when it comes to weekend appointments. My first few months, the only station I could get was a very snowy Telefutura.

Now, I'd expect that from the cable company. But from my apartment's internal maintenance crews? For some reason, they absolutely refuse to come into my apartment when I'm not here. They called today and actually seemed to expect me to take a day off work to let them in to fix a leaky radiator (a problem I told them about a month ago that they're just getting around to because it's now leaking into the apartment below me). They have the same policy with their exterminator, which might explain why all the roaches in the apartment complex seem to visit my kitchen.

I'm just glad that 4 percent rent increase is going to good use.

As side note -- this is my 100th post! How appropriate that it's me bitching about something.

Jennifer Holliday, too!

I mentioned, when the Oscar nominations came out, how I had seen virtually none of the nominated films. Well, although I've still yet to see any of the best picture nominees, I did squeeze in a few movies between then and last night.

Unfortunately, looking back over the list of winners this morning, I realized that I had seen only two movies that actually won an Oscar. One was "An Inconvenient Truth." The other? "Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest." Jerry Seinfeld's fresh-ten-years-ago riff was one of the most recognizable aspects of the evening to me. I haven't felt this out-of-touch since being subjected to the very, er, hetero-centric comedy stylings of Joe Rogan.

In other words, me watching the Oscars last night was about the equivalent if I had watched the Tonys last year after seeing only "Tarzan" and "Bridge and Tunnel." Yet I did anyway. And for the record, I've seen neither "Tarzan" nor "Bridge and Tunnel." Now I have a headache.

Service with a smirk

Rusty's post from Wednesday at Rusty's Balcony about Chip Boy reminded me of a rather unpleasant chapter in my life.

Back in my college years in Houston, there was a restaurant in the Montrose area called Cafe Urbana -- now defunct for several years, and its location later became the fish taco haven Berryhill's. The food at Urbana wasn't really that great, mostly uninventive pasta dishes and heavy meats, but our usual waiter was really cute, so I always found excuses to make my friends go with me. One of them got her revenge on me after a night of clubbing by vomiting her Urbana venison in my car at the end of the night, but that's another story.

Now, one particular night, I was in especially heavy flirting mode. Keep in mind this was in my formative years, back when I thought two dates meant I had a boyfriend, that "I love you" meant "I love you" and that people in the service industry were really nice because they were attracted to you and not because they wanted a healthy tip. The clincher for me was when the waiter came out beaming with a dessert I hadn't ordered, handing it to me with a wink and saying it was on him.

My dining companion for the evening -- the same friend, I should add, who once helped me fake an identity to facilitate a break-up -- convinced me that leaving my phone number and a brief note with the bill was a great idea. So I did.

After we had driven about two or three miles down the road, my friend asked me if I put the waiter's name on the note. I hadn't. We then realized that it was a distinct possibility that my note could have been picked up by the man who had been pouring our iced tea all night, a man in his 50s or 60s who I don't even think spoke English. The friend convinced me to go back to Urbana, and passive aggressive as I was, she would go in to make sure that the waiter got the note.

A few minutes later, she returned triumphantly to the car. "He's going to call you," she beamed. I started to get excited, but she continued: "He said that he already has a boyfriend, but that he could always use new friends." Crash. The words of death. I wasn't surprised when he never called, and I didn't eat at Urbana again for years.

I did see said waiter again several months later at a Houston club with a guy who presumably was that boyfriend. He was quite friendly and said hello as the boyfriend gave me the iciest stare that I ever saw. We didn't chat for long.

So Rusty -- if the moment ever feels right, go for it! Just be prepared to lose a restaurant you love if it doesn't go well.

Toot, toot, Tootie goodbye

I'm a few days behind in posting this, but Eric and I had the pleasure of catching Charlotte Rae's appearance at the Lincoln Center Barnes & Noble on Wednesday. She was there to promote her recently reissued album "Songs I Taught My Mother."

What a delight it was! At 80, she's just as adept at mugging and broad comedy as ever. She had the room eating from her tiny hand during the approximate hour-long set -- most of the songs in which I didn't know, but no matter. Who else could sell songs about lovelorn gophers and merry minuets to sing amid the strife in the daily news? Sheldon Harnick, the author of the latter, also was in attendance. And it was truly a joy to hear her perform "The Ballad of Dependency" from "The Threepenny Opera," a song she performed as Mrs. Peachum in 1954. A side note: Her version of "Pirate Jenny," which is available through iTunes, is one of the most wonderfully vicious versions of that song I've ever heard.

Eric and I also had a lot of fun failing miserably at star-spotting in the audience. We were able to pick out Olympia Dukakis, but the rest were people who we knew we should have known but didn't. For a second, I was sure that I had spotted Pamela Myers until it was pointed out to me that she was involved in another project and not nearly old enough to have been the woman I was looking at.

