Presence makes the heart grow harder

Prior to living in New York, I was, for the most part, ambivalent to Rudy Giuliani. With the exception of his appearance in that one Rage Against The Machine music video, he seemed like an affable enough guy. Being a Texan, I thought any Republican who didn't hate the homos was kind of a cool novelty.

Then, I moved here and noticed the deep-seated contempt so many long-time New Yorkers had for the man. That made me take notice. After all, I disliked George W. Bush long before he had the chance to show his true colors in the White House.

Now that ambivalence is gone. He's crossed the line into the unforgivable. Most egregious was his decision to kiss the butt of Family Research Council executive director Tony Perkins -- who, by the way, has some ties to white supremacist groups in the not-so-distant past -- by coming up with some bizarre circumstance under which he'd support a federal marriage amendment. The other was his equally bizarre decision to root for the Red Sox. He explained that one away by saying he'd always support the American League team in the World Series, unless, perhaps, the Mets were involved. You hear that Houston, St. Louis, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Washington, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, Phoenix, Denver, Miami and the sad half of Chicago? He automatically hates your teams.

Seriously, though, do you know how much of a spit-in-the-face it is to Yankee fans for him to come out for the Red Sox? Giuliani had better hope his next appearance at a Yankees game isn't on Bat Day. And I wonder what that gay couple -- you know, that one who took him in after one of his many marriages failed -- thinks of his sudden support, albeit tepid support, for a marriage amendment? Politicians pander. I know. But these turncoat moments are so egregious that I'll bet even Mitt Romney's embarrassed for him.

Weekend review roundup (a few days early)

The Farnsworth Invention
Tired of seeing films adapted for the stage? Well, how about seeing a film that never even got made adapted for the stage? Honestly, I had no idea that "The Farnsworth Invention," Aaron Sorkin's new play about the race to invent television, now in previews for its Broadway debut at The Music Box, was adapted from an unproduced screenplay until I read up a bit on its later, but the production is so cinematic, I'd already made that guess. The Andrew Lippa-composed relentless underscoring, the huge number of characters and the vignette-style scenes are some of the obvious signs that this is a medium-out-of-water experience. Still, as a former broadcast major in college, it's a compelling story, although I imagine it might be rather tedious for some. The two leads in the cast--the heretofore criminally underused Jimmi Simpson as brainiac inventor Philo Farnsworth and Hank Azaria ruthless businessman and NBC founder David Sarnoff--are more than up to the task here. The big problem comes from the rest of the cast. No one is particularly bad; some, in fact, are quite good. However, most of the 18 or so supporting members play multiple roles to flesh out the more than 100 characters in this show. And some of these characters appear so briefly, it's a bit confusing to see one of the guys funding Farnsworth's research suddenly working for Sarnoff in another scene, or to see Sarnoff barking orders at the young actor who was only recently playing his childhood self. What's more, the script relies entirely too much on narration, and the fact that our two narrators establish themselves as not-too-trustworthy from the get-go makes it even more problematic. Even so, this "Rashomon" of television history is worth checking out for anyone who isn't put off by quite a bit of technical babble. Also, in technical and pacing terms, it was in great shape, particularly considering it was the third preview.

Die Mommie Die!
Housed appropriately enough in the same theatre that brought us "Evil Dead: The Musical: last year, Charles Busch's 1999 play is finally here for New York viewers. With melodramatic mugging, intentionally cheesy effects and suggested incest-o-plenty, fans of Busch, and "Evil Dead" for that matter, won't be disappointed. While it's always fun to see Busch bring one of his anti-heroines to life--in this case, faded chanteuse Angela Arden--the real discovery here is "As The World Turns" star Van Hansis as Arden's dopey, psychopathic, nymphomaniac son Lance. No, I'm not just saying that because he's cute. Hansis does the best job here of keeping up with the show's over-the-nature, without which, the "in a good way" that follows "bad" would disappear.

Success!

It worked! One day after I hatch a scheme to boost international readership, I've made a breakthrough. I've been translated into German! At first I thought it was a death threat -- die Lunar Gemini -- but no, it's a German translation of my reviews from the other day. And from what I can tell, it's a travel site looking for information on the actual island of Mauritius, so my post is not at all relevant. But, it's a step. And I learned how to say matricide in German (muttermord).

Oh, and I also must give special credit to the Californian who found this spot with the Google search: "Would Tom Cruise love to get a hangover in Iraq if a car bomb went off while he was on marijuana." I can only assume you read the same news story that I did. Or you're really, really disturbed. Either way, bravo.

Building an international readership

In an effort to get this blog on the world map, I'm going to utilize the latest search result news from Google and try to appeal to Web-searchers across the globe. Let's see if this works!

To Mexico (favorite key words: David Beckham, Britney Spears, Hitler, gay)
Actually, I'm not sure which gay sign hit first for me: the love of Beckham, or the love of Britney. But I'm pretty sure Hitler wasn't a catalyst in that awakening.

To Colombia (favorite key word: gay)
I'm single, boys!

To Chile (favorite key words: gay, homosexual, Nazi)
I'm really, really single, boys! And I watch "The Sound of Music" every year.

To Italy (favorite key word: Viagra)
Sono singolo, uomini. And very patient.

To Germany (favorite key words: Hitler, Viagra)
Um, guys? You might want to broaden your horizons. And that might help with the other problem, too. Just sayin'.

To the Czech Republic (favorite key word: dolly buster)
What the hell's a dolly buster?!

To Slovakia (favorite key word: dolly buster)
Well, whatever it is, could it be the key to once again creating a reunified Czechoslovakia?

To Iran (favorite key word: IAEA)
Um, guys? See my above advice for Germany? That applies here, too. Just sayin'.

To the Philippines (favorite key words: terrorism, homosexual, love)
Oh, I'm, uh, not single anymore. No, it wasn't the terrorism thing. It was that last word.

To Pakistan (favorite key words: jihad, terrorism, IAEA, Taliban)
Uhhhhh............

To the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (favorite key words: like they're gonna tell)
I'll soon be posting photos from my visit to Islamabad!

To Ireland (favorite key words: Kate Moss, hangover)
Actually, guys, I'm not sure that's the right word for cocaine after effects.

To my fellow Americans (favorite key words: hangover, burrito, Iraq, Tom Cruise, love, Botox, Car Bomb, Marijuana)
See, any one of these things -- except Iraq -- could probably be found at a Taco Bell at 2 a.m. God bless the U.S.A.

And finally, to our neighbors to the north (favorite key words: burrito, Iraq, Taliban, Tom Cruise, Britney Spears, Car Bomb, Marijuana)
Wow. Pretty much the same fun as the U.S., but without the hangover. Damn your superior health care system!

Time to move?

First, my landlord goes bankrupt. Now it seems the people who have taken temporary control of the building aren't much better.

I had what my mother would call a panic moment today, when I had a lovely letter waiting for me from conEdison. It seems the temporary owners have not paid an almost $900 security deposit on the bill. Brava! What frightened me was the warning the they would be cutting off power in November should this not be rectified. I was actually on the line waiting for a conEdison customer service rep, ready to demand to know how they could cut off my power when I've been paying my bills on time, when I read the letter closer. They were just talking about power in the common areas of the building. So, our security system might not be working anymore, and I might be climbing six flights of the stairs in the dark, but at least I'll have power when I get home.

This, however, does not bode well. Combined with the impossibility of getting anyone to come out for repairs, I'm thinking the end of my lease might be time to cut and run. Anybody got any good apartment leads?

I shouldn't have laughed at the old man in that commercial

I found out last night that Michael Baker had a heart attack. No, not me. My cousin, who is also named Michael Baker. That's right. Not only was I blessed with very common first and last names, I wasn't even the first person in my family to bear my name. And this Michael Baker is a dentist in Austin, so I'll never catch up to that.

He's doing fine, thank goodness. But just the mention of heart attacks--even when it's not a family member or someone who share my name--gives me chest pains. For some reason, I fear that worse than any other disease you can name.

There was a time, in my early 20s, when I was just convinced I had heart problems. I used to get frequent heartburn, and I heard some news anchor talking about his own heart problems, and how it had initially felt like indigestion. That summer, I made several unnecessary trips to the doctor, when I learned that with some doctors, all you have to do is point, and they'll write you a prescription. He put me on heartburn medicine, which made me absolutely miserable and unable to eat right. I'd get so anxious before appointments that my blood pressure would read artificially high, something I inherited for my mother. Of course, this was also what inspired me to start working out regularly at a gym for the first time, which, of course, was the one good thing out of all this.

I later figured out, through my own trial and error, that the heartburn was caused by me eating and drinking way, way too much dairy. I cut back on that, and everything was fine after that. Why could I figure that out, and my pill-happy doctor couldn't?

