Two More Movies of Note for 2006

Netflix is a great invention. I see a lot more movies than I used to. Ron and I saw a couple of movies last week that I wanted to mention here.

Little Miss Sunshine is a great roadtrip from hell movie. It also has a high ick factor when it comes to tiny beauty princesses and foul-mouthed grandpas. As the trailer says, it puts the fun back into dysfunctional family. Let's just say the movie captures new-age affirmations, teenage angst, and old-age libertarianism. Grandpa is Sophia on steroids. Be very afraid. If you like Miss America pageants, you'll love the last twenty minutes of this movie, guaranteed.

A Scanner Darkly is a more sobering, animated tale. Philip K. Dick's short story comes to life in Anaheim seven years in the future. I've never read the short story, but the film is tight, ambiguous, addled, dystopic, in short a good flick on a Saturday night. The strangeness of the animation fits the strangeness of the story. Keanu Reeves isn't quite so wooden. The film has a high creepiness factor, and was probably filmed at the NSA, at least the technology would lead a drug-addled paranoid junky to think that.

Apologetics

I read a piece on washingtonpost.com in its On Belief forum. A panelist wrote why he believed in God, and basically why the rest of us were going to burn. Of course, his God was the Christian God, so I guess, even more of us are going to burn. Well, many, many people jumped on his case, including some Christians. A few, very few, came to his defense. Most of the comments remarked about the panelist's simplistic argument. Lots of smoke on the computer screen, here.

For me, it comes back to being able to distinguish factual phenomena from unverified (or unverifiable) belief statements. I think that the human brain is wired to conflate the two, because most people (including about 93% of Americans) don't make much of a distinction. The argument is something like this: I believe (with all my heart) that God is real; therefore, God is real.

For example, President Bush says he talks with God, and God talks with him. Nobody questions that conversation, its reality. On the other hand, if President Bush said that he had conversations with little green men from Jupiter (and said it with conviction), you can bet that Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid would be dusting off the 25th Amendment. Yet, factually, both statements are equivalent. President Bush is holding conversations with an unseen, unverifiable, unknown entity, and nobody seems to care.

Faith is a problem. It prevents a further search for factual truth. Often in public policy it trumps truth. For example, sex education is deemed immoral because it might cause teenagers to have pre-marital sex. That's all based on belief: our major religions condemn pre-marital sex (because God condemns fornication and adultery); therefore, sex education is wrong. Issues like abortion, gay rights, stem cell research are cast as moral problems, and the factual issues around them are not examined because people's minds are already closed.

What's a homo to do? I find that public policy is lurching to a theater of the absurd. And because I'm a homo, I'm part of the show. I'm really tired of playing my part. And I'm really tired of being accused of being incapable of having a moral and ethical sense because I'm not Christian or religious. I'm tired of being told I'm immoral because I am gay and certainly act on that. The world is crazy.

Masturbation 43 Years Later

I began masturbating when I was 12. I discovered it quite accidentally, and have not looked back since. Back when I was 12, I could hardly keep my mind off my penis, and I find, today, it's still a huge distraction.

Do other men have this problem? Do other 55-year old men beat it on a regular, nearly daily basis? See, I don't know, because sex is something that people don't talk about, usually not with their spouses, their best friends, and especially their co-workers. So I don't know if my callus-inducing behavior falls within one standard deviation of normal. I kind of doubt it. But I'm putting it out there to the rest of the world to find out.

Sometimes after Ron and I (or probably Tim and I) have had sex, we'll get into this discussion. One of those boys is pretty right down the middle, and the other is wild and crazy. Me, I'm just crazed through and through, and I worry about finding an old-age home when incontinence and senility catch up with me. I can't imagine my life without my hand around my penis, and that's a pretty strong sentiment, instinctual fumblings when I'm an old man, but ready to be expressed. I worry about that. I worry about me in an old-age home.

It's Christmas Eve, and I Should be Studying Portuguese

But I'm not. No, I'm writing in this blog, because, well, a trivial life well lived is still a trivial life. Like most bloggers, even gay bloggers, life is pretty lame most of the time. I think we're genetically designed that way because the continuous excitement of an epinephrine-induced state of angst, excitement, or flight would just get in the way of a contented lifestyle.