At any rate, it's a little sad that most people will remember her as nothing more than Mrs. Garrett from "The Facts of Life" -- or even worse, for Paul Vogt's impersonation of her as Mrs. Garrett on MadTV. She was nominated for a Tony twice, after all. And more recently, she called Joan Collins a bitch.

Just call me the Milton Berle of blogdom

I've never met a good idea I don't like to steal. So following Eric's footsteps yet again, I made one of those maps showing which state's I've visited:



(Create your own personalized map of the USA)

I love that I've been in literally about 10 miles of North Dakota, but that's enough to get the whole state colored in. Obviously, I need to plan a trip to the northern Midwest sometime. I can't think of any excuses to go to Kansas, however.

Just for fun, here's my Europe map as well.



(Create your personalized map of Europe)

I love the little white dots like San Marino and Vatican City. I'd do the one of the world, but you could pretty much see what it would look like by combining the U.S. and Europe maps. Just add Canada. I think I'm one of the few (former) Texans alive who has never even been to Mexico.

Twelve talented stereotypes

I don't usually review tours, but I must say a few good words about the current national tour of the Roundabout's production of "12 Angry Men" -- which I missed when it was on Broadway.

To be frank, the show is not one of my favorites. With a plot straight out of an episode of "Matlock" and enough manufactured melodrama to fill three seasons of "Dynasty," I've never really understood its appeal. But a good production is a good production.

Naturally, the promotional materials have focused on the two best-known stars in the production: Richard Thomas and George Wendt. It's a little ironic, however, that theirs are the two least interesting characters in the show. Wendt's affable foreman and Thomas' crusading Juror #8, the sole unwavering dissenting voice in the group, are little more than catalysts for the other stock characters on the jury. This isn't the fault of either actor, however, as both do well in their roles.

As for the other characters -- the baseball-loving tough guy, the blue collar guy with all the common sense, the blustering bigot, the wise old man and so on -- none of the actors seem to be direct imports from central casting. I won't single anyone out, but all brought a little personal flair to the characters so that even though I knew every single thing that was going to happen, I was still engaged enough to pay attention. Combined with some excellent direction -- pacing was spot-on, as was the blocking -- I really enjoyed it.

It's funny how much New York has spoiled me as far as theatre-going, however. Every time I go to one of these regional houses, like Houston's Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, it feels so cavernous. The sound system makes the dialogue echo, or in the case of a recent production of "West Side Story" that I saw there, sound canned.

A few final thoughts on Hardaway

Or not really about him. About showering with icky gays.

I've now been reading numerous suggestions from those thumping their chests for Tim Hardaway that he makes a good point in that gays should have separate locker rooms. Take this rather illiterate post from ESPN.com from a poster named 1569jimmy (great last two letters, by the way, jim):

The part about the lockerroom is a free ride for gay men. I go to the gym and work out at BALLY'S and am constantly looking over my shoulder in the showers as there are at least 3 or 4 different gay men a night going there not even to work out but just paying their membership dues so they could go in and out of the steamroom .It's so obvious as they go back and forth from the showers to the steamroom so they can get their jollies and semi-erections. You could literally see them looking at you from the back of your eye. Why should i be made to feel uncomfortable, when i'm in the lockerroom? ALL it does is pis me off AND MAKE ME RUSH my shower SO I don't have to endure this while they are getting their kicks on my expense. TRUST ME, it's not one or 2 that are their strictly for showering. It's at least one in any location that i go to. THESE SAID INDIVIDUALS have never been seen working out. They're WILLING to pay $30 a month for unlimited access to manflesh. When you think of it, it's like a straight guy being a peeping tom in the women's lockerrom. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE. The only difference is that they are alowed access because they have the same genitalia (ALBEIT for different purposes) and can hide behind this fact. They are portrayed as victims, but in reality so are the straight men that have no choice in the matter. I GAURANTEE yOU if they didn't have any lockerrooms 80% of the gays that are members would not be RENEWING THEIR MEMBERSHIPS. That's what keeping it real souns like. You can call it homophobic or whatever you'd like, but also have to factor that 90% of straight men somewhat have the same point of view.

I can see how someone who writes so eloquently would be hard to resist. And I've found that the ones who worry most about other guys hitting on them are the ones who usually should have to worry about it the least. And I'll also bet that you didn't know that 95 percent of rhetorical percentages are just made up in the writer's head and have no basis in facts whatsoever.

But let's pretend, for a moment, that jimmy here is the spitting image of Wentworth Miller or someone else that would be capable of giving your typical gay male a "semi-erection," whatever that is.

First of all, I have it on pretty good authority that many straight guys check each other out while in the locker room shower. It's a method of, let's say, assessing their manhood.

