Drama: it is a word that has truly come to embody my entire existence over the past few years. Drama is synonymous with several key aspects of my life-- Gallaudet, relationships, housemate situations, employment -- everything coming with a significant second-helping of heaping portion-proportions, all wedged and packed tightly into an emotional architecture that is buckling under the strain.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
Showing posts with label entertainment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label entertainment. Show all posts
Monday, March 10, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Palace of Wonders
In yet another effort to seek out an "undiscovered" area of DC and transform it into the "hip" part of town (thereby interesting investors, driving out the locals with higher property taxes, and building obscene condos), H street NE has had an amazing face-lift -- one that would rival even Cher -- over the past few years. Cute little bars that serve risottos and delicious sweet potato fries are drawing white bohemian-esque persons from all over the District (they mostly arrive via taxi ... the 1200 block of H Street looks like a hornet's nest of yellow, black, and orange vehicles spinning about to shuttle bus-shy people to and from Union Station).
The Palace of Wonders is a recent addition to what is now being referred to as the "Atlas District" (nice ring to it, right? Well, Atlas struggled, didn't he? Just like the locals who won't be able to keep up with the Jones' once businesses realize the potential of this region ... it's actually really sad).
This palatial bar is a trendy mix between a circus, Moulin Rouge, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Last Friday, after using my feminine wiles to convince the bouncer-lady to give me a discount on the cover (score ... wish I were equally convincing in other arenas), I was treated to a fire-eating-dancing burning-sword-swinging fire-hula-hooping extravaganza. Quite unlike anything I've ever seen at JR's or Cobalt (although both featuring "flaming" individuals).
It was quite refreshing to watch a talent show - albeit a somewhat odd and unexpected show - on a Friday night with mixed company and mixed drinks. There is a small stage on the ground floor, barely visible through a sea of heads that usually sport spiked haircuts and braidings of uncertain origins. The second floor has display cases showing the various anomalies of the human species (for 2 seconds I SWEAR I saw Richard Simmons) and other mythical creatures of the world (a date-able gay man, for example).
All in all, it was very trendy and quirky and fun ... which basically means that once this place is discovered by the NW inhabitants (and if they are strong enough to brave the mysteries of H Street and/or the X2 bus), the Palace of Wonders will be packed to the brim, line stretching down the block, and appeal entirely lost due to the lack of spunk from its former attendees.
Odd ... quite like the fire-dancers, I too must be wearing some sort of flame-deterrent oil. Come on baby light my fire ... *poof* ...
The Palace of Wonders is a recent addition to what is now being referred to as the "Atlas District" (nice ring to it, right? Well, Atlas struggled, didn't he? Just like the locals who won't be able to keep up with the Jones' once businesses realize the potential of this region ... it's actually really sad).
This palatial bar is a trendy mix between a circus, Moulin Rouge, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Last Friday, after using my feminine wiles to convince the bouncer-lady to give me a discount on the cover (score ... wish I were equally convincing in other arenas), I was treated to a fire-eating-dancing burning-sword-swinging fire-hula-hooping extravaganza. Quite unlike anything I've ever seen at JR's or Cobalt (although both featuring "flaming" individuals).
It was quite refreshing to watch a talent show - albeit a somewhat odd and unexpected show - on a Friday night with mixed company and mixed drinks. There is a small stage on the ground floor, barely visible through a sea of heads that usually sport spiked haircuts and braidings of uncertain origins. The second floor has display cases showing the various anomalies of the human species (for 2 seconds I SWEAR I saw Richard Simmons) and other mythical creatures of the world (a date-able gay man, for example).
All in all, it was very trendy and quirky and fun ... which basically means that once this place is discovered by the NW inhabitants (and if they are strong enough to brave the mysteries of H Street and/or the X2 bus), the Palace of Wonders will be packed to the brim, line stretching down the block, and appeal entirely lost due to the lack of spunk from its former attendees.
Odd ... quite like the fire-dancers, I too must be wearing some sort of flame-deterrent oil. Come on baby light my fire ... *poof* ...