Some bits and pieces: Tim and I spent last weekend at the Woodley Park Omni Shoreham in downtown DC, enjoying a weekend in the city. The hotel was offering a "Spain Package," and since Tim didn't get to go to Spain with us, it seemed the right thing to do. The hotel chef gave a two-hour cooking school, and the package came with an overnight stay, an amenity (wine and cheese), dinner, and breakfast. No complaints here. If it has food, I'm in line.

The cooking school was a little odd. The chef, Jon Dornbusch, knew how to cook, but wasn't particularly informed about Spanish cheeses or wines. That's probably okay, because other information filled in the gap. Of course, it didn't hurt that I'd just gotten back from Spain, and actually knew something about Spanish cheeses and wines. The school was fun, and I enjoyed eating the food, particularly the genuine jamón, imported from Castilla y León.

You might want to check out the Omni-Shoreham, anyway. It's one of DC's grand hotels, not as grand as the Mayflower, but a very nice pile of bricks in its own. We had a very nice room with a view of Rock Creek Park, as well as the Naval Observatory. We didn't see any black heliocopters flying over that vice-presidential undisclosed location. The hotel is huge with lots of nooks and crannies to hang out in. Take the nature walk for birdwatchers behind the hotel. Even at this time of year, you can see a lot of feathers. The hotel has more ballrooms, meeting facilities, and strange little passageways than most small European countries.

The neighborhood: Check out New Heights Restaurant across the street on Calvert. We had a very nice dinner, New American cuisine. I had Sea Bass, and it was delicious. After opening the front door, go up the stairs. Yes, they really are serving dinner up there. The decor features paintings for sale, bright colors, and a little attitude. The service was okay, neither fussy nor fast. Expect a leisurely meal. The menu changes regularly.

For coffee, breakfast, or more, check out Open City which is across the street and New Heights neighbor. It's full of neighborhood types, and only made us want to move into the neighborhood. The coffee comes in very large cups, the wait staff are very friendly, indeed, the prices are right, and the food is all-American diner. You can't beat this for a Saturday morning wakeup!

So that was my weekend.

Neither Ron nor I are avid Christmas celebration agents. But, I went out and rounded up friends and others who needed a dinner on the day that all restaurants except Indian and Chinese close. It's going to be a low-key affair with the traditional turkey dinner, plus whatever anyone brings. No gift exchanges or anything like that. In our 23 years, Ron and I have never had a tree. Sometimes I think I'd like to do the holiday up big, but the thought gets a little more punishing each year. Either you have the decorating gene, or you don't.

Finally, my wishes for the season: I wish all my kids and grandkids a special day of laughter and innocent joy. I wish that the family that our work group adopted for Christmas has a holiday that matches its dreams. I wish that the Prince of Peace would usher in an era of peace. We are so deaf to the messages of tolerance and love. The whole world is so deaf. But I continue to hope for it. Finally, I hope that my families by birth and by choice grow in love, understanding, and joy, and that they always have every needful thing. I'm truly blessed with all of them.

My Daughter Sent Me a Christmas Letter

Yesterday, I received a letter from my daughter, Mary. She enclosed a picture of her family, her husband, herself, and her three boys and a girl. The portrait evokes youth, confidence, and happiness. It almost brings tears to my eyes. This family is so beautiful - Mary, Joseph, and their four angels.

Gay Ethics

I'd hazard a guess that some people would think gay ethics an oxymoron, or something similar. I've just finished the Very Short Introduction to Buddhist Ethics. It's a very interesting, and for me, thought-provoking book. I am concerned about my personal behavior. I am concerned about my actions in my world. I believe my intentions count and that my actions mean something, if not intrinsically, then intentionally.

In the course of the book, I discovered that I'm not utilitarian or deontological. I base my behavior on intentions and rules, not on results. At least the book gave labels to what I do, and it provided a framework in which to fit my values. I discovered that I'm not a Buddhist. This is probably to everyone's relief.

What was interesting in the book is to see how people with very different perspectives on ethics could end up taking similar positions on moral and ethical issues. The book was a good read. It will spur some more thinking on my part.