So, the naked body is being looked at one way or the other. Therefore, what is the difference if the looking provides the opportunity for arousal? Unless the gym is incredibly sketchy, the management will suspend the membership of anyone doing something torrid in the corner. If there's a problem, report it. If someone is overtly ogling, call them out on it. Embarrass them. That's what I would do. Believe it or not, I don't particularly like to be ogled in the shower myself. That's probably what the girls in the yoga class would do if they saw straight men ogling them as they go through the various positions.

For another view, check out Andrew Sullivan. The email he prints also confirms my earlier point.

Anyway, I'm through with this subject now. I'll be in Texas a few days, so I might not have the ability to post. So in case I'm not back before, everyone have a fabulous holiday weekend!

Hating the reaction, not the action

The Tim Hardaway story is the type that leaves me in a foul mood all day. My first instinct was to come on here and compose a vitriol-dripping rant, but I'm going to refrain from that. Rather, I'm going to attempt to rationally say, without personal insults, why this situation is so wounding. By doing so, I hope that at least someone who might be of that mindframe might read it and at least try to see things from another angle. Indulge me, please, because this might take a while.

Now, Hardaway's comments themselves do not bother me so much. If I was so fragile as to fall to pieces every time some macho brute shot his mouth off, I'd be in Belleview by now. It's the immediate rush by so many to defend him that's troubling.

The comments on ESPN's Web site and the Miami CBS affiliate were appalling. The CBS site also was running a poll in which the responses that Hardaway was "speaking the thoughts of most Americans" or that his remarks took great courage were garnering about 45 percent of the vote before it disappeared from the site. The Lone Star Times' Jeremy Weidenhof says thus about Hardaway:

Well, sir, now you have done it. You would have been better off beating up your coach, getting involved in a bar shooting, insulting Christianity, or any other approved method for publicity, but saying that you hate a favored group is just too much. No doubt you will be sent to a re-education camp forthwith to get your mind right.

And here are a few sample comments following that:

He was being honest. Some people just can’t handle the truth.

They ask the guy a question. He gave them an honest answer...I don’t really want to be around gay guys either, if one is hired where I work I will enteract (sic) with that person only to the degree that is required to get my job done. I don’t have to like them and I sure as hell don’t have to hang out with them after work.

I understand about the “seeing me nekkid in front of a gay” part. Heck, I undressed and showered in gym in highschool (sic) and found out my friend was a dyke (10 years later when it was PC) I was PISSED!!!

Unfortunately, this seems to be indicative of what I'm seeing in the majority of spots today, and these are downright sugar compared to what I could dig out of FreeRepublic. I don't have the stomach for that right now.

Let's be clear, here. Hardaway didn't say that he thinks homosexuality is a sin, that he's opposed to gay marriage or anything like that. He flat out said he hates gay people. And very few seem willing to repudiate that. So much for the "love the sinner, hate the sin" platitude.

This seems to be par for whenever any kind of story comes up that has any sort of gay angle. I recall recently when two men were beaten with a pipe while on vacation in the Caribbean, the Freeper take on it was largely on the side of the pipe-wielding thug because, obviously, the guys provoked him with public displays of affection.

Back when I covered daily news in Texas, I was working on a story about twin bills in the state legislature seeking to ban adoptions by gay couples as well as blocking them from becoming foster parents. I talked to a certain state representative--I'm tempted to say his name, but I won't--who gave me little more than a few standard "I think marriage is between a man and a woman" response. Later, he told someone else at the paper that he really thought the bills were crap, but he didn't want to go on the record in what could be deemed an action supportive of homosexuality. No doubt, if any of those bills had come up for a vote, his would have been "aye."

What this all tells me is that there really is a pretty frightening large group out there who downright despises gays or doesn't care enough to stand up when it counts. It makes me wonder how far they would take it. If the pendulum ever swung far enough to the right and people started introducing legislation in certain states dictating that homosexuality should be a capital offense, how difficult would it be to stop? Don't think it's that far-fetched. It's an opinion voiced by Alabama former Chief Justice Roy Moore, a hero to many on the right.

Even if that's an extreme jump, I don't think a lot of those commenters, many of whom have never met anyone who is gay, understand the levels of hate that could be encountered anywhere. That includes here in New York. A few weeks ago, my roommate and I were eating some late night pizza in the Times Square area, and several burly guys stood by our table making comments about how gross we were and how we were about to start kissing. We were eating pizza and talking. Nothing more. Somehow, our very presence threatened them,

Let me clear up another misconception, too, regarding this "showering with the homo" issue. I can speak only for myself, but I can honestly say that I find maybe 1 percent of the population or so attractive. So, fearful commenters, your chances are pretty good that I wouldn't give you a second look on the street, much less want to peer at anything in the shower.