At any rate, I managed to get over all this--without therapy, no less. I even inadvertently got myself confirmed with an EKG and a heart scan a few years ago when doctors wanted to check for heart bruising after my last car wreck, and everything checked out fine. Even better, my cholesterol at my latest check was only 160. Of course, that's 10 points higher than what my cousin's was.

Damn.

Weekend review roundup -- philately, philosphy and matricide

Mauritius
As a fan of Theresa Rebeck's work, I'm a bit confused as to why her Broadway debut ended up being this show, a watered-down version of, or perhaps ode to, David Mamet's "American Buffalo" now playing at the Biltmore. Fortunately, a stupendous cast makes it worth the trip. All five are excellent: plucky Alison Pill as the desperate girl who inherits the rare nickel stamps, Katie Finneran as her haughty sister who has her own familial claim to the stamp, F. Murray Abraham as the shady character who wants it at any cost, Bobby Cannavale as his eloquent compatriot and particularly Dylan Baker as the obnoxiously snobbish philatelist. Rebeck purposely leaves a lot of these characters' backgrounds as a blank slate. Bad things have happened in the past, but we never find out what they are. From a high altitude, this makes a lovely picture -- these unknown "mistakes" in the past are what make us, like rare stamps with improper lettering or upside down pictures, valuable. But from the orchestra row of a theatre, it just makes for an ultimately frustrating evening.

Will Durst: The All-American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing
Reviewing this show is rather pointless, as it closed today. And that's a shame. Like the boxing imagery that surrounds his show--he appears on the Playbill wearing boxing gloves, and a pair also appear on the bizarrely decorated set, the centerpiece of which is a chair made of old newspapers--Durst uses, er, used a great rope-a-dope strategy in his political comedy act that played at New World Stages. He starts with a series of soft jabs at our president, even those famous Bush-isms that we've all heard hundreds of times before. But the punches get harder and harder, until the final power uppercut -- a rapid-fire barrage of adjectives describing all the horrors we the people have been subjected to during the past seven years. Even though there were a few equal time jabs at obvious targets like Hillary Clinton and PETA, I just hope some Bush fans weren't fooled by the title and unknowingly wandered into... What am I saying? I hope they WERE.

Electra
Not being anywhere near fluent in Greek, it's rather difficult for me to offer an intelligent review of the National Theatre of Greece's production of Sophocles' "Electra," now playing a limited run at New York City Center. "It was pretty to look at and listen to, and I enjoyed it" is about all I can say. I can say, however, that the audience gets an F. Good grief. These were the most distracting group of folks with whom I've ever had to share a theatre. There were a lot of empty seats in the center, so as the show began, there was a mass exodus from the sides toward those seats. As a result, for the first 20 minutes of the show, I was subjected to--outside of the usual latecomers, candy unwrappers and dolts who can't turn off cell phones--way, way too many people wandering to different seats. Some of these were old folks who can barely get around in the light, so it was a long trip for them. And not a one of them seemed to be able to get out of their seat with letting it slam loudly as it sprung back into place. Awful, awful people. Thanks for giving Europe yet another reason to hate us.

Impotent insults

Dealing with idiocy turns me into a nit-picky bitch. Just for fun, let's take a look at a voice from my hometown:

There are reasons people support Republicans

Glenn Kamprota writes of the GOP, “With its mismanagement of Iraq, Katrina relief, the budget and Social Security ‘reform,’ as well as its demonizing of gays and immigrants and hypocritical hysteria over family values, the GOP might very well have deserved what it’s getting.”

Demonizing gays? You mean the same gay agenda (read hysteria) that is trying to ram their lifestyle down everyone’s throat no matter our beliefs. Or the (illegal) immigrants who take the jobs (many which Americans would take), don’t pay taxes, send billions to Mexico and clog up the health system. I used to be a Democrat before they turned to the far left. I never loved the big busines GOP, but at least most of them are against abortion, gay militants and trying to keep some family values.

The GOP will get my vote unless a good third party should arise.

Paul Pousson, Angleton

You know, I could mention that in three mere paragraphs, Mr. Pousson -- who it seems used to love Democrats until they started to get to chummy with the fags, Mex'cans (and not said here, but presumably, the uppity blacks) -- managed to misspell both the name of Glenn Krampota (great guy, by the way) and the easily-fixed-by-spellcheck word "business." Or that Mr. Pousson -- a red-blooded, non-immigrant name if I ever heard one -- uses "gay agenda," a singular noun that doesn't fit with the later plural possessive pronoun "their." Or the absolute idiocy of basing a vote on the things that the GOP, when you look at it, haven't really done a great job of making progress on, anyway.

But I won't mention those things. What I will mention is the unintentional hilarity of the last sentence in the middle paragraph. There are two ways to interpret it as written. Either the Republicans are all gay militants who are trying to preserve family values while fighting abortion, or the Republicans are against three things: abortion, gays and the preservation of family values. Keep your compound constructions parallel, kiddies. Grammar lesson for the day.

Perhaps I'm being too mean here. After all, Mr. Pousson isn't a professional writer. So let's look at someone who is. Ann Coulter -- whom we recently learned is a perfected Jew, or Jewess, as she would probably say -- doesn't care much for Fred Thompson and Mike Huckabee. In fact, Huckabee and Thompson both had the audacity not to hate Bill Clinton so much they smell the stench of his cologne while they sleep at night. Says she:

Huckabee teamed up with that guy to talk to children about healthy eating habits. Ironically, the obesity campaign kicked off almost exactly nine years from the very Palm Sunday on which President Clinton used a cigar as a sexual aid on Monica Lewinsky in the Oval Office.

Ann, how, pray tell, is that ironic? A coincidence, perhaps, but where is the irony? Did C. Everett Koop recently publish a paper indicating that cunnicigarus causes weight gain? 'Cause otherwise, I'm not getting it. I know the word has been diluted of all meaning by pre-teens blogging on MySpace -- "I went to see 'Bratz,' and my BFF Lindsey was there that day, too! Isn't that ironic?????" -- but William Safire would totally kick your ass if he ever stooped to reading WorldNetDaily or the handful of podunk papers that still carry your column. Healthy eating habits, by the way, means actually eating something every once in a while. Try it sometime!

OK, now I have to go scour this post for errors. That's the one danger in writing something criticizing others' grammar and language. If you made a mistake while doing so, that would be, like, ironic.

Oh, and one more song down on the theme song situation. No Liszt's "Liebestraume." Darn it.

At last, my right arm is complete again!

Within an hour of my post last night, my poor little cell phone was returned safely home. The battery even still appeared to be fully charged. For this, I am forever indebted to the driver, whose name I don't even know.

When I reported the phone missing, the dispatcher told me I had two options: Wait until the phone was returned to headquarters so they could messenger it to me, or I could have the driver return it to me, paying for the ride as if the cell phone were a passenger. Once the driver was contacted, however, he returned it to me, at my apartment, directly, and didn't charge me a dime.

I knew I had to give him something. Unfortunately, I wasn't carrying much cash last night. I gave him $10, which is about the same amount as the tip would have been. I also tried to give him a nice bottle of wine I picked up in San Francisco, but he said he didn't drink. I also shot off a nice letter to his company commending him for what he had done. I wish I could do more, but I'm at a loss as to what.

But as his lasting legacy -- I've finally added a counter to my "dumb people" blog post label.

Broken-down cyborg

So, San Francisco was fantastic, but more on that later. I came home incomplete! No, I didn't leave my heart in San Francisco, but I did leave my cell phone in my chauffeured car on the way home. And it's disturbing. And the most disturbing aspect is that the biggest drawback to losing my cell phone is NOT that I no longer have the ability to make calls on the fly. In fact, that's ranked pretty near the bottom.

First, I've discovered I have no memory for phone numbers anymore. None. I know three numbers by memory that are stored in that phone: my parents, my sister Cheryl and my friend from Houston *and San Francisco travel companion) Kristina. Not included on that list are some close friends, two other sisters and my own home phone number. That's right. I've never even committed my home phone number to memory. When I called the car service to see if I could get my phone back, they asked me at what number they could reach me. I blanked and had to give them my work number.

What's more, if I had to get a new phone, I would also lose a long list of phone numbers of people whom I never want to talk to again -- see any of my date stories on here for an example. The chance of those people popping out of the woodwork again to call me is pretty slim, but it's not as slim as the chance of me actually recognizing the phone number should that happen. That's why I never erase a phone number.

That's not all that's stored on that phone, either. There are tons of photos I've never backed up. Most of them are garbage, anyway, but there are a few of a, let's just say, delicate nature.

My subway ride seemed a lot longer this morning. The Yahtzee game I have on it is mindless and not very challenging even on the hardest setting. Yet, that mindless activity keeps me distracted and prevents me from making eye contact with the crazies on the A train.

I also no longer have any judgment of time. Ever since I was a kid, probably because my wrists were so small, I never wore a watch. My cell phone became my watch. I almost had to ask a stranger for the time this morning.