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Disturbingly Informative
Disturbing- yes. Informative- sure. And no, we aren't talking about Fox News (well, the "informative" part should have tipped you). The Mütter Museum of Philadelphia is not all bells and whistles like the newscasts of the information age; rather, it is a splendid educational journey into the depths of human deformity and anomalies.
"But wait, David," you say. "If we wanted to watch the human race at its worst, couldn't we just catch an episode of Big Brother?"
Yes friends, you could. But in going to the Mütter you could simply imagine that the skeletal remains laid out before you are the skinned carcasses of those very beloved Big Brother characters-- or anyone from a reality series, for that matter.
Most of the displays at the Mütter involve the field of teratology, meaning: "the study of malformations or serious deviations from the normal type in developing organisms".
Wait... isn't that the same as gynaecology??? "Oh no he didn't !!!" Just teasing ... *dodges fruit*
At the exit of the museum there is a guest book where visitors can write their candid reactions to the exhibits; here are a few that I considered worth of note:
- "shriveled penis is gross"
- the following adjectives: "rank, gnar, sexy, rocks, barf, nasty"
- "it's like a car crash- you want to look away, but can't!!!!"
- the following adjectives: "rank, gnar, sexy, rocks, barf, nasty"
- "it's like a car crash- you want to look away, but can't!!!!"
- "I see dead people"
- "yay dead babies!"
- "Where's Bush's brain?" (silly question ... and where's that unicorn while we're at it???)
- "Loss of appetite and erectile dysfunction"
- "I could go for some applesauce"
- "I love Ben Franklin!"
- "Being an undertaker, this was lovely to see!" (this also reminded me that I've always wanted to meet an undertaker ... guess it got buried on my to-do list...)
- "Bob Dylan should come here!"
- "I want to shower with the soap lady!" (there was a display with an obese woman whose body had "fossilized" into soap)
- "yay dead babies!"
- "Where's Bush's brain?" (silly question ... and where's that unicorn while we're at it???)
- "Loss of appetite and erectile dysfunction"
- "I could go for some applesauce"
- "I love Ben Franklin!"
- "Being an undertaker, this was lovely to see!" (this also reminded me that I've always wanted to meet an undertaker ... guess it got buried on my to-do list...)
- "Bob Dylan should come here!"
- "I want to shower with the soap lady!" (there was a display with an obese woman whose body had "fossilized" into soap)
- "I keep skeletons in my closet and nobody knows" (um..... what?)
So let's sum up the Mütter experience: you come, you're intriguingly appalled, grotesquely fascinated that these things could ever happen, lose your appetite, and you are in dire need of a good shower.
Quite like attending the Republican National Convention, I imagine ...
So let's sum up the Mütter experience: you come, you're intriguingly appalled, grotesquely fascinated that these things could ever happen, lose your appetite, and you are in dire need of a good shower.
Quite like attending the Republican National Convention, I imagine ...
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Air & Space Museum
A National Museum is the best place in the world to collect interesting blog material. It is a collective embodiment of American life; the feats, the accomplishments, the horrific acts of human cruelty … nothing could be better.
And what more?!? The throngs of people who come to gawk at the enormous displays … or to sit in the McDonald's food court and wearily rub their trampled soles (maybe some soul-rubbing would get them out of McDonald's?).
Ramblings and Observations of the National Air & Space Museum:
Highest jump every recorded: 8 feet and one-half inch.
Now that is impressive, and an excellent way to get around those damned tourists who stand tenaciously on the left-hand side of escalators during rush hour.
"Jellyfish project themselves by contracting their bodies and expelling water"
Well, the last time I peed in the ocean I didn't project much, except for a warm patch that was still observed 5 minutes later by an old lady who mistook it for a hot spring.
Diapers for astronauts
In flight and spacewalks astronauts wear a "fecal containment system" (isn't that basically just a big toilet strapped around your waste? er … waist?) and a "urine collection and transfer assembly". Damn … those are fancy names for a crapper and piss tube, lord. Incidentally, there was a fecal bag on display just below a toothbrush … skank-nasty, friends.