As for Hardaway's statement taking courage, that's about the most offensive comment of all. If anything takes courage, it's facing that kind of hatred. Courage is the guy in my high school who was called a faggot while the teachers looked the other way, culminating in one white supremacist student--who later became a local police officer, I might add--beating him to a pulp. Courage is another friend of mine from the area who spoke out against the recent marriage amendment in the local paper, knowing it would out him countywide in a place where the aforementioned bully could get a job as a law enforcer. Courage is my parents, who have stood by me no matter what sort of whispers and insults they have to endure.

Saying you hate a group of people you've never met, however, is not courage. And neither, for that matter, is typing that same sentiment with pork-rind-stained fingers while wedged behind a home PC.

Gay dating in the styx (part 3)

The beauty of following this page through StatCounter is that I can tell which posts get read more than others, and let me tell you, people love my misery. So, in honor of Valentine's Day, I've decided to make my horrible date stories a regular occurrence. Here are parts One and Two. And if this scares off any potential suitors, have no fear. I have plenty of material to keep me busy before I get anywhere near the New York stories. And as you'll see in this one, I'm not always the hapless victim. Sometimes I'm just as bad as the date in question.

One other note: I was asked why I say "in the styx" rather than the grammatically correct "in the sticks." It's just a play on words I've always used meaning "on the path to hell," as in the mythological river or listening to "Mr. Roboto," and is not used exclusively to denote any particular area or geography.

In my early years of coming out for the second time, near the end of my college career, I had no idea how to go about getting dates. I wasn't out to any friends who would go with me to clubs, and I certainly didn't want to go alone. So like any confused boy, I turned to the Internet. I knew nothing of the major dating sites like gay.com, so through a Lycos search--there was an age before Google, ya know--I found some bizarre little chat room. My entire time there, I saw only one other person in the Houston portion of that room: Eric.

Eric and I initially talked only over the phone, and I was too inexperienced to tell the warning signs, namely that we couldn't maintain a conversation. The pauses were interminable. Once I literally sat on the phone for about 10 minutes without either of us saying a word only to find out later that Eric had fallen asleep while on the phone with me.

Apparently, I was desperate enough for attention at this point to find this scintillating enough for an in-person meeting. He was less out than I was, so the only place we could possibly meet was my apartment. Upon first glance, I knew he wasn't my type, but I prolonged it for several dates, not knowing how to do any better. Eric, however, informed me that he was falling in love, so thus began the birth of passive aggressive Mike, my true initiation to the gay community.

Justified or not, Eric's increasing clinginess frightened me. My attempts to cut things off the traditional gay way--just not returning phone calls, which came frighteningly natural to me--only intensified those calls and frightened me more. I became a bit paranoid. So I took the passive aggressiveness to embarrassingly unprecedented levels.

A helpful friend, someone we might now call an enabler, and I went as far as to create false identities on ICQ (Remember ICQ? The AOL IM of its time? Does it even still exist?) in order to feed him horrid information about me in an effort to get him to break it off with me. Somehow, this scheme that Lucy Ricardo would have said was taking things too far went off without a hitch, and he never called again. When I finally started to go to clubs, I often found myself looking over my shoulder the first few months. Never mind the logic that would indicate clubs would be the last place a heavily closeted person would be seen.

I should also mention that another dear friend also tried to talk sense into me and get me to handle things in a more direct manner and has since been a great source of encouragement as I try to suppress this passive aggressive side. And I mostly have, but not before building up some seriously bad karma. As I'll go into next time, it came back to haunt me sooner than I expected.

Late-season acupuncture

There's always a certain point at a party, right before it's time to go home, when everybody's buzz is wearing off and conversations lull. That's also always the point when someone makes an extremely late appearance, coming in with bubbly conversation that no one wants to hear and making you feel obligated to stay a half hour or so longer than you want.

That's how I feel about winter this year. Throughout December and January, I really wanted a nice snow, and the spinkles we saw then were pretty pathetic. But by the time this blizzard thing came last night, I'm over it. Plus, this isn't a nice, fluffy little snow. This is driving sleet accompanied by winds strong enough to upturn my umbrella while its still closed.

And it hurts. For you southerners, walking through strong sleet is about like a faceplant into a cactus, as those pointy ice crystals batter your skin. So go home, winter. It's closing time.

Oh, and I realize it's Valentine's Day, so I'll be back with an appropriately uplifting story later.

A plug for a plug

Although he hardly needs my help, I must give yet another shout-out to Eric at Southern Boy for his fantastic interview (it took me forever to find the permalink button on there!) and equally fantastic accompanying photo now featured on Best Gay Blogs. And it's not just because of the lovely things he said about yours truly.

I myself have finally registered there and have noticed some additional traffic as a result, so welcome to all who are here for the first time! If you like me and link to me, I'll almost always reciprocate, so long as you're not from torturingpuppieswithbatteryacid.blogspot.com or the like.