Fortunately, the driver has found my phone, and I should be getting it back soon. Perhaps even tonight. But how terrifying how much I rely on that little device. And if had been my iPod that I had left behind, I'd have called in sick today.

It better be worth a six-hour flight!

So, I'm off to San Francisco in, like, six hours. It's a business trip, but I have lots of free time while there. And, it's Fleet Week, so here's hoping I come back with at least something interesting to say. It's one of the last major U.S. cities I've never been in, so I have high expectations. Also, this is one of those nice business trips where they let me take a friend with me.

Too bad I missed the Folsom Street Fair festivities. Actually, not really. This same friend and I took a trip to Provincetown a few years ago, and unbeknownst to us, we went during Bear Week. At the same time, the Rosie O'Donnell cruise was in town. So, the crowd was mostly men in leather and lesbian couples with strollers. Fun times! But bears don't find me particularly attractive, and coupled lesbians were equally uninterested in my friend, so, that was a bust.

Back with all the news on Tuesday!

*knock knock knock* Housekeeping!

The truly observant might notice I just made a few long overdue adjustments to my links. Mostly, I needed to add some fabulous folks who visit here regularly and actually talk back to me -- and if I forgot anyone, slap me now.

Unfortunately, I also had to delete one. I won't even say which one. This was a rather large blog that didn't even know I existed, so me even mentioning it is about like somebody saying "I'm going to boycott McDonalds. That'll show 'em!" But this is my podium, so I'll bitch anyway.

The reason for the deletion was not even for anything the blogger him/herself particularly had done. However, posts about the whole Folsom Street Fair/Miller ads situation, which I don't even feel like addressing myself, gave way to some of the nastiest, most homophobic comments I've seen since, well, Ja Rule, I guess. One commenter went so far as to suggest that there was no need to worry about the people in the ad in question, because they'd all be dead of AIDS next year, or something like that. Strangely enough, this blog was one that went on and on about DailyKos commenters being over the top and was calling on freaking Democratic politicians who have nothing directly to do with Kos to revoke them. Yet the AIDS comment and several like it sat untouched for days. And there was no recourse to flag such nasty comments. So, bye, babe.

Seriously, if anyone REALLY wants to figure out which one, it's not that hard. I did a post long ago about all my links. Mazes on TGI Friday's placemats are tougher to crack.

You guys talked me into it

Call it my first decision ever based on the input of blog comments. I got the damn DVR box. Welcome me to, like, three years ago, everybody!

Just tell me: Is it enormously cruel that I bought and stuck it straight in my bedroom? I pretty much yield the living room television to my roommates. If I put the box on that TV, then we could all share it -- but I would rarely get to use it myself. And I do kinda pay the cable bill myself. So it's mine, mine, mine.

They don't even know I have it. I brought it in after rehearsal last night, about 11:30, when they were both in bed and quietly installed it. I just hope they don't notice it. Or read this blog post.

And don't get me started on that time the Smurf village was destroyed

Having sisters at least 10 years my senior, and even more permissive brothers-in-law, I started watching horror movies at quite a young age. I think I was 7 when I saw "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" for the first time. Those really didn't affect me.

Why is it, then, that some otherwise harmless things used to scare the crap out of me? Take this Disney interpretation of an 1890s slideshow presentation. It absolutely terrified me every time it came on, especially that blue/green dead dude near the end. I was equally afraid of the animated version of the musical "You're a Good Man Charlie Brown," because of one scene in which Charlie Brown is late in feeding Snoopy, and Snoopy imagines himself turning into a dog skeleton.

My sisters used to have a lot of fun with that one. They'd cue up the tape of it right to where that scene was and turn it on when I was in the room. They used the threat of "Snoopy bones" to get me to do, basically, whatever they wanted.

I remember my nephew, who is now 15 and would probably love to have this story published, used to be equally afraid of his Barney and Friends tape that had some sort of king character in it. Do all children have these irrational fears? I guess mine both tied in to death, but still...

A fun fact, by the way. The bass singer in this Disney short is none other than Thurl Ravenscroft, better known as the voice of Tony the Tiger and the guy who sang the Grinch song. Really, whenever you see an old Disney cartoon with a basso profundo part, it's probably Thurl.

Oh, and looking at the YouTube comments on that short, is there some sort of fetish attached to seeing cartoon characters cry? That would be a new one on me, but nothing would surprise me anymore.

Blue and yellow make, um, Green Day?

It's always nice when friends from my Houston days come to visit me here. Especially when it's these guys:



Yes, Blue October, my favorite Houston-based band--OK, the ONLY Houston-based band I really like--was in the city Wednesday night, performing at the Nokia with Yellowcard. This was my third time seeing them. My college roommates introduced me to their music at a concert at Fitzgeralds in about 1998 or so. Yikes, almost 10 years ago! I saw them several years later at, I think, Numbers, about the time History for Sale was coming out. And this was my first time seeing them outside of Houston.

I really had lost track of them in recent years and was much more familiar with their older stuff, but no matter. I've always wondered why they haven't caught on to more widespread appeal when many less-deserving bands have, but even so, I was quite pleasantly surprised with their fan base here -- particularly since the crowd who were there for Yellowcard was making me feel damn old.

Although I was really familiar only with two Yellowcard songs, I gotta admit they put on a good show, too. The worst thing about Blue October concerts in Houston is that you had to sit through some awful bands to get to hear them. The first time, it was some angsty, pre-emo girl whose band featured an alto flute that suddenly launched into "The Hustle" mid-song. She was sweet enough to dedicate one song to her dad, who had showed up to support her, although the song was mostly about how horrible he was. At Numbers, it was some band of chunky frat boys who tried to turn "...Baby One More Time" into trance rock. Think Me First and the Gimme Gimmes on barbiturates.

Oh, and speaking of Yellowcard, tell me if this is gross. At the end, per usual, they tossed every expendable item onstage out to the audience: towels, guitar picks, water bottles, et al. I caught one of the lead singer's, Ryan Key, water bottle. It was half-full. I'd pushed my way up to a good spot, and I was thirsty. Leaving that spot would mean it would be filled with drunk Jersey girls. Do the math. Hey, he's cute, and I've swapped spit with worse.

Honestly, I need to get to more concerts, or at least, more concerts that don't feature a 60-something-year-old woman singing "Evergreen" in Madison Square Garden.

ENDA scare tactics

Here's yet another ignoramus discovered in the sewer of World Net Daily: the neck-less Mychal Massie, perhaps the recipient of Jerry Falwell's donated jowls upon his death.

Today, he's terrified of the potential ramifications of passing the Employee Non-Discrimination Act:

In layman's terms, said lawyer-speak means, if ENDA becomes law (and I am in no way attempting to inject humor here), (Mike's note: Good, because if you were, you failed miserably) the branch manager of your local bank could, without fear of penalty, come to work looking like "Boy George in Liza Minnelli 1980s drag makeup, complete in his working girl commuter-friendly disco sneakers." And there wouldn't be a thing the bank could do or say about it – no matter how offended its customers might be or how uncomfortable it would make the other employees.

Passage of ENDA means that the surgeon scheduled to perform your operation could decide to do same in his blond wig with full mascara and his Playtex plus-size bra, and there wouldn't be a thing the hospital could say or do.

It means that your child's second-grade teacher could decide she was going to dress like a man, complete with makeup to simulate facial hair, and the school would have no recourse. And it goes without saying that the owner of a local Bible bookstore would be powerless to prevent a homosexual employee from holding hands with his or her homosexual lover within the workplace. Any attempt to prevent said behavior would result in immediate litigation.

Now that he's sufficiently frightened Bertha Sue from Peoria into think that Varla Jean Merman is going to dropkick Mr. McFeely out of the way and start showing up every day with her special deliveries, allow me to inject a little rationality here. ENDA means NONE of those things.

You see, Mr. Massey, corporate America, school districts and hospitals have these crazy things called dress codes. Just like the bank branch manager isn't showing up to work now in orange crocs, tattered sweatpants and a "No Fat Chicks" T-shirt and the surgeon isn't performing vasectomies in a top hat and tails. People are expected to dress a certain way for certain jobs, and ENDA wouldn't change that.

Massey is purposely melding campy drag acts with transgendered people when, in reality, or at least in my experience, those are two circles of a Venn diagram that have very little overlap. Most transgendered people I have known have dressed rather conservatively, in fact.

Nor would ENDA give Steve and Andrew the right to start groping in front of a shelf full of Joel Osteen's latest self-help advice book to the horror of Christian bookstore patrons. Workplaces are allowed to have rules against public displays of affection, and ENDA wouldn't change that.

I can't decide whether Massie is just a moron, or he assumes anyone who reads his column is a moron. Or both. Whatever. I'm done now, anyway. I'm at work, and it's really hard to type with these Lee's Press-On Nails on my fingers.