Virginity rocks
I passed a post-adolescent male wearing a shirt that proudly stated "Virginity rocks!" My immediate thought was, "No it doesn't! It blows!!! Wait … then again, no it doesn't …"
Packing for flight
Astronauts take more care packing for their missions then we do for our flimsy 30,000 foot adventures in the air:
-Shark repellent – holy crap!!! We can send a man to the moon in search of extra-terrestrial life, but we still haven't found a way to solve that pesky "fish-eat-man" issue.
-Nylon parachute line – this thing looked like a mini-noose. Perhaps it is the more pleasant option should the repellent run dry.
-Waterproof matches – you've fought off the shark, hung your fellow astronaut friend so you don't have to split the rations, and now you really need a smoke.
Wright brothers
Did you know that the Wright brothers repaired bicycles before learning to defy gravity? Bike boys in flight; suddenly I'm reminded of E.T.
Planet Symbols
On one large wall of the museum there are the various symbols for the planets. Not surprisingly, the symbol for Venus is the traditional "female" sign (circle plus cross), and for Mars it is the sign for "male" (circle plus arrow).
What caught my attention was the sign for Uranus: an exact copy of the "male" symbol, except with a big dot (or puncture?) directly in the center of the hole. In essence- a pierced male. Coincidence? I think not. Copernicus knew what was up. No astronomer could possibly fondle a large cylindrical object all day without getting a bit dirty.
And what more?!? The throngs of people who come to gawk at the enormous displays … or to sit in the McDonald's food court and wearily rub their trampled soles (maybe some soul-rubbing would get them out of McDonald's?).
Ramblings and Observations of the National Air & Space Museum:
Highest jump every recorded: 8 feet and one-half inch.
Now that is impressive, and an excellent way to get around those damned tourists who stand tenaciously on the left-hand side of escalators during rush hour.
"Jellyfish project themselves by contracting their bodies and expelling water"
Well, the last time I peed in the ocean I didn't project much, except for a warm patch that was still observed 5 minutes later by an old lady who mistook it for a hot spring.
Diapers for astronauts
In flight and spacewalks astronauts wear a "fecal containment system" (isn't that basically just a big toilet strapped around your waste? er … waist?) and a "urine collection and transfer assembly". Damn … those are fancy names for a crapper and piss tube, lord. Incidentally, there was a fecal bag on display just below a toothbrush … skank-nasty, friends.
Virginity rocks
I passed a post-adolescent male wearing a shirt that proudly stated "Virginity rocks!" My immediate thought was, "No it doesn't! It blows!!! Wait … then again, no it doesn't …"
Packing for flight
Astronauts take more care packing for their missions then we do for our flimsy 30,000 foot adventures in the air:
-Shark repellent – holy crap!!! We can send a man to the moon in search of extra-terrestrial life, but we still haven't found a way to solve that pesky "fish-eat-man" issue.
-Nylon parachute line – this thing looked like a mini-noose. Perhaps it is the more pleasant option should the repellent run dry.
-Waterproof matches – you've fought off the shark, hung your fellow astronaut friend so you don't have to split the rations, and now you really need a smoke.
Wright brothers
Did you know that the Wright brothers repaired bicycles before learning to defy gravity? Bike boys in flight; suddenly I'm reminded of E.T.
Planet Symbols
On one large wall of the museum there are the various symbols for the planets. Not surprisingly, the symbol for Venus is the traditional "female" sign (circle plus cross), and for Mars it is the sign for "male" (circle plus arrow).
What caught my attention was the sign for Uranus: an exact copy of the "male" symbol, except with a big dot (or puncture?) directly in the center of the hole. In essence- a pierced male. Coincidence? I think not. Copernicus knew what was up. No astronomer could possibly fondle a large cylindrical object all day without getting a bit dirty.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Eastern Market
Although I've lived less than a mile away from Eastern Market since last September, just in the past week I have discovered several new exciting reasons why I should hop the local bus down to this niche of the DC southeastern quadrant:
Remingtons: gay bar where the buff and beefy come to line dance, drink, and be merry with intent to woo, Tuesday night buy-one-get-one-free, assuming the bartender can count to two (some drama there last time). In the span of one week I've now been there 3 times, aiya ...