And speaking of which, I've added two more links. First up is the erudite Kim's Breathing Space. Thanks to the anonymous world of blogging, I'm not sure if we actually know each other or not, but either way, she was kind enough to add me to her blogroll, so I'm more than happy to do the same. The other is a new blog by one of my hometown heroes, Mary Ruth Rhodenbaugh. Loyal readers (all 20 of you!) might recall my being rather upset several months ago when someone in my home county opined about how women should not be allowed to be county commissioners. Well, I'm happy to say that way of thinking lost and that Mary Ruth is rightly on the Brazoria County Commissioner's Court today.

If I may get serious for a moment, I might joke and kvetch about my hometown on occasion, but it's still my hometown. I'll go into more detail about that paradox another time, but for now, I'll just say I'm glad there are people like Mary Ruth there who make it a better place. You could never know a gentler, more selfless soul.

Glorious moments in paparazzidom

Two photos in the Daily News gave me pause this morning.

First, the "exclusive" look inside Anna Nicole Smith's refrigerator. Wow! In addition to the methadone, there was yogurt, Slim Fast, and Worcestershire sauce, all detailed with little scribbles identifying each item. Enthralling! I can't wait for the exclusive look in her pantry so I can see her cans of Pam, Spaghetti-Os and Tuna Helper mixes next to the cases of ipecac.

More exciting, however, was a photo of Britney Spears exiting her limo after vomiting inside of it. The caption made sure to note the stain on her pants from it. It also seemed to indicate that photographers got a shot of the pile of puke as "evidence."

Even getting punched by Angelina Jolie has to be better than this.

Await and drink!

Following its highly praised run of "Awake and Sing!" last season, the Belasco Theatre is now housing another theatrical treasure from the early 20th Century. R.C. Sherriff's "Journey's End," last seen on Broadway during the pre-war Roosevelt administration, is now in previews at the theatre in preperation for a Feb. 22 opening.

The play takes place entirely in a gritty dugout underneath the British military's trenches at Saint-Quentin, France during World War I. The officers, including first-in-command Capt. Stanhope (Hugh Dancy) housed there are waiting through the unsettling quiet prior to an imminent German offensive that all know is just days away. Stanhope hasn't had much of a break from the trenches in three years, and as a result, is volatile and drinking heavily. The fatherly second-in-command, Lt. Osborne (Boyd Gaines) is one of the few who can give him comfort, but the recent addition of a worshipful childhood friend, 2nd Lt. Raleigh (Stark Sands) gives Stanhope renewed concern about what the war made him become.

The fresh-faced Raleigh is surprised upon arrival with the slow pace in the trenches, thinking that war meant nonstop frenzy and battles. The waiting, however, is the most mentally difficult part, so much that one officer, 2nd Lt. Trotter (John Ahlin) takes to filling in circles on a chart to mark every hour of the six-day stay the men have in the trenches.

As such, the play is largely dependent on suspense and tension, and David Grindley's direction, straight from a successful run of the show in London, masters that in the show pacing. One of the most enthralling scenes involves Raleigh and Osborne trying to relax in idol chitchat in the final minutes leading up to a dangerous mission. Nothing that they're saying is of any substance, yet it's entrancing because of the quiet countdown going on in the back of the two men's minds.

Despite being something of a prototype for the later deluge of war dramas, "Journey's End" still seems fresh and free of cliches. Yes, some of the characters are what later became war script stereotypes -- the cowardly 2nd Lt. Hibbert (Justin Blanchard), the somewhat indifferent Colonel (Richard Poe) and the shabby cook Private Mason (Jefferson Mays) -- but even they don't seem so here. More remarkable is the lack of a villain. Even the opposing German army is treated sympathetically here, as Osborne talks about their assistance as the British tried to remove a wounded man from the trenches.

Obviously, this show should find a new resonance thanks to the increasingly unpopular war in Iraq. That largely will be the projection from the audience, however. Sherriff, himself a World War I veteran, might not have been a big fan of war, but "Journey's End" is more of an acknowledgement of the horrors of war on which people taking any side of the debate should be able to agree.

The cast assembled here is first-rate, particularly Broadway veteran Gaines and up-and-coming star Dancy. Gaines is a solid, dignified presence, and Dancy is equally fiery and fragile as the tortured leader. All the principals excel at the appropriately layered performance of the surface light-heartedness and the underlying anticipation. This particularly stands out following the scene in which one of the characters dies, and the action jarringly jumps to a raucous and bawdy celebration in the dugout. The melancholy beneath the occasion is obvious to the audience even if it isn't to Raleigh.