Weekend review round(about)up

The Ritz
I'll have to give this to Joe Mantello-helmed revival of this Terrence McNally bathhouse farce, now in previews at Studio 54. I've never had as big of a chuckle reading Playbill bios as when I came across one for an actor playing one of the many nicely sculpted denizens of "The Ritz." The bio proudly boasted of "movie-star good looks" and a few print ad modeling jobs -- and not a single theatre credit. Fortunately for him, the ensemble's purpose here is little more than looking good in a towel, and he did fine with that. But, of course, we'd expect a bit more than that when we were paying to see a Broadway production when we could get the same in, say, an issue of Men's Health, yes? Well, there are a few other things to appreciate about "The Ritz," but sadly, the play just hasn't aged well. The story centers around a rather amorphous feud between a man and his mobster Italian in-laws, when a deathbed wish from Papa puts Gaetano Proclo (Kevin Chamberlain) on the run and hiding in a gay bathhouse in New York. A fish out of water. Let the laughs begin! The broad stereotypes have a little bit to offend everyone. Gays? Every one possible, including a mincing sex fiend (Brooks Ashmanskas, who would be a natural if they ever do a one-man show about Paul Lynde) and bizarre fetishists. Italians? Those groups who protested "The Sopranos" for defaming Italians would be begging for another season by comparison. And Puerto Ricans? Um, Rosie Perez is playing a role based on a character Rita Moreno -- the role's originator -- used to do at cocktail parties for laughs. Enough said. Actually, Perez, though hard to understand at times, has one of the better and more inspired moments in the show, in a purposefully bad musical medley at the end of Act I. Whipping herself to the opening riff of "Jesus Christ Superstar" while singing "Sabbath Prayer" from "Fiddler on the Roof"? Brilliant. Chamberlain also makes an amiable straight man, in every sense of the word. But, for a farce, there just isn't enough manic energy onstage to keep some of the rusty groaners in the script afloat. Perhaps the pacing will improve before opening. But if not, hey. It's a chance to see porn star Ryan Idol onstage. He even has a line. Something about Crisco.

Pygmalion
Here's a bit of irony. The Roundabout's other production now in previews, "Pygmalion," is about three times as old as "The Ritz" and already ingrained into any self-respecting theatre queen's mind, if for no other reason than repeat viewings of "My Fair Lady" on Turner Classic Movies. Yet, even on the first preview, the production, under the direction of David Grindley, seems as fresh as "The Ritz" seems stale. A lot of the credit goes to the star, Jefferson Mays, whom Grindley also directed in the stellar revival of "Journey's End" last season. I think Mays performance is going to produce some fairly divergent opinions, but I rather liked his Henry Higgins: a youthful, petulant brat who seems just a few steps from sucking his thumb when things don't go his way. Yes, we all love the Rex Harrison interpretation of the character, and Mays is still the same pompous jerk but adds an utter void of social grace that I've never seen in the character before. Another "Journey's End" alum, Boyd Gaines, is a nice foil in the better behaved but still child-like Pickering. And Claire Danes, making her Broadway debut as Eliza Doolittle, is already in pretty good shape in regards to accent and characterization. The show's also buoyed by a great design. Jonathan Fensom's sets and costumes are gorgeous, particularly the opening rainstorm tableau. That's not the rain in Spain, by the way. That scene's not even in the show.

Sunshine, lollipops and...so on

For the first time in a while, I'm actually going to have theatre to write about this weekend! It's not that I didn't see anything during the summer. It's just the things I had seen I had either seen before ("The Drowsy Chaperone," "Rent"), they'd been around so long I saw no point in writing anything about them ("Legally Blonde," "Three Mo' Tenors") or they were just so plain awful I didn't have the heart to write anything ("Ido..." -- no, wait, I'll hold to that promise).

Before that, however, I do have throw out a quick few words of praise for the Public's outdoor concert series. Or, the first concert in that series, at least. Yup. Lesley Gore's still around. Out and proud, in fact. And you wouldn't believe the number of people who responded, when I told them I was seeing her: "Isn't that Al Gore's daughter? She sings? Is she going to talk about global warming?"

Philistines. Lesley Gore was Britney when Madonna was still in kindergarten. Probably one of the last people to still sing hit songs about class rings and such. And the bubble gum might have been sitting underneath a chair for a while, but it's still just as chewy and flavorful as ever. OK, that was a little gross.

Anyway, the Public helped Gore put out her first album in decades a few years ago. You can still hear traces of the old Lesley's voice, but it's really involved into something remarkable to hear: much deeper, rather husky but still able to sustain quite well. Her newer stuff is smoky jazz that juxtaposed remarkably well with her peppy, innocuous hits of the 60s, which she didn't shy away from at all. She even sang "Judy's Turn To Cry," the sequel to "It's My Party" and a song she said she didn't even care for when she first released it.

Also fun was Jill Sobule. Yeah, another name that usually got me blank stares. Remember "I Kissed A Girl"? "Supermodel" from "Clueless"? Yeah, her. Well, aside from those -- and she didn't even perform the latter, while Gore joined her on the former -- she has a repertoire of some really lovely songs with some brilliant lyrics, particularly "Mexican Wrestler."

Anyway, it gave me some downloading ideas. Speaking of which, I've already lost two more songs from the theme list: Rufus Wainwright's "Crumb by Crumb" and the Willie Nelson/Kimmie Rhodes duet "Love Me Like A Song." Pity. I liked those.

To the moon, Juanita

The obscure World Net Daily columnists have done the unthinkable. They've made me defend a TBN personality.

In his latest bleatings, homobigot pastor Jesse Lee Peterson comes down hard on the self-proclaimed "prophetess" Juanita Bynum. In a story that slipped under my radar, Bynum apparently was badly beaten by her fellow minister husband, Rev. Thomas W. Weeks III, in an Atlanta hotel parking lot.

In his misogynistic dissection of the story, Peterson gives one sentence to condemn Weeks. The rest of it is devoted to attacking Bynum for daring to use this incident to raise public awareness of domestic violence. Says he:

And if Juanita were truly a woman of God, she would not use her marital problems for personal gain – or use the media to destroy her husband.

At her press conference, Bynum stated, "My focus is not the marriage. My focus is to accomplish a new purpose [domestic violence cause] that God has given me."

Bynum then attended a fundraising event for Barack Obama where she planned to discuss her domestic abuse concerns with the candidate. Oprah Winfrey hosted the event at her estate in California.

And why would a woman of God go to the government, especially to a liberal Democrat like Obama, to address a spiritual sickness?

I'm sure it won't be long before we see Bynum on "Oprah" dressed in pink and with just the right lighting to make her appear soft, vulnerable and innocent.

I suppose Peterson thinks it would have been marginally better if she had gone to, say, Fred Thompson or Rudy Giuliani, because there's two guys who know how to treat a woman right. But, I digress. Peterson then goes on to belittle the problem of domestic violence, which he ultimately concludes is just because dames are getting too damn pushy. You know, not being submissive and all.

Now, in my limited exposure to her, I am NO fan of Bynum. Her wedding was typical TBN excess--a network that's purpose seems largely to snatch grocery money from gullible poor folk--and her shrieking sermons usually had their own elements of homophobia in them. But trying to call attention to domestic violence is one thing for which she should be applauded, and if her husband followed the woman-shut-your-mouth attitude of Peterson, it's not really that surprising he thought so little of her as to beat the crap out of her.

Next up: I explain how Benny Hinn really did get those people out of the wheelchairs!

Not so proud to be a luddite anymore

So, I didn't buckle. I bought a new VCR. No DVR for now. But, I'm starting to have some second thoughts about my strategy. I didn't realize how tough it is for us dinosaurs.

I mean, I thought it was easy. I made my first ever trip to Target in the Bronx -- quiet an interesting little mini-suburbia they have there, consequently -- and found a decent VCR/DVD combo for about $70. Not bad, I thought. It had all the features I wanted, which isn't much. Or, so I thought.

As I got home to set it up, I realized there was no place to plug the cable into it. What's worse, my television in my bedroom, which I got for about $30 off of Craigslist, is so old that it has no place to plug the A/V lines into it. In other words, I had a useless $75 piece of metal sitting on my bed.

Thanks to the local Radio Shack, I found a little modulator thingie that let me plug the cable from the television and the a/v cables from the VCR/DVD player into it, so it works now, at least. Add about $25 for the modulator, plus $10 for a new cable to connect my cable box to the VCR, and the $70 VCR is now closer to $110. And -- and take note, hack comedians who still make jokes about how hard it is to program a VCR (Jay Leno, looking in your direction) -- there is absolutely no programming feature on it. So, I can watch tapes, but that's about it!

I'm still not sold on getting the DVR service, though. I'm finding out that I can live without taping things when I'm not home. All it ultimately does is encourage me to watch TV. Fight the power!

Oh, and I'm one song closer to a theme song, as thankfully, "I Wanna Be A Producer" came up and is subsequently off my list (and my iPod).