Twenty-five Years and Counting

This past week was International AIDS Day. Millions have HIV, millions have died, and millions don't know they are infected. I've somehow avoided getting infected since the world first became aware of the disease in the early 1980s, but I think early on that was just dumb luck. What scares and fascinates me is that people still sero-convert, I mean gay men my age who have lived through this so far still sero-convert. Their sero-conversion scares me because I know it can happen to me, and it fascinates me because the story of how they sero-converted is rarely told.

I think their stories need to be told. The problem with safer sex is that many of us act as if it means "safe" sex, and each of us carries around in our head our own definition of safe. Safer is not risk-free, and so knowing how men sero-convert is important because we can begin to learn what we collectively think safer means. We can begin to quantitatively and qualitatively evaluate what safe is and what risk is.

Safer for most of us falls within the range of masturbation and taking a load up the butt. Between those two points also lays "risky" and "pleasure" and "I guess I can do it just this once." The realm of safer sex is relative. Safer sex demands that men balance behavior and lust, that we act rationally without all the facts, or that we abstain. In moments of anger, or shame, or ignorance, misjudgments occur. Condoms break. Or the canker sore gets overlooked during the blow job.

In the meantime, twenty-five years and counting, the research has not been done, and men having sex with other men continue to sero-convert.

Another Gay Movie

Ah, the joys of popular gay culture. Ron, Perry, and I watched Another Gay Movie last night. It's not great art, but it's lots of fun, if you aren't looking for any content.

Actually, it presents a pretty radical view of gay life - no fuss about being gay, no qualms about having sex, just a lot of trouble getting to that point. Of course, it had its poignant moments, its piggy moments, and its improbable moments. I recommend this movie to just about everyone, except my Mom. I'd have to answer too many questions.

Queer Wars

I've been reading Paul Robinson's Queer Wars, the New Gay Right and Its Critics (University of Chicago Press, 2005). The book seems a little dated, in that it critiques gaycon literature from the late 90s and early 00s. The book is a very good read (if you like criticism).

Robinson examines the work of Bruce Bawer, Andrew Sullivan, Michelangelo Signorile, and Gabriel Rotello. He presents their conservative criticism of the gay scene. Robinson's book is remarkably evenhanded, well-written, but still has an interesting perspective of a gay radical, the very kind of radical that the subjects of his book criticize. He also carefully compares and contrasts the different conservative strains of his subjects (and notes, with a certain degree of relish, who despises whom).

The markers of politics, gender, and sexual conduct layout Robinson's critique of Bawer, Sullivan, Signorile, and Rotello. Where the subjects vehemently disagree with each other about their world views, Robinson makes the case that fundamentally these men present a conservative explanation about gay America.

The book is good read, and a short one. Pick it up, read it, weep. The gay experience, focused as it seems to be on marriage and the military is a far cry from the transformational experiences of Stonewall and Gay Liberation. What's scary is that a lot of what these men write is pretty close to mainstream at this point.

Robinson finishes his book with an epilogue that juxtaposes the cable series, Queer as Folk with the conservative strands in his book. It's a clever and engaging way to end his book. In Brian's character, maybe all of us gay bad boys will have our redemption. I sure hope so, because getting married and serving Uncle Sam seems like a pretty hollow experience for the gay life that I've had so far.

Iraq, 24/7

Every day, the news is worse. It's unrelenting, and I'm thinking it's bad, sitting here in Wheaton, rather than being hunkered down in Baghdad. I can't imagine how awful the war is for Iraqi civilians. The U.S. invasion really opened Pandora's Box, and our government and occupation can't even see what the end is. The news is heartbreaking, and I simply don't understand how people can kill people the way the violence is happening in that nation. We started it. We have a profound moral obligation to change the war, to bring these hostilities to an end as quickly as possible. Our nation's honor is stained with innocent blood.

Portuguese, Anyone?

Life seems to be moving swiftly in the direction of death, well, if you consider the length of my life against Geologic Time, I think it's a pretty factual statement, if not too dramatic.

What I really mean, is that time flies by when you reach a certain age, and I've certainly reached that age. Since my last post, the Democrats have kicked Bush's butt (long overdue), and I ordered my language software from RosettaStone. It wasn't European Portuguese, but Brazilian. I do the best that I can..., they'll just have to guess about the ghastly accent.