There were a few accent inconsistencies among some American cast members that easily should be worked out by the end of previews. The set is appropriately dank and dark. From a technical standpoint, the show also is in great shape. It's quite telling that a few beats stretching for several minutes, including the distressing ending, are carried successfully by little more than lighting and sound effects to an actorless stage. The curtain call also is handled in a way as to not break the tension reached by the play's end.

It's been a tough season for straight plays. Star power (see "The Vertical Hour") and good reviews (see "The Little Dog Laughed") have done little to help shows find an audience. If there's any justice however, "Journey's End" should last long enough for a new generation to discover a superb interpretation given to a nearly century-old classic.

Ideal, yes, but there's no coasting about it

It's been more than a week since I saw the final part of Tom Stoppard's epic trilogy "The Coast of Utopia," now playing in repertory at the Vivian Beaumont at Lincoln Center, and I still haven't been able to put together a coherent review. In retrospect, I should have approached it piece by piece, because the entire trilogy is so vast, even straight summary would be more paragraphs than most would be willing to read on an humble blog. Nonetheless, I'm still gonna try.

At a cursory glance, the first part of the trilogy, "Voyage," is deceptive. It makes it seem it seem as if this will be the story of the whiny moocher Michael Bakunin (Ethan Hawke) and his upper class family in 19th Century Russia, but his arc, as it turns out, is merely a supporting role in the true core of the story, philosopher and muckraker Alexander Herzen (Brian F. O'Byrne).

I'll stop with the plot summary there, because as I said, it's truly immense. With the exception of Hawke, O'Byrne and a few others, the 30-something strong cast, including many headlining players, rotate through a variety of roles during the decades covered by "Utopia," the final years of the oppressive system of serfdom and censorship in Russia. With each chapter, it took my brain about 15 minutes just to adjust to the scope of what I was seeing.

Once that happened, the work is truly magnificent of the raves it has received. Every piece of the production -- the costumes, the music, the lighting -- is stunning. And as always, Stoppard's use of language is nonpareil among modern playwrights.

The cast is consistently strong. Not surprisingly, O'Byrne has the gravitas to carry the show, but I would have gladly watched a show that centered on any of the supporting characters as well. Hawke is the perfect blend of angst and obnoxiousness as the moody, pushy Bakunin. Jennifer Ehle creates three great characters but particularly shines as Herzen's wife Natalie in the second part, "Shipwreck." Amy Irving, Martha Plimpton, Richard Easton, Billy Crudup, Patricia Conolly...all superb.

That's not to say this is easy to digest. Far from it, in fact. In fact, it's already found a fashionable detractor in the New York Times' Charles Isherwood, who bravely authored a piece last weekend calling the trilogy a bore. The synopses handed out with the Playbills help, but it does seem a bit daunting to have to cram before the curtain. And I'll admit the endless philosophizing in grand speeches does get tiresome. My mind wandered more than once. At one point in third part, "Salvage," as a long lost friend came to visit Herzen, he immediately launched into one such speech, and I silently said thanks that I left behind such incessant and self-important thinkers in college.

So...how should one see this show? Honestly, I don't think I would have the constitution to make it through one of the marathon performances in which all three segments are performed over about an eight-hour span, with breaks in between, of course. I think those are pretty much sold out, anyway. I don't regret having bought individual tickets for each segment, as this was a good choice for my once-every-few-months full-price splurge (good luck finding discounts on this one).

The common advice I've heard is that if one could see only one part, to see "Voyage." I disagree. "Shipwreck" had the most impact for me. The story of Herzen's family is the most intriguing and satisfying of the arcs, and most of it takes place in "Shipwreck." "Voyage" left me wanting more, so I think it alone would be a bit of a tease. And "Salvage," while strong, probably would make the least sense standing alone, as Herzen is already a defeated man when it begins. Plus, seeing the third part only would deprive a theatregoer of seeing Irving and Crudup, neither of whom are even in "Salvage."

But I hope no one lets the enormity, weighty subject matter and syllabus-style suggested reading lists for this show be a detterent from seeing this. An undertaking like this is a theatrical rarity, even in New York. And even if every syllable is not understood, it's still not difficult to appreciate the beauty of great performances, solid production values and Stoppard's delicious language.

Back when 'hoochie koochie' didn't mean, um, that

As I'm still gathering my final thoughts on "The Coast of Utopia" trilogy, I need to give a quick mention to a quiet little show running for just a few more days Off-Broadway.

I finally made it out to see "Meet Me In St. Louis" at the Irish Repertory Theater, and what a gem! Nothing flashy, nothing ironic -- just a couple of hours of pure escapism. Certainly, much of my enjoyment came with my familiarity with the film, but so what? After all, it was enough to make "Mary Poppins" an enjoyable experience, and this show didn't need disappearing hat racks or top-of-the-proscenium tap dances to pull it off.