Bread and Chocolate: cute however slightly pretentious café, gorgeous desserts (cinnamon and ginger mousse in a chocolate teacup, divine).
6:45 a.m. : military boys out in packs of 4 on their morning jogs down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Therefore Eastern Market equals: men, food, more men. It's the perfect man-sandwich, fit to satisfy any appetite.
And the tastier, the better.
Remingtons: gay bar where the buff and beefy come to line dance, drink, and be merry with intent to woo, Tuesday night buy-one-get-one-free, assuming the bartender can count to two (some drama there last time). In the span of one week I've now been there 3 times, aiya ...
Bread and Chocolate: cute however slightly pretentious café, gorgeous desserts (cinnamon and ginger mousse in a chocolate teacup, divine).
6:45 a.m. : military boys out in packs of 4 on their morning jogs down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Therefore Eastern Market equals: men, food, more men. It's the perfect man-sandwich, fit to satisfy any appetite.
And the tastier, the better.
Monday, August 7, 2006
The Wizard of Oz
The original film of the Wizard of Oz was re-released to theatres in 1949. Even on its second run it didn't do so well, and only became popular with general audiences years afterwards. Is it a masterpiece? A classic? A piece of crap?
After reading Wicked, the prequel to Dorothy's arrival and a charged political-drama of Oz, I decided to go back to the original text and read what has become a hallmark of American fantasy classics.
The pages of the original book, The Wizard of Oz, would be better spent in my bathroom for cleanup after a trip to the Cheesecake Factory.
It's basically the story of a fag hag and her 3 queens who traverse afar. Its boring, longwinded, and should not be read before operating heavy machinery.
Wicked, in the other hand, is entertaining (albeit looooong). The musical, which shares the same title but hardly the same storyline, is even more titillating (at least for me). And so, perhaps the legend of Oz improves with age.
But there is room for letdown in the wonderful world of Wicked, as was abrasively demonstrated to me in NYC last May. 3 hours prior to every show there is a lottery for front-row tickets (the worse view in the house) at a huge discount. The names of 18 lucky people are drawn; the others are told to screw themselves with a magic broom.
It's like watching an episode of The Price is Right: overweight mid-40s soccer moms squeal with delight, twink queens flit into the air and clap excitedly (yay!!!), even straight men let out of shout of "oh yeah!" (these brownie points could be exchanged for sex at any moment).
After renting a car and driving for hours just to get a glimpse of Glinda and entering the lottery 4 times that weekend, I learned that my luck had been bewitched and nothing could console me.
Except for that cinnamon bun. Oh, and rice pudding. Hmmm ... and a margarita. Oh and a gay porn shop!!! Perhaps I could buy some stilettos, click my heels 3 times, and pretend it all never happened ...
After reading Wicked, the prequel to Dorothy's arrival and a charged political-drama of Oz, I decided to go back to the original text and read what has become a hallmark of American fantasy classics.
The pages of the original book, The Wizard of Oz, would be better spent in my bathroom for cleanup after a trip to the Cheesecake Factory.
It's basically the story of a fag hag and her 3 queens who traverse afar. Its boring, longwinded, and should not be read before operating heavy machinery.
Wicked, in the other hand, is entertaining (albeit looooong). The musical, which shares the same title but hardly the same storyline, is even more titillating (at least for me). And so, perhaps the legend of Oz improves with age.
But there is room for letdown in the wonderful world of Wicked, as was abrasively demonstrated to me in NYC last May. 3 hours prior to every show there is a lottery for front-row tickets (the worse view in the house) at a huge discount. The names of 18 lucky people are drawn; the others are told to screw themselves with a magic broom.
It's like watching an episode of The Price is Right: overweight mid-40s soccer moms squeal with delight, twink queens flit into the air and clap excitedly (yay!!!), even straight men let out of shout of "oh yeah!" (these brownie points could be exchanged for sex at any moment).