I've already bought some Portuguese guide books, and I'm planning to go in the spring of 2008, which should give me enough time to have a conversational vocabulary. I'm taking my sister with me, and she's said that she'll learn some Portuguese, too. While I don't think that we'll be the greatest linguists in Western Europe, I think it will get us closer to the untourist experience.

I just finished my putting my Spain travel journal on my website. I still need to fix and publish several hundred photos, but at least the narrative is finished. I love the travel, and I'm looking forward to doing a lot more of it.

In other things, Tim and I survived another Harpers Ferry Hoedown, or perhaps another hoedown survived us! It was a great fly-in this year, the best HFH I've attended. I had a fabulous time, especially acting like the village idiot at the Country Western dance. Well, somebody had to fill that role!

We're all getting ready for Thanksgiving - probably my favorite holiday. Of course, I'm doing a bird. I found the smallest turkey in the world, and will roast it lovingly. We're having over the usual suspects, but including a new guest this year, Justin. He didn't have anyone to spend the holiday with, so it seemed like a good idea to have him spend it with us. I'll write later about my fabulous menu, after I've figured out what it is.

I'm Really Tired of Mark Foley Being Called a Sexual Predator

This whole scandal around Mark Foley really stinks. And what stinks is the media coverage of it, the pandering of the Democrats, and the moral stupidity of the Republicans.

Just in case anyone cares: the age of consent in the District of Columbia is 16. Mark Foley certainly acted stupidly, but he's no sexual predator. He's a pathetic, hypocritical excuse for a human being, but not a sexual predator as some Democrats and some "religious" critics are painting him.

The Republicans will use this as an excuse to punish other closeted members of Congress, not to mention Capitol Hill staff. The Democrats will use this as an example (well-deserved, but for different reasons) of Republican moral bankruptcy. And the people who really get tarnished by this whole tawdry episode are gay people everywhere. We didn't cause this mess, but we'll get blamed for it.

The press' coverage is shameful, in getting the facts wrong in such an awful way that it inflames the religious nuts out there. By using terms like "sexual predator" and "pedophile," the media obscured the facts, and maliciously twisted the story to sell papers.

The Democrats jumped on the case because they smell blood. But this is such an ugly, awful place to go. And the Republicans are just so morally stupid. They can't confront their own miscreants. They're afraid of admitting any kind of moral failing, and they swim in their own cesspool.

The whole affair is disgusting, far more disgusting than the personal behavior of Mr. Foley.

High School Spanish

I knew that the day would finally come when my high school Spanish would stand me in good stead. At this point in my life, I remember approximately 40 words, although I can still conjugate present tenses of several Spanish verbs.

Two years ago, a friend and I talked about taking a trip to Spain. It finally happened, and it was a wonderful experience. Even better, that high school Spanish really helped a couple of times, and caused more than a few smiles on peoples' faces when I would open my mouth. Thank you, Mrs. Monlux, for the patience you exhibited with me in Potlatch High School Spanish class. It was well worth your efforts.

I took lots of pictures (about 1100), and wrote many pages in my travel journal, which should shortly begin appearing on one of my other websites. I met some wonderful people, ate fabulous food, and found a lot of ideas to get my head around, ideas that I didn't find at home in my comfortable place.

I'm not sure that travel makes one well-rounded (although I did gain seven pounds, all that Serrano Jamon), but it does expose one to difference: different languages, different cultures, different foods, a different sense and perspective on the world. Of course, I couldn't talk at length with people on the street, because I didn't know the language, but I'm going to make up for that the next time I go.

And I do plan to go back.

Goodbye Pat

A ghost from the past came by yesterday to say goodbye. My friend Bob called me to tell me that our friend Pat had died. I hadn't seen Pat in probably fifteen years. He was half of "Pat and Eileen." Back when I was living in the Tri-Cities, these two gave our little beleaguered gay community some courage, backbone, and clout. Pat was the quiet one, and Eileen was the organizer.

Pat always had a quiet smile. I think he was amused being demonstrably straight and surrounded by a lot of gay boys. Pat and Eileen's home was very much a community center for wayward and wounded, questioning, and declaiming 80s gay men. We were all living in a rather miserable desert town surrounded by rednecks. Pat and Eileen provided a welcoming, affirming home in which to be ourselves.

