Let's Hear It For...

I'm not sure what that saddest thing about James Brown's death is. Fact 1: His death is making roughly the same headlines as Gerald Ford. Granted Ford wasn't an elected President and despite his nice-guy status, his wasn't a particularly distinguished run in office. But he was Commander-In-Chief nonetheless. But I've long resigned myself to the idea that celebrity trumps pretty much anything these days.

Fact 2: Here was a man whose success and talent were visible proof and catalysts for the success of the civil rights movement. And yet in his final years, he was reduced to punchlines about drug and weapons arrests. His wife was already married when they were married. He was arrested and pled guilty to something akin to spousal battery and they sorta stayed together. Where we should be remembering how he helped to make "colored" a word of the past and "black" a proud and defiant definition of self instead we're thinking of juicy tidbits.

Fact 3: His musical legacy pretty much ended in the sixties with much of his hit making, as he descended into the mire that Fact 2 covered. Sure, we all know "Living In America" and it won a Grammy. But we all know "Kokomo" too. The Beach Boys' legacy can't be reduced to that one-off "comeback" hit any more than The Godfather's legacy can be summed up with a gimmicky single.

In the end, legacy is intact and so are the tabloid aspects. Crank up anything from Live At the Apollo (which is weird to write since his body is lying in state there right now) for a good remembrance.

Or reminisce like me: Patton Oswalt recounted J.B.'s appearance at the ill-fated Woodstock '99 in his standup a few years ago. Patton was the correspondent for the event which took place shortly after J.F.K. Jr's plane went down. In between songs, Mr. Brown stopped the band and asked the crowd to "join in a moment of silence to remember, John F.K. Junior." Bewildered at just who John F.K. was, the crowd fell restlessly silent. After a few moments, James broke and yelled out, "Let's hear for the Kennedy's!" He then launched into, "I Feel Good".

Choose your memory. I know what I'm walking away with.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Dead Presidents Committee.

Post Christmas Clean-Up

Long story short: I can't stand most of my family.

This is why I spent yesterday in my pajamas, intermittently catching pieces of TBS' marathon of A Christmas Story and generally not thinking about the outside world - which is why I did't notice that my cell was going straight to voicemail because it wasnt charged and the home was going straight to voicemail because it's stupid like that. Damn digital phone lines - I'm having the worst luck with technology lately.

I think that the day after Christmas is a lot like the moments following masturbation. In many ways, they're both just something to get through. You have to do it, but it's more out of respect for tradition or to substitute for something else - like your birthday. Sure, the cleanup’s a little easier for one than the other, but you're often still left thinking, “I spent all this time on ________ and all I got was ________?” Both experiences should be more than that. But in the aftermath, all that usually remains is paper to be thrown away - be it toilet or wrapping.

Of course, my cynicism should, as always be taken with a grain of salt. On holidays, I'm an orphan, avoiding extended family like the plague and communicating only with my parents and sister to thank each other for our gifts. For me, Christmas Day always requires a delicate balance of denial, acceptance, and bargaining for me to get through.

And I know what some of you out there are thinking. The answer is: I don’t drink alone or at home if there isn’t a gathering of at least four people.

The moral of the story? Christmas isn't as good as your birthday and a wanking isn't as good as sex. Other than that, I got nothing.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Only 364 Days Left Committee.

I hate goodbyes.

Jeffrey (at left, aged about 3) was my mother's constant companion for a little over 16 years. My dad, my little sister and I picked him out at the pound one day and surprised Mom with him on her anniversary. He started out a backyard dog, moved indoors and became a little brother.

In his 16 years with my family, he survived an earthquake. He survived other dogs moving on his territory. He survived a move to Texas (no small feat considering other family pets didn't last more than a year after the move). But on Tuesday, Mom had to make the decision that no one ever wants to make. Jeffrey was in real pain for the first time in almost 17 years and it was time to say goodbye.

I keep repeating his age because it's one of the things that's supposed to make you feel better. Like, "He had a good life," or "He's in a better place now," it rings a little hollow. They'll sound better in a month, even better in a year. And one day, I'll say those words without choking. For now, I'm reduced to the 13 year old boy who brought his puppy home from the pound.

I'd been expecting the call for what seems like forever now and still it shot me through the heart. How my mother managed alone (Dad's out of town on business), I don't know. She's not famous for her resolve in times like these. She loved him enough to keep it together until it was over. He was never alone, right up until the end. He deserved no less. He never left her side, until he had to.

You were a good boy even when you weren't. Goodnight Jeffrey. Say hi to Jamie and the others for me.

-J.

As a result of recent experiences, I’m establishing some strict policies if I ever open up a venue that hosts comedy and/or music. They are as follows:

1. No children. We won’t ever be doing children’s amateur night, so there’s no reason to drag your kid out past his bedtime.

2. Yes, we have a bar. Yes, you may drink. If you start talking loudly and bothering other patrons, we won’t throw you out. We’ll call the police and have them taser you. Then they can throw you out. No refunds.