The show, for anyone who has not seen the film -- and hand in your gay card, please, if that's the case -- centers around the Smith family in St. Louis at the turn of the century leading up to the World's Fair. The crises that the family faces are docile enough to make "Little House on the Prairie" look like something Norman Lear wrote. Will dad allow dinner to be postponed so daughter Rose can have a phone call from a boy in peace? Will a young man get his tuxedo from the tailor in time to make it to the ball? Will the family have to move to New York?

Therein lies the charm, however. The earnestness is refreshing during a theatre season in which so many shows want to wink at you the whole time.

The cast is mostly excellent, and Bonnie Fraser (daughter Esther, immortalized by Judy Garland in the film) is a particularly winning presence. The music is handled by a three-piece orchestra and is the perfect backdrop the the unamplified cast, although a few actors were difficult to hear from my Row J seat. They do well by the show's four famous songs: the title song, "The Boy Next Door," "The Trolley Song" and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." The period costumes are lovely and the choreography appropriately homey albeit a little crowded on the small stage at times.

I certainly can understand why the show struggled in its lone Broadway outing in the late 1980s (in which Charlotte Moore, the director of this production, starred as Mrs. Smith). Making this show grand would only amplify its weaknesses, making those moth holes from its age all the more apparent. I can only imagine how silly some of the big dance numbers, like the square dance near the end of Act I, would seem with a large ensemble treatment. But in an intimate setting, it seems timeless.

The production itself is not, however. "Meet Me in St. Louis" closes a week from Sunday, so you'll have to hurry to catch this trolley before it leaves the station. And you wouldn't want Esther mad at you, now would you? Why, she might trick you into dancing with someone unattractive, throw flour in your face or something equally devilish.

Another nail in the coffin of nuance

A few months ago, I mentioned my admiration for Leonard Pitts Jr. while lamenting the lack of decent columnists around anymore (one less, in fact, with the recent death of Molly Ivins). Unfortunately not only are writing skills no longer a requirement to be a published columnist, apparently neither is understanding of basic facts.

Let's take today's column by Larry Elder, entitled "Global Warming Turns People 'Gay'" -- got to love how World Net Daily always has to put the word gay in quotation marks, by the way. It begins as such:

Global warming alarmists – despite their best efforts – seem incapable of convincing the Bush administration. So here's my suggestion. Make the scientists tell the president that global warming turns people gay.

The idea came to me after seeing a Super Bowl Snickers commercial and learning of the "controversy" that followed it. In the ad, two guys chewing on either end of the candy bar inadvertently touch lips. Shocked, they decide to do something "manly" and demonstrate their heterosexuality. How? They pull down their shirts and rip off their chest hairs. A pro-gay-rights group called the ad homophobic and demanded the Snickers people stop showing it. Clearly, America runs rampant with gay-haters.

So, imagine if scientists simply told Bush that global warming made people gay.

On the surface, it's a surrealist premise that doesn't even work, an attempt to tie together two news stories that have nothing to do with one another without providing sufficient reason why. It's kind of like my beginning directing project in college, in which I spliced together footage of Dali paintings and scenes from "Carrie" to a Natalie Merchant song. I scored well on it at the time, but looking back now, I wonder, "Why in the hell did I ever do that?"

More problematic, however, is the fact that the opening assertion is absolutely wrong.

The furor over the Snickers campaign was never about that one individual commercial. If Elder had bothered to pay attention to the story, he would have realized that most had no problem with the commercial until seeing the additional material Mars put around the promotion on its Web site. In addition to showing footage of football players acting repulsed when seeing the original commercial, it also provided an alternate ending in which the men reacted to the accidental kiss by drinking motor oil and one beating the other senseless with a wrench.

Alas, however, we now must be able to boil everything down to one sentence. Gay groups thought a Snickers ad was homophobic. Al Gore said he invented the Internet. Record cold temperatures on one day in Michigan prove that global warming is a hoax.

None of those sentences accurately describes its respective situation, but I guess they all make great thesis statements, eh, Larry?

Why I live in New York

First of all, a hearty congrats to Southern Boy for marking his first year of official blogdom yesterday (and happy birthday to my one-weekend dog Xander today). It also made me realize that yesterday was exactly one year after I started my current job here in New York, which got me thinking over the benefits I've reaped since moving here:

1) I've lost somewhere between 30 and 40 pounds. I've never really been overweight per se, but a few years of lethargy in South Jersey and Texas had put a few extra blobs on me in unpleasant places. By and large, those are gone now. Part of it was an overhaul to my diet this summer and cutting down on sodas, no doubt. Most of the credit, however, can be attributed to the facts that I have to walk about a mile and a half every day just for commuting purposes, that I live in a six-story walkup and that I no longer grocery shop as if I'm stockpiling for a nuclear winter, which would be impossible for a guy who can't afford weekly delivery services.