Pat, I remember your smile. Thanks for walking the distance with us. I hope your next journey is full of light, justice, and peace.

Mexican Food

Do you ever wonder what Mexican food really tastes like? I was just at a Mexican restaurant with Tim. We had tamales, quesadillas, and tortilla soup. I'm curious if I could get that same meal in Juarez or Mexico City, and I wonder what would it taste like. Don't get me wrong, my meal was very good, and I really enjoyed it, but I have doubts about its authenticity.

Several years ago, Ron and I were in Groningen. We were eating at what was represented as a Tex-Mex restaurant. At least that's what the restaurant's marquee promised. Let's just say that it tasted suspiciously Dutch, and leave it at that. Rather it tasted as I imagine a Dutch person might think Tex-Mex fare might or should taste. I still chuckle about that meal.

Closer to home, I suspect that a Mexican might chuckle at what I ate in Gaithersburg this evening: I imagining that I'm eating Tex-Mex. The Mexican knowing that I'm consuming a very smart marketing campaign.

Remembering the Unthinkable

9/11 seeps into every corner today. Even the sky somberly covers this place with a gray shroud. The tone matches my own mood - reflective, serious, if not deep and intellectual. I still feel angry five years on. I still feel shocked five years on. I don't believe I've lived a day since then when 9/11 hasn't leaked into my consciousness and become part of conversation or reflection.

I was sitting at my desk, here at Fannie Mae, much as I am doing right now. Chris called me on his cell phone and told me that something terrible had happened, and he wouldn't be coming to work. Traffic was all backed up on I-395. He told me to go to the CNN web site. I did. I saw the picture, I saw the plume of fire and gas spew across the Manhattan skyline. That moment changed everything.

Life continues in a different world. I'm in Manchester, NH, on my way to Erika's wedding, and I see what look like high school kids (they were so young) in battle fatigues with machine guns in the airport. I'm in Atlanta, pulled out of line at the airport as the gloved security guard completely unpacks my backpack and my bag, and not so neatly repacks it. I see concrete barriers everywhere here in Washington. I see an unattended package in San Francisco, and a hundred scared onlookers as security people remove the package. I mean, this terrorism notion is settling in for a lifetime.

The little things count the most. Travel is not a carefree, joyful adventure. We are told by our leaders, and it's repeated in every security announcement - we live in a dangerous, unsettled world.

What's most shocking to me, is that this war on terrorism has become a struggle between Eastern fanaticism (read Islam) and Western values (read conservate, fundamentalist Christianity). It's played out across commerce (oil), governments, religions, and societies, but at it's heart it is a war between two ideologies that value belief over reason, faith over fact. This war won't end until we're all dead.

Gee, it's been a while...

The world spins quickly these days, both writ large and close to home. I opened up an email from my mother to discover that my brother has West Nile virus. He's feeling pretty bad right now.

Tim and I are getting ready to head on out to Chicago over Labor Day for a square dance weekend. I'll get to dance with my sister, who dances with the Chicago club. Tim and I have both been dancing with an Advanced club in Virginia. It has high standards (which is why I wonder why I'm dancing with them), that is, you really learn how Advanced can be danced. I am learning so much from their caller, John Marshall. I had danced to him before at community dances and fly-ins, but have never been consistently exposed to his calling and style. He's a master caller.

While I'm in Spain next month, several club members are going to have a "C1 Boot Camp." Brian J. has described it more as a "C1 Death March," and I think he may be right about that. I'm sorry to be missing that. I'll take my C1 book to Spain and study on the train (not!).

I finally got in to see the doctor for a physical. I got an MRI, and I found out this morning that he also wants chest X-rays. The MRI was a first for me. It's something like crawling under the bed in the basement, then having someone run a jackhammer two inches from your head, except you don't feel the vibrations. Weird noises, though. I may have a pinched nerve in my neck, and that's what the scan was for. I haven't a clue why the chest X-rays, though.

That's life in a nutshell around here. Nothing profound, but a little worrisome about my brother.

Okay, Okay, It's All about Glacier!