3. Heckling or singing along loudly at any time will result in the same fate as generic drunken loudness (see punishment above). If the performer wants audience participation, they’ll ask for it. So until then, hold onto to your “A” material like, “Freebird!” and “How hot was it!?”

J.

I couldn’t figure out why people were giving me such funny looks when I announced excitedly, “I’m going to see Fantasia on Friday!” last week. Finally, one savvy person asked, “The movie or the singer?”

Yikes. What a reputation killer that misunderstanding could be in some circles.

J.

Snakes on a Sunday

Really, there isn’t much I could say about Snakes on a Plane that you couldn’t already guess. Basically, “More fun than you might think” is about all I’ve got to offer. If you think the idea’s hilarious, you’ve already seen it. If not, you probably won’t see I unless your boyfriend has a movie night when it hits DVD (assuming you’re together that long…). There’s snakes, a plane, Samuel L. Jackson and plenty of screaming. This one was all about the audience. All that was missing Thursday night was Chad - Hollywood, as usual beckoned, although he did meet for drinks ahead of time AND managed to sell his ticket (plus another we found) to some fellow moviegoers. The movie and the audience did not disappoint. Both seemed to be acutely in on the joke.

It seems that cable TV’s been preparing for this as well. Pay channels offerings included: Flightplan, Stealth and Red Eye (was Airplane not available?!?!?). Sci-Fi took the cake, however. The marathon included Pythons, Pythons 2, Boa vs. Python,King Cobra, and Snake King; they pulled out the big guns. Curiously absent from the game? Animal Planet. A mini-marathon of Meerkat Manor - a favorite of mine, though hardly related programming – seemed to be the only programming on slate.

All I wasted my time on was Red Eye. Not enough winks and nods, not to mention a total lack of snakes to make it entertaining. And the wanna-be Wait Until Dark ending only served to emphasize how badly they must have wanted to cast Jennifer Garner but had to settle for Rachel McAdams instead.

What was really missing from the weekend was a Sam Jackson marathon. I would have expected Starz to at least have The Negotiator on tap. If that wasn’t available, any movies that prominently feature the word “motherfucker” would have sufficed.

J.

This post was sponsored by the What Do You Expect Out of Sunday Blogging? Committee

Watch this space.

Marquee view from the Loft at the The Troubadour.

Stay tuned for the rundown.

J.

UPDATED (finally!) 08/21/06 :

Drunken people and comedy don’t mix.

Oh, don’t get me wrong – drunks can be very, very funny to watch and be around. But as audience members they suck. Some people seem to think that heckling is a sacred part of the comedic experience. And when full of cheap vodka, these folks very often take it upon themselves to do God’s work. Most seasoned comedians know how to deal with hecklers. And the occasional audience member helps out by either threatening or out-shouting the heckler.

Unfortunately, none of these things were going in my favor on Tuesday night. The show at L.A.’s legendary Troubadour was at capacity and by the time we arrived, the floor was packed. We were given passes to the upstairs lounge, which is usually a really nice place to be. There’s a bar and a window that you can see the show through. The sound is piped in through speakers and there’s TV sets giving a view of the stage, just in case you prefer the comfy seats along the corner to the barstools. Predictably, as the night progressed, the space in front of the window got more and more crowded. (Pressed up against the glass, these people reminded me of kids at Sea World, trying to rouse Shamu into eating their little brother.) And people not standing by the window got more and more drunk. And louder – much, much louder. The show ran late because Brian Posehn and Zach Galifianakis were shooting something or other and were behind schedule. Zach never made it and we had to leave before Brian took the stage.

It got to a point where all we could hear over the din was raucous laughter from downstairs and the clink of cheap plasticware a few feet away. What really tripped me out was that a few of the comics (including Bob Odenkirk) came upstairs and proceeded to talk over their fellow comics’ sets. It’s one thing for a guy who works for the phone company to decide it’s his duty to “challenge” the fella onstage. It’s another thing completely for someone who knows what it’s like to stand on that stage to make it hard for paying customers to hear what they came for. OK, rant is over. I get nosebleeds from the soapbox sometimes…

In any event, the moral of the story is: Shut the hell up when you’re at a concert of any kind. People don’t pay to hear you talk – especially me.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Fists Make The Best Muzzles Committee.

When in doubt, use links.

This one's gonna be short, so I'm use a lot of hyperlinks to dazzle...

Is the term “Banana Republican” better suited to refer to our Log Cabin friends or the nice folks who fold shirts and lie to folks about the size of their asses down at our local mall? These are the things that keep me up at night and occupy me while I should be working. Hence why I am not upwardly mobile.

Also: if anyone has four tickets for the 10pm showing of Snakes On A Plane at Grauman’s in the big theater, please be so kind as to give them over to the any charter member of the Midnight Movie Mafia. It seems that we underestimated the public’s fascination for a surefire cult classic. If it comes down to it, we’ll settle for the little theater at 10:15p but it would feel like cheating on our usual spot.