After renting a car and driving for hours just to get a glimpse of Glinda and entering the lottery 4 times that weekend, I learned that my luck had been bewitched and nothing could console me.
Except for that cinnamon bun. Oh, and rice pudding. Hmmm ... and a margarita. Oh and a gay porn shop!!! Perhaps I could buy some stilettos, click my heels 3 times, and pretend it all never happened ...
Friday, May 26, 2006
Big, fabulous, and black
"It's a man's world, but for gay men, it would be nothing without a big, fabulous black woman" -- The Advocate, April issue
Nothing could be more true than this quote; indeed, a big, fabulous black woman is unparalleled by any other delight in this mad mad world (save chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter ... which may solely be responsible for the big woman in the first place).
A few weeks ago I had the divine pleasure of seeing Rent on stage at the Warner Theatre. One of the cast members was just so: a big, fabulous black woman who had seen her fair share of peanut butter and other things tasty besides. She had that booming, boisterous voice to match her smooth and sexy shuffle across the stage. Oh yes, she was totally hot.
Fate smiled upon me that evening; I was invited to the cast party at a nearby restaurant and bar immediately following the show. And there she was in all her extravagant glory, chomping down on calamari and hoovering down the cheese dip (oh, to be the cracker that gets to be near those lips ... get it???) But what to say? What to do? Where to hide in all of my gay-but-still-diggin-the-chick shame?
Luckily, Jonathan enjoys torturing me and took it upon himself to destroy any shred of dignity I have remaining (which isn't much now after that nude sleepwalking catastrophe last spring). He marched squarely up to my shapely goddess, introduced himself, and proceeded to inform her of my unrequited love for her, the opposite sex, ironic as that may be.
I was mortified.
And then it happened. In a moment of bewildering flattery and charmed appreciation for the magic she in fact knew could bewitch the very foundations of my solely-male desires, my hot-mama-twinkie swished her way towards me and engulfed me in her cushiony wonder.
Quote of the evening from this talented and refined lady of culture and class: "This bitch must eat !!!"
Soooo hot, I can't even tell you.
Lufthansa airlines
Ahh, Lufthansa: offering the best in quality, service, and inconvenience.
This story begins on a calm and misty morning in the Eternal City. As the sun breaks over the horizon of this chaotic epicenter of art, culture, and irritability, one would never guess that the highly prized American values of service, pleasantness, and alcoholic consumption would be met in flight while streaming fluidly across the Atlantic.
Why is Lufthansa so surprisingly wonderful? Well, it's not run by Italians, and that's just the beginning of it.
When sitting in seat 40.K, the in-flight entertainment is quite often the horrifying amusement caused by the cantankerous odor drifting sharply from the lavatories. However, when flying with Lufthansa, there is a competing odor to win your olfactory affections: sweet honey rolls served with butter and cheese.
The food is unparalleled by any other airline. As an added bonus, real metal silverware is provided to assist you in consuming the feast with a steady hand (and inciting a compulsion for kleptomaniacs). I had half a mind to take a set back home with me, deterred only by the thought of running through the detectors at security with enough red on my face to match the spaghetti stains on my beard.
And, undoubtedly the best perk, there is the generous offering of free alcohol on every flight (*college freshman awake beneath a showering of beer cans and cock their heads in amazement*). Yes, I said it: free alcohol. Wine, beer ... even Baileys. There is no charge, nor even a look of disapproval from the attendant (just one from my aisle-seat co-passenger after my third glass ... I can hold my liquor, just not my bladder).
However, like all fairytales with those characters who have bitten the apple of bliss and found only half a worm, this story does have squirmy ending. For all of its painstaking attempts to please me beyond all forms of conceivable happiness (and sobriety), Lufthansa decided to delay my luggage until the next flight from Europe came in 4 hours after my arrival.
So, I see how it's gonna be, Lufthansa: get me all boozed up and leave me in a strange place without my clothes and underwear. Wait a minute ... wasn't that my first date with Jonathan ???