Pain is Hate

Not reaching people with those Pat Boone records? Worried that nobody knows who the hell Dean Jones is anymore? Thinking Anita Bryant is never going to get out of Branson? Don't fret, Concerned Women for America. You've found your new musical spokesperson: Jeffrey Atkins, er, Ja Rule. Said he to Complex:

We need to go step to MTV and Viacom, and lets talk about all these fucking shows that they have on MTV that is promoting homosexuality, that my kids can’t watch this shit. Dating shows that’s showing two guys or two girls in mid-afternoon. Let’s talk about shit like that! If that’s not fucking up America, I don’t know what is.”

Yeah, Ja. Those dating shows are pretty insipid. But, as far as I know, those contestants haven't been arrested for beating up a DJ in Nigeria, played a part in shooting a rival rapper, gotten arrested for gun possession nor called their fellow collaborators a bitch. Well, maybe they did do that last part. But, whatever. Go on back to spreading the Gospel of Jesus, peppered with the word fuck every few minutes, and working for Murder, Inc., and your liquor and online gambling enterprises. You're a moral beacon to us all!

Up to this point, Ja Rule was best known for feuding with a bunch of people, grumbling a few things under Jennifer Lopez's vocals and putting out a bunch of songs no one has thought about in several years. He's also rumored to be starring in the family-friendly flick "Saw IV."

Enjoy your new friend, Sandy Rios! Perhaps he can rechristen the group Concerned Women For Not Fucking Up America.

In other news, the homophobic 50 Cent--the aforementioned rival rapper, in fact--was outsold by Kanye West, who has made it a point to speak out against homophobia in hip-hop. Let's hope fiddy keeps good on his promise to retire.

Maybe the Madonna impersonator video wouldn't have gotten one star if...

Another sign of my technology idiocy: I didn't realize until this weekend that my camera has video capabilities. And here I've been shooting grainy cell phone videos all this time!

Here's my virgin video from the camera: a gorilla at the Bronx Zoo from this past Saturday. He's tired! Or she's tired. I didn't zoom in close enough to find out.

Proud to be a luddite

I can only laugh at the doofuses who are griping now because -- shock! -- the iPhone just dropped in price. The horror! Who would have thought that the insane $500-plus initial price would quickly drop once the gotta-be-first twerps had finished their storefront camp-outs?

I am the quintessential late adopter. You know how much I paid for my DVD player? Nothing. I got it for free from a friend who had bought a new one. You know how much I paid for the decidedly non-flat television in my bedroom? Forty dollars. I got it off craigslist from some dude in the Upper West Side. I even tricked my former roommate into carrying it up the six flights of stairs to my apartment. My iPod mini still works just fine, and I'm not getting rid of it until somebody either gives me a better one or until it drops dead.

But, see, now I'm in a bit of a quandary. Alas, last weekend, my very ancient VCR finally broke. So, what do I do? Finally call Time Warner and agree to get their DVR service? Or shell out the $100 for a VCR/DVD combo? I do still have a lot of old tapes of stuff I've recorded over the years, but honestly, they take up a lot more space than their value in the number of times I actually watch them. Then again, some people pay ridiculous amounts for old recorded shows, particularly if they still have the commercials.

Either way, I'd better figure it out quickly. I have no idea what's happening on "Days Of Our Lives" right now!

The smutty professor

In a blink-and-you-missed scandal, Jerry Lewis used the word "fag" in an aborted joke in a late-hour segment of his annual telethon (specifically, he called either an invisible person or a camera an "illiterate fag," but the clip was rather baffling). He subsequently issued an apology, and that seemed to be the end of it. And honestly, that's fine with me.

So why was I not as forgiving with Ann Coulter and Isaiah Washington when they used the word to a much broader outcry? It's not because I'm particularly a fan of Lewis. He was fine but not outstanding in a production of "Damn Yankees" I saw years ago, but his movies have always annoyed the hell out of me. But every once in a while, I let the "leave the poor old man alone" defense stand.

Perhaps this is because of my grandmother. Gaga, as we called her (thanks to my oldest sister), died more than 11 years ago, but she was the only grandparent I ever really knew. She was already in her 60s and somewhat feeble by the time I was born, but I always knew she was a powerful woman. Her husband, my mother's father, was a rather rough man by the limited accounts I've heard, and he died when my mother was only 12, leaving my grandmother to raise her daughter alone. She didn't run to another man. She worked and raised my mother on her own, which was pretty darn good for rural Texas in the early 1950s.

Gaga, however, was a product of her time and place, and in matters of race, would often say some jaw-droppingly awful things in that regard. Loudly. In public. Sometimes it was unintentionally funny. She used to call her cleaning lady her "colored girl." Near the end of her life, when she had to move in with my parents, she also referred to our cleaning lady as my mother's "colored girl." And my mother's maid was white.

Even the worst things she said, however, were not hateful at the core. Just ignorant. I never saw her treat anyone badly. In fact -- and I hope this doesn't sound like one of those "some of my best friends" comments, because that's not what I'm intending -- her physical therapist near the end of her life was black, and they became close enough to the point that she wept when she heard my grandmother had died.

Maybe that's why I'm fairly forgiving of Lewis. He's a goofy old man raised on Friar's Club roasts and smoky backrooms. He's said stupid things before, like saying that no female comedienne -- is that redundant? -- has ever been funny. But I don't think he's hateful.

Coulter had a long line of horrible comments behind her -- things like saying she had gay friends, but she knew they were going to hell and such -- when she said faggot, and she was proud of her remark. Washington hemmed, hawed, apologized, backtracked and went all over the map afterward. Lewis quickly admitted he was wrong and apologized. Good for him.

But I'm still turning off the TV any time "Cinderfella" comes on.

Reverse reverse psychology

I made it through today without buying cigarettes, and seeing as I should be on the upswing of my biorhythm by this point, I think my nonsmoker status is secure for now. But even considering it made me realize on of those little ironies: It was actually the anti-smoking zealotry of the school systems that led me to ever becoming a semi-regular smoker in the first place.

Follow me here. When I was in high school, I somehow got roped into going to some sort of student leadership conference that focused on the drug wars. This led to the creation of a somewhat pointless anti-drug school club, of which I was a charter member. A quick side irony: I know at least two other charter members turned out to be full-time smokers. But I digress. The sole tangible accomplishment of this organization, to my recollection at least, was to push the city in which the school was located to pass an ordinance making it illegal for people under the age of 18 to possess tobacco products. That made us quite popular amongst our peers, as you might guess.

Anyway, being directly involved in the media coverage surrounding that -- and for our town, any media attention was exciting -- was part of what led me to start exploring journalism as a career, rather than my choice at the time, veterinary medicine. And most journalists are smokers or smoker enablers. Therefore, I can place the blame for me ever taking a puff on a cigarette squarely on the blame of the people who most vehemently wanted me to never touch one at all. The moral: Tell your kids to smoke, and they won't.

This twisted logic brings me to my 200th post! Oh, and one more song choice gone today: Patsy Cline's "Tra Le La Le La Triangle." Thank goodness I don't have to type that anymore.

My body's smarter than I am

I was a semi-regular smoker back in college, and every once in a while, I get the urge to start up again. Times like this past month, for example. Nasty things tend to happen in clusters, and that's not good for addictive personalities like mine. So, when confronted with a bunch of things -- an increasing uneasiness amongst rampant cost-cutting measures at the office, two roommates at home who have begun to hate one another and insist on re-enacting a passive aggressive war of the roses, having to watch the rapidly declining health of a close family member, getting way too damn close to 30 and dealing with my own usually lethal combo of high pride and fragile ego -- well, the pack of Marlboro Reds seem like the right way to go. That's right. I smoked Marlboro Reds. I'm hard-core like that. None of those wussy lights for me, unless that's the only thing available to bum.

How about a bargain? I mean, I had already intended to turn pescetarian at the end of the year (making an exception only for the delicious turkey-based gravy served every year with the stuffing at Thanksgiving). So, if I'm cutting red meat out of my diet -- not that I eat that much of it in the first place, but whatever -- doesn't that allot me a poor health choice in its place? Kind of the same thought behind carbon offsets.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I had my first cigarette in quite a while on Saturday night. I don't even know what kind it was. I just know it felt freaking fantastic.

And now today, I have a shallow cough and a scratchy throat. One probably has nothing to do with the other, but OK. Point taken. I won't start smoking again. Not tobacco, at least.

Oh, by the way, one song down already for the 2008 theme, as the Bach Toccata/Fugue came up the other day. Which would have been a terrific song to smoke to, of course.

No, you da ho!

I simply cannot get my dander up about Larry Craig. I mean, if I had to nail down my feelings about the situation and ensuing coverage, I guess it would be similar to my thoughts on Mark Foley last year. But while the Foley situation made me angry, the Craig situation, well, is just damn hilarious.

