Why The French Are Cooler Than Us

Would you believe it's their anti-AIDS PSAs? Normally computer animated people give me the willies, but this cartoon by Wilfred Brimo, set to The Rubettes' 1974 classic "Sugar Baby Love", is both important and adorable. Click to play, and ask yourself: can you imagine anything like this ever being shown on regular US television?

Thanks, I Think I’m Sterile, Now

Courtesy of Wax Madness on planetdan.

Talk To Me, Baby

My apologies to anyone who tried to leave a comment over the last week and couldn't. Seems this template is persnickety about the comment settings (another reason I'm working on a new one). It seems to be fixed, now, so fire away!

Paris Is Burning

I just wanted to say that, although I've lost most interest in American Idol, I'm disappointed Paris got voted off. I can see why, but I still say she has more talent than any other of the contestants this year, and even some of them combined.

Stupid America. Eat it, bitches.

And The Answer Is: None More Gay

The question is, of course, could Mrs. Nator and I be any gayer? I've already mentioned my penchant for listening to Real Life and the fact that we're going to see Kathy Griffin in June. But that was nothing. Here's the motherlode:

We are going to see Rufus Wainwright at Carnegie Hall, where he will be performing the entire legendary 1961 Judy Garland concert with an orchestra. Squeeeeee!

Oh, my God. I think I just sprained my Gay.

Of course, considering all this it becomes painfully clear that what Mrs. Nator and I are, actually, is gay men, which comes as some surprise to us, not having penises.* But we just paid a buttload for those tickets, so, we will no doubt soldier on. See you at Splash?

* By the way, over the course of the last two posts, I must have typed the word "penis" more times than I... well, ever. So, then: vagina, vagina, vagina!

Spawn Sung Blue

So, here’s the deal: I just don’t know if I want children. Here I am, halfway through my thirties, with a partner who wants children, and friends who want or are having children – even if it means ordering sperm on the rocks long distance, and I still look at babies and think “uh?” As in, insert Peggy Lee singing “Is That All There Is” here, because, yeah, they’re cute and all, and I’m sure they love their parents, but… are they cute next-twenty-plus-years-of-my-life, cute? I mean, honestly, can't I just have another cat?

And that’s another thing here, because my cats? Three of them, and then the two turtles? It’s not like we’re taking the best care of them we possibly could, to begin with. I mean, there are weeks the litter does not get scooped, or the turtle tank water evaporates to half its regular volume, or we just feel repeatedly compelled to yell “What, you big, whiny, baby - WHAT?” at one or the other or all of them (OK, that’s mostly Maurice, who often morphs into Mr. Whinypants Johnson for days at a time, and who can blame him what with having the name Maurice and all, but I’m trying to make a point). Do we really think we can transfer that sort of devil-may-care, lackadaisical, possibly traumatizing supervision to a human child? Because, well, yeah, maybe, but we’re The Gay, so people always watch us on that kind of stuff, as opposed to the Normal, Heterosexual People, who can chain their children to a radiator in the basement for years and get boxed chocolates from Children’s Services each Thursday – do you hear what I’m saying? It’s a lot of freaking responsibility! And besides my curmudgeonly, spastic, slovenly ways, Mrs. Nator can barely remember where she put her cell phone, wallet or keys half the time, nor to purchase toilet paper when we are completely out, so... well, to wit, allow me to quote a passage from The Importance of Being Earnest, most particularly some key lines I delivered myself whilst playing Miss Prism in our much-acclaimed and extended high school production:

Lady Bracknell: … Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

Miss Prism: Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinet, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

Jack: [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism: Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack: Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.

Miss Prism: I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

I don’t remember much after that, except supposedly all ended well, but every night just before blackout I had to fling myself into the passionate embrace of the boy playing Rev. Chasuble, with a force that broke my granny glasses not once, but twice. Apparently, this was extremely humourous to the audience, but a bit disconcerting to me, especially since somehow I infused said glasses with a good portion of my characterization and, once they were broken, ran around most of the next day trying to scrape up new ones, else I wouldn’t feel all Stanislavskied all up in my Method, or something. Oh, and that I was called Laetitia, which, knowing me, would be a name I would saddle a baby with just for my own amusement. So, you see? I am far too circumlocutory to be a parent, and, what’s more, neurotic and just a little bit mean.

But:

As I said, my partner wants children. What’s more, she insists that I really want them, too, and would make an excellent parent. It’s just that I’m held back by my fears of being good enough, memories of a difficult childhood, &c. In fact, it is not just my partner who says this, but a number of my so-called friends and family members. Apparently, if you asked them, they would tell you that children’s eyes just light up when they see me, and I speak some special language that only small animals and children understand. Moreover, I am so sweet and kindhearted, so intelligent and entertaining, it would be nigh on a crime if I didn’t reproduce or at least raise some little foundling posthaste. To which I answer: Projecting – all of you! And also: Quit having me on! And finally: Have your own damn children, keep your guilty guiltifying and… and… thanks, but – yikes!

See, the thing is, I’m pretty sure that if I’d gotten together with Mrs. Nator and she’d never wanted to have children, I’d be totally behind that. Because I did have a difficult childhood, and I do have self-esteem issues, and I never had much experience with other children except as a child myself, who, quite frankly, did not even understand or relate well to them, then. So, until recently, when I saw a kid, it was more discomfiting than heartwarming to me. You never know what they’re thinking, what they really want or how easily they might break – or break you - in my book. Nowadays, I’ve somehow begun to actually look at some babies and children and think they’re, okay, kind of cute, but I’m not entirely certain that isn’t because everyone’s telling me I’m supposed to, you dig?