This story begins on a calm and misty morning in the Eternal City. As the sun breaks over the horizon of this chaotic epicenter of art, culture, and irritability, one would never guess that the highly prized American values of service, pleasantness, and alcoholic consumption would be met in flight while streaming fluidly across the Atlantic.
Why is Lufthansa so surprisingly wonderful? Well, it's not run by Italians, and that's just the beginning of it.
When sitting in seat 40.K, the in-flight entertainment is quite often the horrifying amusement caused by the cantankerous odor drifting sharply from the lavatories. However, when flying with Lufthansa, there is a competing odor to win your olfactory affections: sweet honey rolls served with butter and cheese.
The food is unparalleled by any other airline. As an added bonus, real metal silverware is provided to assist you in consuming the feast with a steady hand (and inciting a compulsion for kleptomaniacs). I had half a mind to take a set back home with me, deterred only by the thought of running through the detectors at security with enough red on my face to match the spaghetti stains on my beard.
And, undoubtedly the best perk, there is the generous offering of free alcohol on every flight (*college freshman awake beneath a showering of beer cans and cock their heads in amazement*). Yes, I said it: free alcohol. Wine, beer ... even Baileys. There is no charge, nor even a look of disapproval from the attendant (just one from my aisle-seat co-passenger after my third glass ... I can hold my liquor, just not my bladder).
However, like all fairytales with those characters who have bitten the apple of bliss and found only half a worm, this story does have squirmy ending. For all of its painstaking attempts to please me beyond all forms of conceivable happiness (and sobriety), Lufthansa decided to delay my luggage until the next flight from Europe came in 4 hours after my arrival.
So, I see how it's gonna be, Lufthansa: get me all boozed up and leave me in a strange place without my clothes and underwear. Wait a minute ... wasn't that my first date with Jonathan ???
Friday, March 24, 2006
SHOWBOYS!
Last week the Gay Men's Chorus of DC paid tribute to the celebrated successes of gay Broadway (and redundancies). "SHOWBOYS" was broken into 4 mini-shows of Anything Goes, Dear World, Company, and Hairspray (you'll get 10 bonus points for using them all in one sentence).
Tap dancing, flag twirling, men in drag and more: the curtain flies as the lights blind you senseless, the sound of applause the only clue that something lies beyond the invisible 4th wall of the stage.
The curtain drops to conceal the chorus during a spotlighted solo; your only chance to rest, regroup, and be a spectator of what truly is an impressive attempt to show the normalcy of a gay man's life. Songs written for male-female couples are performed by boys and only boys.
As we sit back there in the darkness, listening intently to "Being Alive" and "I Never Said I Love You", an unusual hush falls over what is normally a chatty bunch of chorus boys.
Some of us inspired; others lonely.
The members of the chorus are as varied as they can be: old and young, thick and thin, different races, different religions, and many stories of exclusion and hurt.
The curtain flies for the final time, we shake and shimmy it with all of our might, cheer when it's over, and go our separate ways; some hidden, some open.
I won't remember what I sang, and I won't remember how I danced. But I will always remember how I felt when I performed with such an amazing group of people – of men, who understand me.
Tap dancing, flag twirling, men in drag and more: the curtain flies as the lights blind you senseless, the sound of applause the only clue that something lies beyond the invisible 4th wall of the stage.
The curtain drops to conceal the chorus during a spotlighted solo; your only chance to rest, regroup, and be a spectator of what truly is an impressive attempt to show the normalcy of a gay man's life. Songs written for male-female couples are performed by boys and only boys.
As we sit back there in the darkness, listening intently to "Being Alive" and "I Never Said I Love You", an unusual hush falls over what is normally a chatty bunch of chorus boys.
Some of us inspired; others lonely.
The members of the chorus are as varied as they can be: old and young, thick and thin, different races, different religions, and many stories of exclusion and hurt.
The curtain flies for the final time, we shake and shimmy it with all of our might, cheer when it's over, and go our separate ways; some hidden, some open.