2) I now have more non-coworkers friends than I've had since my college years. Making good friends outside of the office as an adult is quite difficult when you move to a new city, but it seems to be much easier here. On a related note, I've also been able to date a lot more, and it's easier to avoid drunken karaoke maulers and under-the-table pot deals at IHOP.

3) I've been able to see more theatre, concerts, cabaret acts and comedy shows in the last year than I probably have in my lifetime up to this point. What's more, I rarely have to pay full price anymore, now that I don't have to plan far ahead in my theatre-going. And, when I see a clunker, it doesn't feel like I've wasted anything more than a couple of bucks and a few hours, rather than an entire day trip.

4) Always having plenty else to do, I've watched less television than I ever have in my entire life. I couldn't tell you a thing about any new shows that debuted this season. And I'm rather happy with that ignorance.

5) Random celebrity encounters no longer impress me, although I will admit it was kind of fun seeing Al Sharpton through the window of some tobacco shop in midtown last weekend.

I could go on -- and I could also mention that I've paid more in rent than I did my entire three or fours years for housing in Texas that was not supported by parents or scholarships -- but that's enough rationalization for now to convince me that I should, indeed, stay here for a while.

I've frosted my hair before, but this is ridiculous

Last night, I went to the gym for a quick workout before my chorus rehearsal. After stepping out of the shower, I realized that horror of horrors, I'd forgotten my hair gel. I blow-dried my hair and styled it as best I could and left for a quick soup and salad before rehearsal. Without gel, I knew I had to keep my hat off for the short walk or else my hair would be uncontrollable for the rest of the night.

As I was walking to the restaurant, I started to get a horrible headache, like when you eat ice cream too fast. I reached up and felt clumps in my hair, like some sort of phantom gel that had come to take the place of the product I had forgotten. It wasn't until I was inside the restaurant that I realized it was ice.

That's right. In a matter of blocks, the residual dampness from my shower had literally frozen my hair to my head.

I'd never make it in the Midwest.

One for the humor morgue

A quick request: Can we please, please, please have a moratorium on jokes about how many presidential candidates there are?

It's already the late-night punchline du jour along with the subject of countless editorial cartoons (including the one in the Daily News today). But honestly. I remember the same jokes from four, eight, twelve, etc. years ago, and they weren't that funny then. You might as well be drawing cartoons about airplane food or VCR programming difficulties.

It's even less funny when you think: There really aren't that many candidates. Tossing aside the joke candidates and the impossible long shots, there's a handful on each side. So the jokes are more routine, like the inevitable Black Friday or day-after-Christmas returns story that inevitably appear in every paper each year, rather than based on any reality.

So I pronounce these jokes as dead as the Chuck Norris ones.

Embracing my inner lesbian

I'm still organizing my thoughts on "The Coast of Utopia," so meanwhile, I wanted to mention the concert put on by the Brooklyn Philharmonic last night: Four-Scored, featuring Nellie McKay, Laurie Anderson, Suzanne Vega and Joan Osborne.

It was a great lineup with all four performing sets just long enough to keep me wanting a lot more. Yes, some might shrug this off at a casual glance as Lilith Fair redux, but truly, the disparate styles of all four couldn't have complemented one another better.

McKay is quickly becoming one of my favorite performers. I saw her last year in the "Threepenny Opera" revival without knowing much about her and enjoyed her performance--thinking of her as kind of a more musical Sarah Silverman, a pretty, petite girl whose great at firing off quirky non-sequiturs. Since then, I've slowly become acquainted with her "Get Away From Me" album and love every bizarre, driving song. From what I heard last night, "Pretty Little Head" is another winner, and I'll definitely be picking it up soon.

I'm embarrassed to say that I'm not really that familiar with Anderson, but her set--all brand new stuff--was a great contrast to the rest of the night. Haunting and lovely.

Vega's voice has gotten only better with time, and it was a treat hearing some of my favorites with the philharmonic orchestrations. Of particular note was one--I can't recall the name, and I really wish they had given us a set list in the program--with a new Philip Glass arrangement. Gorgeous. "Marlene on the Wall" also was superb.

Finally, I really like where Osborne's style has migrated over the years. She performed from her upcoming album, and it has a great Motown, funky feel to it. I'd recommend picking it up when it comes out as well (April, I think she said?).

Oh, and McKay might not have played my favorite "Inner Peace," and Osborne might have stayed far away from "One of Us," but by God, Vega played "Tom's Diner." They mentioned last night that the actual Tom's Diner was written about Tom's Restaurant in Morningside Heights, the same one which "Seinfeld" used as the exterior for its omnipresent Monk's Cafe. Fun fact! At least now I know to what "the bells of the cathedral" line refers.