For today, that is all. I am going to see The Comedians of Comedy tonight and will be unable to type later as my guts will surely be busted.

Before I go, I'll leave with this odd sign I saw while outlet shopping with Armi this weekend:


Now I ask you, who does a product labeled "Hobo" appeal to, especially at regular price of $59.99?

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Hyper-Zeldas Committee.

The Invisible Line

Million dollar question: At what point should one “Let things go,” or "Get over it”? Is there a table that breaks it down neatly? And who says that we shouldn’t “lower” ourselves to level of our enemies (or at least our annoyances) if just for the moment? What’s their basis for such an argument?

What quantifies a “connection” or “friendship” or “relationship” after all, is nothing more besides our own perception and expectation, however realistic or not those may be. It follows then, that what consititutes a "betrayal" isn't so easily quantifiable, either. From this perspective, it’s all about how up-to-date the prescription on your emotional glasses is. Realistic expectations yield realistic disappointment or delight.

Sure, I’d like to think that I’m one of the nice guys – forgiving and easygoing, non-judgmental and ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. But I know better than to delude myself. So why fight such inclinations toward my true nature? Why not rip someone to shreds, no matter how insignificant they really are to me (to say nothing of the rest of the world) when the occasion calls for it?

After all, thanks to a forum such as this, people who have never met me know about my struggle with depression, about funny and touching childhood memories; there’s some stuff here my parents have never heard and probably never will. If I’m willing to share all of that, what rule of good taste keeps me from giving in to my baser instincts?

I’ll tell you what keeps me from giving in. The idea of joining the ranks of those people who fight in public places or in front of their kids; the ones who hold acquaintances hostage while they turn classrooms, workplaces, and bars into impromptu group therapy sessions; those who would bleed all over the internet, holding their cherished victim status to garner sympathy, all the while leaving out details that might point a few fingers in their own direction? Not tempting in the slightest.

No, I’ll be content to share my darker thoughts with close friends over drinks or Thai food. Hating is an art show and nowhere does it say that can’t be an invitation-only event. In the end, my dignity and self-respect are worth more than a few moments of flesh-rending, no matter how good it may feel at the time.

Besides, that’s what LiveJournal is for.

-J.

Super-zeroes...

Blogger and I are off to a rocky start this week. Tonight's the first time I've been able to get it to work since Monday. Still, by request, here's my return to observational blogging...
Last Friday, I made a rare venture into WeHo. Normally, my observations involve twinks making spectacles of themselve. And while they were out in force at Micky's, they were far from the center of my attention. Everybody knows my fascination with superheroes knows no bounds. So when a geek in a Green Lantern t-shirt (the um, green shirt on the right) walks into a gay bar, not only does it make for a great intro to a joke, it catches my eye immediately. Superhero night at Rage isn't until later this month. So what would bring a wayward stag into Micky's on a Saturday night?

He seems to be searching, never staying in one place too long, but never starying into the light. A secret identity is vital, I suppose.

He heads to the bathroom - a costume change, perhaps?

While he's gone, it becomes too clear: In walks The Flash.

OK, so it was a fellow geek in a Flash t-shirt (the, um, not green shirt above), but still, you get the point. He scours the place, obviously in search of his teammate - a blind internet date, I assume. Of course, GL's busy having a secret meeting in the john, the speedster leaned against the wall, with a view of the bar and at least two of the go-go boys. I like to think that he was cruising for sidekicks while waiting for his prince with the ring.

But the Lantern emerged from his private Hall of Justice and zigged when he should have zagged. For what seemed like a few lightyears, they stood on opposite sides of the club, where my company and I could get a view of both of them. Maybe if either of them had approached the bar and ordered a shot of truth serum, they might have seen through the haze. But apparently they were unable to detect one another. A villainous plot or just the ineptitude of gay geeks to socialize? In any event, this double agent decided to not play goody goody and superhuman take its course.

Finally, the Flash dashed off in a huff. I assumed a fire or cat up a tree needed him. Green Lantern followed close behind, after consulting his cell phone. I imagined a "battery low" message - he could charge his ring and his phone all at once.

I finished my screwdriver and moved onto watching the go-go boys with the amusing nicknames David and I had applied to them (i.e. Mel Gibson, Tentpole, Laguna Beach, etc...). Apparently, my greatest superpowers are apathy and observation. If Stan Lee's show makes it to next season, I hope they change the title to "Who Wants To Be A Supervillain?". I Could Care Less Boy would be first in line.

Oh, and they were totally wearing the wrong shirts. GL was a total Flash and the Flash would have made a perfect GL.

J6 Tip O' the Day:
For those who thinking of blind internet dates using identifying outfits, if you're so inclined, may I suggest going with a proven, long term couple?

That or Bert & Ernie masks should do the trick.

- J.

This post was sponsored by the How fucking hard is it to find a superhero t-shirt in a gay club?!?!?! Committee.