I won't remember what I sang, and I won't remember how I danced. But I will always remember how I felt when I performed with such an amazing group of people – of men, who understand me.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Shear Madness
Shear Madness is a silly-comedy mystery-whodunit play that is decent, but would be better after two beers (like watching Medium, Charmed, or any other show currently running on the WB). It's full of one-liners and sharp-tongued jabs that make the audience hoot and holler like spectators in the Jerry Springer Show.
And, like Springer, there are the usual "suspects" on stage: overly flamboyant gay man sporting pink and personifying every stereotype known to homosexuality, the tough ignorant cop who can't add, read, write, or avoid doughnut jokes, the slutty big-breasted loud-mouthed chubby lady with a thick New York accent, and the pristine anorexically-thin aristocrat bitch who is offended by profanity and anything fun.
What really makes this play is the participation of the audience. The stage is surrounded on three sides (mostly by prepubescent teens who are wearing a tie for the first time and giggle at the word "it") and halfway through the performance the house lights come on and the actors invite audience to piece together the series of events that led up to the murder.
It's not an evening of magic, but for 28 bucks you can sit back, howl a bit (Jerry! Jerry!), laugh at a gay man making eyes at a cop, wonder if that New York gal has any serious back injuries, and wonder why the hell you never went to acting school.
And the ending? I'll only say this: Be careful what you wish for.
And, like Springer, there are the usual "suspects" on stage: overly flamboyant gay man sporting pink and personifying every stereotype known to homosexuality, the tough ignorant cop who can't add, read, write, or avoid doughnut jokes, the slutty big-breasted loud-mouthed chubby lady with a thick New York accent, and the pristine anorexically-thin aristocrat bitch who is offended by profanity and anything fun.
What really makes this play is the participation of the audience. The stage is surrounded on three sides (mostly by prepubescent teens who are wearing a tie for the first time and giggle at the word "it") and halfway through the performance the house lights come on and the actors invite audience to piece together the series of events that led up to the murder.
It's not an evening of magic, but for 28 bucks you can sit back, howl a bit (Jerry! Jerry!), laugh at a gay man making eyes at a cop, wonder if that New York gal has any serious back injuries, and wonder why the hell you never went to acting school.
And the ending? I'll only say this: Be careful what you wish for.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Green Lantern
Sunday nights at the Green Lantern: where performing arts meets boozing and cruising, as it is the locale of choice for the Gay Men's Chorus of DC after our evening rehearsal.
Low lights, square bar surrounded on all sides by stools, no windows to the outside world; it's a cozy dive for those who need to hide, and also a stage for the divas who need their moment in the spotlight (that's right – karaoke!!!).
From Garth Brooks to SpiceGirls, these primadonnas (first ladies of the stage) take to the microphone to croon for a male audience of boys, toys, mares and bears. The bar splits in two: to the right, dancing queens (although older than seventeen – and no tambourine) who like to shake and shimmy it with all of their might, and to the left, butch bearded bear boys who are grizzly-guzzling their Bud, Miller, and Heinys.
It's the dichotomy of the gay experience – and where do I fit in?
I attempt a mix: casually sipping my Miller (Lite), a sing along gaily to "Loathing" from Wicked. What a strange exhilaration …
(P.S. If you caught all of the musical references, you belong on the right side of the bar)
Low lights, square bar surrounded on all sides by stools, no windows to the outside world; it's a cozy dive for those who need to hide, and also a stage for the divas who need their moment in the spotlight (that's right – karaoke!!!).
From Garth Brooks to SpiceGirls, these primadonnas (first ladies of the stage) take to the microphone to croon for a male audience of boys, toys, mares and bears. The bar splits in two: to the right, dancing queens (although older than seventeen – and no tambourine) who like to shake and shimmy it with all of their might, and to the left, butch bearded bear boys who are grizzly-guzzling their Bud, Miller, and Heinys.
It's the dichotomy of the gay experience – and where do I fit in?
I attempt a mix: casually sipping my Miller (Lite), a sing along gaily to "Loathing" from Wicked. What a strange exhilaration …
(P.S. If you caught all of the musical references, you belong on the right side of the bar)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)