I mean, to hear Sean Hannity and the like having to talk about foot-tapping in restrooms is reward enough. Pages of editorial cartoons featuring toilet-bound elephant Savion Glovers is icing. Any speech that can juxtapose "Thank you for coming out" with "I am not gay, I never have been gay" easily beats "I am a gay American." And all this took place in a state in which you can't spell the capital without "boi."

Really, what do I care whether the dude resigns? It's not like the governor is going to appoint anyone better...oh, the governor. That's the best part. I didn't realize until today that the governor of Idaho was named Butch Otter. Wow. Two gay slangs for one! Here's a picture of him with either a potato or a very optimistic condom:


Funny thing about Butch Otter is that he appears to be neither.

Idaho. So much more than Ruby Ridge. Who knew?

The end of the eclipse

Holding on to stupid traditions is a habit of mine, but something can't be a tradition unless one does it at least twice. Even so, against my better judgment, I'm once again going to let fate decide my theme song for 2008. For this year, I wound up with a remix of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," so things can only improve from there.

The candidate list is pretty short, as the only time I listened to my iPod on my actual birthday was during a brief morning workout. So, here they are:

"Beautiful" Jessica Molaskey
Well, it's really her version of "Beautiful Dreamer." A bit corny, perhaps, but not a bad choice.

"Crumb by Crumb," Rufus Wainwright
The "Want Two" album is slowly growing on me, and this is a rather lovely song. And I guess New York is a sort of big black forest.

"I Wanna Be a Producer," Matthew Broderick
Well, not really. Actually, I'm not sure why that is still on my iPod. But there are worse choices. I do like to drink champagne until I puke.

"Liebestraume Nocturne No. 3," Franz Lizst
I used to play this on the piano, or try, at least. Another lovely choice.

"Love Me Like a Song," Kimmie Rhodes and Willie Nelson
OK, don't laugh. You have to love Willie.

"Pilate's Dream," David Burt
How did I ever even make it through this workout with all these slooooooooow songs? I've never, consequently, dreamed I've met a Galilean. A most amazing man, perhaps, but I don't think he was a Galilean.

"Toccata and Fugue in D minor," Bach
A little overly dramatic and dark, of course. This would have been a good theme for 2002!

"Tra Le La Le La Triangle," Patsy Cline
Oddly enough, I think this is the most upbeat song on the list. And two lovers? At least it's not zero.

"Pure Imaginations Medley," Krisanthi Pappas
You have lived until you've heard a jazz version of the Oompa Loompa songs. But I'm more interested in getting a golden ticket and/or a golden twinkle in my eye.

All in all, not the most stimulating choices, but overall positive and optimistic messages. If nothing else, I'm taking that as the ruling out of a Duncan Hunter presidential victory!

Teetering over the edge

So, tomorrow is my 29th birthday -- or, as my father would quickly point out, the beginning of my 30th year. Whatever. I mean, I might as well be 30, anyway, because no one ever believes you when you say you're 29.

Still, even though no one really looks forward to birthdays past the age of 21, I at least have a little more reason to appreciate it in adulthood than I did as a kid. The Aug. 25 date meant that although presents were coming, so was school (or, as Texas kept pushing the school start date further and further up in the early 90s, that school had already started). In fact, I had the distinction of being born on the first day of school, giving my youngest sister, who wasn't too thrilled with the aspect of losing her baby-of-the-family status, another reason to hate the day.

Now, however, summer is more of a nuisance than anything else. Sure, it's nice to get out to the beach or a pool for a few days. But mostly, it just means more sweat, more bugs and nightly block parties. Fall and winter bring better fashion choices, more holidays, lower electric bills and marginally fewer tourists.

So, at least now I can be comforted with my birthday by knowing I can box up the fan for another year. Except next year. I plan on being far, far out of the country for that birthday.

My lucky roommate

OK, this is one celebrity sighting that I just can't ignore. The other day, my roommate called me in quite a state. While at a video store on 5th Avenue, he saw none other than TBN's Paul Crouch and an attendant shopping! His wife Jan, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight.

My roommate shot this brief video, and we agreed that without a doubt, it had to be him. The Crouches were always an endless sort of fascination to me. Their "Praise the Lord" show is a nonpareil in jaw-dropping gaudiness, money-grubbing audacity and a gathering place for charlatan preachers of every genus. Seeing Crouch is landing quite the Marlin in evangelist-spotting.

I'm also quite looking forward to Christiane Amanpour's piece tomorrow in which she has an interview with Jerry Falwell just days before his death as well as another source of fascination for me: the corpulent, bombastic John Hagee. What a month!

By the way, who the heck gave my Madonna video a one-star rating? It was SUPPOSED to be of terrible quality. Go back to watching videos about shoes and anime sequences set to Chumbawumba music, you crumbum,

Hurricane hysteria

I certainly wrote my share of "watching the hurricane" stories while working on the Texas Gulf Coast, most of which were on storms that never hit anywhere near our coverage area. So, I can only muster half an eyeroll for the overzealous reporting and reacting that comes during hurricane season. I sympathize with the weather forecasters, actually. It's one of their few chances to have the top story for several days in a row.

My mother is another story. She gets so furious with the Houston forecasters, always saying that she suspects they hope the big storm makes a direct hit on the city. So I had to chuckle when she related to me the coverage that accompanied the minimal Tropical Storm Erin when it made landfall last week.

They had plans to go visit my oldest sister in Rockport for my brother-in-law's birthday and to go catch a minor league baseball game. The weather forecasters, predicting the dire rains with Erin, almost made them cancel their trip, but they decided to go, anyway. My youngest sister, seeing the same sort of news reports from her home in New Orleans, called my oldest sister worriedly to make sure my parents made it in all right.

As it turned out, Erin, which quite near Rockport, dropped a whopping 0.09 inches of rain on the city. The minor league baseball game wasn't even delayed by a minute. My oldest sister left a sarcastic message on my youngest sister's answering machine, starting with, "Well, we're all in the hurricane shelter now, but we're doing all right..."

Yes, I know even that minimal storm turned into a major flood event for some other spots. Still, it's no wonder to me that so many people don't evacuate when there really is a dangerous situation occurring. One can only be made frightened by drizzle so many times.

Oh, and here's a nasty bit of inside information. Mom was right. There are indeed a bunch of reporters out there who, in a twisted way, do hope for the big one to hit. It's called building a great clip file. Sounds callous, but it's true. Where do you think Dan Rather would be if he didn't tie himself to a pole during Hurricane Carla?

Cold as hell? I'm there.

It's been a while since I've done any theatre writing because, frankly, it's been a pretty slow period, even for the summer. There is, however, one quiet little show I caught Saturday night that merits a brief mention.

"Tom Crean: Antarctic Explorer," now playing at the Irish Repertory Theatre isn't a master class in acting like "The Year of Magical Thinking," nor does it provoke any sort of self-examination like "The Fever." So why is it thoroughly more entertaining than either of those shows, both of which I ultimately liked? Why is it that even though Crean was a good 30 minutes longer (with one well-placed intermission) than either of those shows, my mind didn't wander once, liked it admittedly did during the two others?

Because, although solo star and scribe Aidan Dooley doesn't wield the acting prowess of a Vanessa Redgrave or the writing prowess of a Wallace Shawn, he has found darn good story to tell and does a darn good job of telling it. What Crean went through during his three Antarctic explorations is nothing short of superhuman survival. Sure, the writing feels a little lecture hall at times, but Dooley's convivial delivery style overcomes it.

What really won me over, however, is it proves that a good-for-the-whole-family show doesn't have to be insipid (hear that, Disney?). A kid of about 10 or 11 sat next to me and didn't say one word or squirm during the entire show. He did give me material for my first ever submission for "Overheard in New York" before the show, but that's another story.

Even more answers to reader questions

Thanks to the magic of StatCounter, I'll once again try to answer the queries that have led people to this site:

Did they take their clothes off in 'columbinus'?

Yes. Yes, they did. Actually, they started out in their skivvies and put their clothes on. Missed it? Too bad for you. It was a darn good show, to boot.

The emergency brake on the subway in New York?

My advice: DON'T TOUCH IT. Ever. Period.

Patricia Heaton? Patricia Heaton? Patricia Heaton? Patricia Heaton? Patricia Heaton?

Someone call Ms. Heaton. It appears her macaw has escaped its cage.

Is Dave Ward in Houston gay?

For you non-Houstonians, Dave Ward is the newscaster who has been there since Philo T. Farnsworth's day. And to whomever asked this question, I hope, for your sake, you give your gaydar a serious tune-up. No, no, a thousand times, no.

The ultimate 11 Mames?

Let's see. There was Angela Lansbury. Rosalind Russell. Lucille Ball. Christine Baranski recently. Umm, the real one. Sorry, I can't name any more. Just this many has already charmed the husks off of all my corn. Not Carol Channing, speaking of which.

Raul Esparza hair images?

You mean on his head, I presume. At least you'd better, because that's all there is. So I hear.