Before global warming makes my photos irrelevant, I thought I would post a link to my Glacier Park trip that I took back in May. It took me forever to get this pictures fixed the way I wanted. I guess I don't have my camera figured out all that well, yet, but I had a lot of fun snapping.

Glacier Vacation, 2006

May 18, 2006 - 107 Photos

My Bad Education

Netflix brings culture to the masses. It's convenient. It's fast. It's just you and the DVD in the privacy of your own home. This week, it was Almodovar's Bad Education. The film works a remarkable story within a story within a story of love, death, greed, and ambition. Its inner core has a beautiful sadness that colors everything else. I may have been the last person on the planet to see this, but if you haven't you really should.

I'm Delinquent in Reporting my Gay Life Style

Since the tooth incident, my gay life has not slowed down. I took some follow up photos. Nothing was quite as spectacular as the initial shot of the bloody, seething, pulpy, painful mass. I got that out of my system. The week after the extraction, I kept feeling something hard and sharp in the tooth socket. The day of my dental checkup, I was flossing, and a good-sized chunk of tooth fell into the sink. Finally, the whole tooth was out! The dentist (cute Dr. Perkins) said everyting looked okay, and an implant is probably in my future.

So what else do gay men do between teeth extractions? That's an important question (I often ask myself). The DC Lambda Squares went tubing down Antietam Creek last Saturday. The creek has a very rocky bottom, so traveling down on tubes is quite delightful if you are a versatile gay man. I think the straight people had a good time, too. Tom, who manned the rafting company's canoe, got plenty of attention from the guys; only one of us actually drooled, though. I'm fairly certain he knew his audience, and he was very good-natured about it.

Pastoral Scene on Antietam Creek,
Copyright 2006, Brian Jarvis, All Rights Reserved

And I survived the heat. It has been an incredible week, even for DC summers. I didn't see anyone melt or spontaneously combust on the sidewalks of Washington, but I would not have been surprised had it happened. The heat caused more people to ride the Metro (they probably didn't want to get caught in traffic jams on I-495). A couple of days the Metro cars were full at 6:30 in the morning. The tourists seemed to take it in good stride, and the Legg-Mason Tennis Tournament went on as scheduled. I'm used to hot weather, but this was exceptional.

The power in my office building failed Thursday morning around 11. We're on emergency backup, but I powered down immediately. Then the network went down. The phones (VOIP) went down. The lights were out. The air conditioning was off. So our work group went out to lunch. Eating seems to soothe most emergencies. In the meantime, our VP sent all employees home. I went and got a haircut, instead.

Actually, I had my hair styled. Bill, you bitch, you left me without telling me that you were going to a different salon. So I have to do the walk-in routine. There's a lot of fear in my gut, because I don't know who is going to style my hair, and Bill, I really loved you, I really did, and you left without a word.

So Donnell has entered my life. Donnell was a headliner entertainer at Ziegfeld's before evil developers bulldozed Washington's gay business district. He gave me all the dirt about the developers, politicians, management, and the girls. Donnell should have his own commentary on NPR, he's that good. And he's such a sweetheart, too, Bill.

I admit it, I'm a celebrity groupie. Donnell a.k.a. Ella Fitzgerald, when she's not entertaining the troops, wields a mean pair of scissors as a jolly, saucy, sometimes sharp-tongued gay hair stylist at one of Dupont's premiere salons. You see, having a gay life style, like I do, demands that I have a gay hair stylist like Donnell. And now I have earned some extra gay glitterati points, because of the fabulousness of Donnell's alter-ego. I am in gay heaven. And Donnell, you are such a sweetheart: not at all like Bill who spurned me for those chappies up on Capitol Hill, probably found himself a closet lobbyist or a Supreme Court justice. You never know about Bill.

Finally, this is the week of Lance Bass, and of course, I went out and bought People Magazine. Lance, your social commentary really sucks, but I love your goofy grin, anyway, and now you can enjoy the party without feeling like an uninvited guest. If I were forty years younger, you'd give me hope, being the crazy role model that you are, as I replayed all of my old N'Sync records thinking how much I love you.

I love being gay, because I love the intellectual challenge. Lance told me that's why he loves being gay, too.