Cooper Lowenthal nude?

OK, what's this? People find my blog by looking for other bloggers nude? And not me? I'm insulted! Don't make me pull out more gratuitous...never mind. As for the question, maybe he did a production of "Hair" once. Ohhhh, THAT'S what the last question meant!

Jonathan Groff's mole?

Don't worry. He checked. It's benign. Aaron Neville should really follow his lead, though.

Behead me?

Uh, OK.

Can a Texan live in New York City?

Oh, come now, my friend. Not only is that an emphatic yes, but I'd daresay without Texans, New York City's population would rank somewhere between Virginia Beach and Omaha. This is the new Colorado.

'Weakest Link' drag queen torrent?

I see someone watches the Game Show Network! But you've made a very common mistake. That wasn't a drag queen torrent. That was the special "Celebrities From TBN" edition.

Rhys Meyers fag?

He smokes now? Tsk tsk.

Well, that's it. I'm also proud to say I'm the number one search for "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now." Number four without quote marks. Hooray for incontinence! Still, no one asks me about Tyler Hanes anymore.

I am officially an old man

No, I'm not talking about a certain birthday coming up soon.

Last night, I did something I had never done before. I called in a noise complaint. And it was these guys, the stars of one of my very early posts on this blog.

Last year, Iglesia Cristiana had only one obnoxious outdoor service. This time, it's been one or two a week for the last three or four weeks. The congregation sets out rows of chairs on the street, the preacher sets up a loudspeaker and the show is on for at least an hour: a screaming preacher and horrid, repetitive songs sung flatly to a shrill keyboard. And it takes over my entire apartment.

Sorry, guys. I'm sure there's a special place in hell for people who report churches to the police. But at least it will be quiet there.

Just...wow.

Here's some more fun with letters to the editor. Now, usually, the person who stoops to calling their opponent a Nazi is the one losing the argument. But how else do you respond to this (emphasis mine)?

Illegal immigrants should be treated like criminals

Response to Sen. Arlen Specter’s article in the Aug. 8 edition of The Facts:I believe the only new laws needed are those which would punish both employers and landlords who deal with the invaders — spin-doctored to “illegal immigrants” — who are criminals and should be treated as such.

Probably the best deterrent to these criminals would be to have the military pick them up and place them in concentration camps for a sentence of at least a year. There is a sheriff in New Mexico who houses the county prisoners in tents and feeds them on $1.30 a day. If there was a good chance that these invaders would not be able to send money home, they would stay home.

Those who provide lodging and jobs for these criminals should be sent to prison for at least a year and fined to the extent that the business would fold. If there is a need for the product or service they provided, someone would step up and start a new business to fill it.Those prosecuted also should include executive officers, such as the president and CEO.As to the wives and children of these invaders, send them home to Mexico or wherever their spouse comes from as I do not feel that the taxpayer should provide for the families of criminals.

Jerry McKeand, Sweeny

Calling for concentration camps. This is post-Guantanamo America, folks.

Politician thinks inside the belt way

Even non-Brazoria Countians might be familiar with Brazoria Mayor Ken Corley by now, as he made national news earlier this year when he sought a ban on the N-word, followed up by a demand to bring prayer back to school in hopes of converting a few infidels. Well, he's back, and this time, he's after your pants.

Apparently gangs of boxer-flashing youths are terrorizing the city, and throngs of people (which I read as maybe one or two) are begging the town leaders to do something about it. Rather than actually have to confront a child and say "Pull up your pants, please," I guess the natural progression of things is to pass a law.

And leave it to Louisiana to have done it first. Here's their law, which will serve as a model to the tiny burgh of Brazoria:

The two Louisiana cities’ ordinances state. “It shall be unlawful for any person in any public place or in view of the public to be found in a state of nudity, or partial nudity, or in dress not becoming to his or her sex, or in any indecent exposure of his or her person or undergarments, or be guilty of any indecent or lewd behavior.”

Now, I'm no lawyer, but it seems to me that "partial nudity" could even cover Joe Bob when he strips down to his too-tight undershirt while using the push mower on one of those 105 heat index days that aren't too uncommon in Brazoria. And "dress not becoming to his or her sex" could cover a whole checkout line at a Wal-Mart on any given day.

At any rate, my nephew gets his drivers license next year -- God, I'm getting old -- and I've seen the way he likes to dress. He'd better hope they get that bypass loop around Brazoria built before then.

More vacation slides

I was going to review the show I saw today, but it was so awful, I don't ever want to think about it again. Instead, I'll show off a few photos from my very brief trip to Mexico City last week (as usual, click to enlarge):

This was in Zocalo, the central square in Mexico City. Although there's quite a lot to see there -- government buildings, a lovely cathedral and a giant flag -- I decided instead to show some guy selling food. I did eat some of that pepper-covered candy that I haven't had since I was a child in Texas, and I'm proud to say, I'm able to finish it, now.

This is a sunstone, or a Mayan calendar, at Mexico's National Museum of Anthropology. My only regret from hearing about these fascinating cultures of Central America is it makes me remember how dull my own ancestors were. I think they caught fish or something.

The quality sucks, but this is from the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico. Even after a 6 a.m. flight (meaning a 3 a.m. wake-up, which was actually 2 a.m. Central Time), this managed to keep me captivated. Even more fascinating was that I was even allowed to take this photo, but apparently photography was allowed. The flashbulbs were a bit distracting after a while.

The highlight of the trip to me, however, was visiting Frida Kahlo's house. They recently -- meaning a few years ago -- opened a bathroom that had been locked for decades, a door Frida herself had requested remain shut for a certain period of time. Once opened, it had all sorts of letters, drawings and photographs stored inside. Some bathroom reading! They're still going through and preserving all the documents.

Is Gloria Allred available?

I had a lovely surprise waiting for me in my mailbox today. As it turns out, the owner of my building has gone bankrupt! I particularly loved how the letter started "...as you probably already know." Yeah, sure. I read it on Drudge.

At any rate, the letter told me little more than to be sure to send my rent checks to the Chapter 11 trustee rather than the property owner. Very well, but that leaves a lot of unanswered questions. What happens to my lease? What about my security deposit -- no small sum, I might add -- and the interest it's accruing? Who takes care of maintenance?

Also funny was the offer that I had the option of hand delivering my rent to the new location rather than mailing it. This new location is on the 57th floor of the Chrysler building. Right. I'll get right on that.

There is tons of info out there for landlords who have tenants declaring bankruptcy, but not much out there for this situation. Whatever it is, I'm sure they're going to find a way to screw my neighbors and me.

Presidential forum a wash

The Human Rights Campaign/Logo presidential candidate forum on gay issues isn't quite over yet -- Hillary Clinton just took the stage -- but even with the worsening streaming video from Logo's Web site, the nut of this event is already pretty clear. Gay rights issues will not be a deciding factor for me in the upcoming Democratic primary.

Every candidate has the same song and dance: No to marriage, yes to civil unions, yes to employment discrimination laws and yes to repealing "don't ask, don't tell." True, Mike Gravel and Dennis Kucinich are to be applauded on being the only ones to supporting full marriage equality, but being realistic is a bitch, isn't it?

Were I grading the individual candidates, John Edwards seemed the most uncomfortable and Clinton as of now seems most at ease, followed closely by Barack Obama. Of course, Clinton's on the friendliest of territories, with the HRC obviously in her corner.

As for the forum itself, I knew it would be -- pardon my French -- a circle jerk, and it didn't disappoint in that regard. Bill Richardson got the toughest questions for his support of DOMA and his use of the word "maricon" on a Don Imus appearance, and he handled them poorly. So why did Edwards and Clinton, both of whom have had some equally dubious moments in this regard, get a free pass? And why the heck was Melissa Etheridge asking Richardson about bark beetles?

Pity the Republican candidates all declined an offer for a similar forum. Now that would have been entertaining.

Happy anniversary to me!

Just under the wire, let me pop the decidedly non-pomegranate virtual champagne, as this little blog is one year old today! Here's my virgin post for proof.

It's kind of fun to read the scatter-brained progression of my first 10 posts: the obligatory introduction, bats in a Brazoria County apartment complex, something stupid Ann Coulter said, my very first theatre review here ("Spring Awakening," when it was still Off-Broadway), another review of a silly musical, griping about press release language, griping even more about not being able to carry liquids on airplanes, getting excited about "Mama's Family" reruns, something about presidential humor and lamenting Constantine's Broadway debut. I'd like to think I've more settled into a niche here now, with mostly personal stuff peppered by an occasional theatre review. I don't do much politics anymore, except when something particularly burns me up. There's plenty of other bloggers out there doing that much better than I could ever do.

At just over 180 posts, I guess that's an average of one every other day, which isn't bad, considering I've never mastered the short form. I've also built something of a respectable readership in that time, somewhere between 50 and 100 on a given day, at least when I'm actually posting (weekends don't count, of course). So thanks to all who stop by semi-regularly and particularly those who comment. And as always, if I don't link to you and you think I should, let me know, as I have a pretty liberal blogrolling policy.

And no more gratuitious shirtless pics. I promise.

Decitification complete

So, I suppose I should throw in a few photos from the Vermont trip, as I leave again this Sunday for yet ANOTHER out-of-town trip. This one will be pure business, but it should be fun. Hint: I'm hoping to be a true tequila expert upon my return. Anyway, here are a few shots from our great green north (click for full size, if you're so inclined):

This very cold waterfall that I can't remember the name of was quite refreshing to wade in, but the rocks were quite pointy and slippery. A sign at the front had the list of everyone who had died while climbing on the waterfall. The most recent one was a few months before I was born. My goal was to not trip, crack my head open on a rock, drown and break an almost 30-year safety record.

Seriously, why don't more towns have pedestrian-only main drags? This is Burlington. Lovely little town, save one pushy girl in the mall. (We were only in there to buy a quick pair of board shorts. Honest.)

I don't know why, but these cover bridges fascinate me. I'm sure Freud could come up with something on that. I never got to drive through one, unfortunately. This shot was particularly hard to get, because cars kept trying to get through.

I didn't shoot much during our day trip to Montreal, but this was the bar -- Le Drugstore -- where we caught happy hour. Very laid back and fun, but one quibble: The drinks came in large glasses, but they still only used one shot with the full glass of mixer! Somewhere among my gallon of cranberry juice, there were a few molecules of vodka, I guess. Oh, this would be, from right to left, Eric from Southern Boy, his boyfriend Brett and my dear friend Kristina from Houston. Kris had hell getting home on Sunday, what with all the canceled flights out of Boston.

But this is why we were really here, right? Notice everyone had abandoned me except for my beloved pomegranate champagne.

Fact #1: My reflexes are slow

So, apparently, while I was away on business, I totally missed being tagged of doing the "eight random facts about me" meme. I think I'm about the last blogger alive to actually get this, but since I haven't done it, and since I just tagged my tagger with something else, I'll go ahead and do it. I shan't tag anyone else on this, though. Unless Southern Boy wants to do it a third time.

1) For most of my childhood and high school years, my career of choice was to be a veterinarian. In fact, I was a member of the local veterinary explorer group. I lost interest when I realized how repetitive the job would be. You see one cat hysterectomy, you've seen them all.

2) I once owned an embarrassingly large collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures. The April O'Neill was the hardest to find. Someone also gave me ninja turtle pencils for my birthday once, but I was too ashamed to use them in class.

3) My mother's house has two freezers, and one is used almost solely for Bluebell Ice Cream. Seriously. To this day, she keeps about a dozen gallons of the stuff in there so they can have their flavor of choice on the designated "ice cream night" (Sunday).

4) Growing up in the Philadelphia area, my father and his family would often take summer trips to nearby Ocean City, N.J. One summer, he played on the beach with a lovely young girl who grew up to be none other than Grace Kelly. OK, those last two were really more about my parents than me, but still...

5) Being the only boy after four older sisters, I was assumed to be a girl until the day I was born, and my name was supposed to have been either Laura or Amanda. My boy name should have been David, but my sister was dating a David at the time who wasn't well liked, so that was out. I was on this earth for quite awhile before I officially had a name!

6) My church growing up was not one of those ones that were afraid of Halloween. In fact, we did a haunted house every year. They let me play Norman Bates' mother.

7) Despite gay tendencies from even the youngest age, I did have quite the crush on Lisa Bonet back in the day.

8) I once voted in a Republican primary. In 2004. That's where the local races are decided in Brazoria County, so if you want to have any say-so in local politics, that was the only way to do it. I refused to let them stamp my voter registration, however, and I left all the national posts -- including president, of course -- blank.

(insert lame variation of Descartes quote here)

So my vast knowledge of the career of Edie McClurg as well as my ability to pick out guest stars from "The Golden Girls" (actually, Edie McClurg was one of those, too, come to think of it), I seem to have snagged a Thinking Blogger Award from my dear southern neighbor. This, however, means I need to single out five others who are equally deserving. In no particular order, they would be:

Kevin Barnett: My fellow Brazoria County cum New Yorker. Not only does he have the best pulse on the local film and music scene, but he also has the design cred to back it up.

Theatre Snobbery At Its Finest: Cameron can boil down any show into a succinct few sentences of perfect praise or evisceration. Even when my reaction to the show was different, I can never disagree with his larger points.

Human Nature: One of the few people who actually knows how to make a purely personal blog entertaining to read. I think it's the superior health care system.

Rusty's Balcony: Another fellow Texan, and a fellow fan of the long-form posts. And I actually read them from beginning to end! That says a lot, coming from an ADD type like me. Ooh, someone's shouting outside my window...

David Benzion of The Lone Star Times: Considering we are usually on the opposite side of the political aisle, it says something that I keep reading. And under Benzion's guidance, the discussions generally avoid falling into that nasty trap that prevent me from reading the comment sections of most major political blogs. Take a look at how swiftly he put the kibbosh a discussion of Marvin Zindler's death from becoming a tacky questioning of whether Marvin's gathering a camera crew to check on the kitchen in heaven or hell.

Well, that's five. There are several others I'd love to pick, but I either assumed they've already won one or they lost a coin toss.

Lainie Kazan's muumuu of choice today, by the way?

Rats, roaches to run rampant over Houston restaurants

I'm back! Quite a lovely trip, but I'm not quite ready to put that post together yet.

So, instead, I'll just send fond wishes out to the family of Marvin Zindler.

He's not a familiar face to those who have never lived in the Houston area, but musical theatre buffs might know him better as the inspiration for Melvin P. Thorpe in "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."

When I attended the University of Houston, I always enjoyed watching the Texas newcomers see Zindler for the first time. Their response was usually, "Is this guy for real?" Yes, indeed, Marvin was always Marvin. Only he could turn the fungus that grows on poorly tended icemakers into a catchphrase and eventual funk song. Truly. Watch this.

I actually had the opportunity to meet Zindler briefly not too many years ago. It was in my first days of working as a reporter for The Facts in Brazoria County, and I was assigned to do the "Seen and Heard" piece (basically, a short story with a bunch of posed shots of all the local muckity-mucks who attended) on a fundraiser -- a roast of longtime KTRK anchor Dave Ward -- for the local women's center. Zindler, along with former Houston Oilers coach and Blue Ribbon bacon and sausage hawker Bum Phillips, were among the roasters. I'd link to the story, but thank goodness, it's long gone from the publicly accessible Facts archives.

We actually chatted only a few minutes, so I won't pretend to have any inside knowledge of what a wonderful man I'm sure he was. But he did at least have enough of a sense of humor to auction off one of his wigs and a pair of blue glasses as part of the fundraiser. If I remember correctly, they fetched about $25.

At any rate, I knew it was grim when I heard about Zindler's pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago. Coincidentally, that same disease claimed another Houston icon -- furniture entrepreneur Robert "At your fingers" Finger -- not too long ago. Perhaps they're now somewhere enjoying a good game of golf. Or tennis. Or whatever makes them happy.

Time for a break!

I'm off to Boston tomorrow for a few days on business, followed by a few days of R&R in Vermont and possibly Montreal. I might be checking in occasionally, but no promises!

Meanwhile, to give this post a little substance, I stole a page from Rusty's Balcony and created a Simpsonized version of myself.


Rather than make it myself, I used the tool where the avatar is generated from a face photo you submit. Granted, the tool is VERY fickle. I won't say how many photos and tries it took me to get it to work. But, other than a quick adjustment to the hair color and style, not too bad! Although I think it makes me look like one of those environmental activists who convinced Lisa to live in a tree, I do own that shirt.

I also visited the Kwik-E-Mart replica near Times Square not too long ago. No photos, as it felt too touristy, but I'm certainly going back to buy some Buzz Cola sometime! Not to actually drink, mind you. There's ebaying to be done.

Thank you, "Thank you, church of Oprah"

I, unfortunately, have one of the most un-Googleable names around. It might not be John Smith, but my first name is the fourth most common name in the United States, and my last name is the 37th most common in the United States. Hell, my father's brother even named his son Michael, so I wasn't even the first Michael Baker in this generation of my family.

In fact, a quick Google search shows that I am:
1) An engineering firm
2) A sculpture studio
3) A National Scrabble Association member
4) A liability insurance claims investigation agency
5) An energy firm
6) An astronaut
7) A bike maker (how original)
8) An economics professor

And so on.

Except -- I just found out that, thanks largely to a link from Pam's House Blend and a few other helpful blogging bigwigs, at least one post of mine manages to come in as twelfth in a Google search of my name. And I'm actually fourth in the search for "lunar gemini" now.

So now, my goal is clear. I must become the most popular Michael Baker on the Internet. Or at least more so than the Scrabble dude.