And yet… of course I’m worried that what they say is true. That I am holding back my precious love that could nurture little beings due to my own fears, self-doubt and internalized homophobia. That one day, if I don’t have or take in any children, but soon, I will look back and say “I missed out on the greatest joy in life, and I am nothing without progeny to carry on my… me-ness (and quite possibly pay for my in-home senior care nurse/companion).” Not to mention that I’m worried that Mrs. Nator will decide that this all bespeaks some unconscionable flaw in my character and go find someone more interested in increasing the population. (To which I add: “the Earth is drowning in a blood-sucking, environment-and-species-destroying infestation of homo sapiens as we speak, many of whom are fundamentalists and Republicans!” To which she answers: “All the more reason for us to bring up a good one or two to balance things out and do something good,” and I counter “The devil you say – they’ll be ground in the corporate cogs and eaten!” And then she decides she has some important business to attend to involving removing her hangnails, or reading the obituaries, or some such.)

So, it is with all this in mind that, each time I go down to visit the little Natorling nephew and niece, I observe them, their parents and myself quite closely. Here are some of my observations from this past weekend:

• Niece and Nephew Natorling are, as children go, fairly adorable. Nephew is a budding little geekling and niece is, as they say, spirited, which it is alleged is the way I was at her age, which is… I’m not sure how I feel about that.
• Okay, it is true: children do find me hilarious – at least these two. Apparently, I have excellent taste in children’s literature (not surprising, as I was a bookworm, myself). Also, the way I run back and forth and pick them up is, it would appear, a laugh riot. On the other hand, how many ways are there to run around and pick children up, especially if one doesn’t have the history of herniated discs that I do? It ain’t rocket science.
• Children can teach us valuable lessons. Niece taught me, for example, that it is perfectly acceptable and effective to stare lengthily and utterly blankly at someone when they ask you a question until they go away, not because you don’t know the answer, but because you don’t feel like talking to them.
• At age eight, boys seem to be acutely aware that they have penises. They are not acutely aware, however, that everyone else is can see when they are touching their penises, and may not find this quite as stimulating, in a good way. Good Lord, as a card-carrying lifelong lesbian, I just don’t know how I’d handle that one with my own child. I’d be afraid of either allowing him to grow into another Dan Hoyt or, conversely, causing him to become afraid of his own penis and end up telling someone to put the lotion in the basket someday. In Nephew’s defence, however, I will say that, once again, he is only eight and, from what I have gathered from casual observation, this is a habit many grown men not only never outgrow, but parlay into profit in one way or another.
• Having a small child hug, kiss or snuggle up to you can fill one with contentment. Having a small child violently smush your cheeks and call you “squishy!” (or, in the case of GrandMaMa Nator, exclaim “you have a beard!”)… not so much.

• Children rarely like to share. Fortunately, this is counterbalanced by their short attention spans, so if you grab the thing they clung to so greedily five minutes ago, they’ll hardly notice.
• Children can be heartbreaking. The most difficult part of the visit was listening in while Sis and Bro-in-law Nator explained to Nephew that, whereas Niece would share their bed to make room for the guests, he had become too big to join them. Hearing a usually happy and mature kid repeatedly sob “but I would do anything to make you change your mind!” made me want to crawl into my safe space. His parents dealt with it admirably and fairly, but I am not so sure I could have done the same in their place. After all, how do we ever reconcile ourselves completely to the fact that we will inevitably hurt the ones we love? And how much more devastating is that when it is our children we hurt, and vice versa?
• If you cannot smile at a naked, giggling and dancing two and a half year old, you are probably dead.

Such are my most recent observations. I can’t say that any of this has entirely eased my mind or helped me make it up one way or another. I can say, however, that it is oh so much more quiet when there are no small children around, even when the cats try their damnedest to be annoying. So, here’s my thought: Several more cats, for practice. Also, I can test out some toys on my own, to see what it’s like - particularly the computer games. Finally, I suppose if I should be afflicted with the miracle of virgin birth I will see it through, albeit from my cozy perch in a padded cell, no doubt. Until then, I have more observing and thinking to do. Perhaps I will decide by the time I am forty. Perhaps.

Emotional Trauma?

Would it seem appropriate to you for, say, your therapist, who has only two or three weeks ago confirmed that she is fine to wait for your insurance checks to come in for payment, to spend an entire session then telling you that she is not fine with it and how you should "assert yourself" more with the insurance company to get the checks faster or figure out another payment plan?

I am... displeased.

Deep Thoughts

I am still totally knackered from my family visit. I love them people, but the whole mishegoss of traveling and visiting is tiring.

Questions for the day:

1. Am I a total commie for taking May Day off?

2. Can we go back to the days when gay people were expected not to have children?

3. How does clutter reproduce?

Discuss.

Did We All Have That Haircut In The 80s?

I am off for several days to visit some Nator fam, including my oh-so-cute and brilliant niece and nephew. I'm sure y'all will pine for me, so I'll leave you with a bit of entertainment.

Bust a move, Lady L...

That’s Frahnk-en-shteen.

I’ve been pondering why I feel so drawn to yet repulsed by the videos I posted yesterday, and I think I’ve got it. I feel drawn to them because they are just so darn cool. I mean, just the fact that humans can make moving representations of creatures and people that are so eerily lifelike is amazing, but add to that the fact that I have always been fascinated with simple mechanical devices and robotics and it’s a good fit for me. Admittedly, my knowledge of engineering may be barely past a basic understanding of gears, but that didn’t stop me from repeatedly drawing doodles of weird, one-cylinder vehicles when I was a kid, once I learned a little bit about how a combustion engine works.

This fascination extends in several directions, including a love of intricate, Rube Goldberg-esque machines and an attraction to early devices like Da Vinci’s flying machines and various automata. I’m not sure where this all started – multiple school trips to The Franklin Institute? Seeing Rowland Emett’s whacky devices in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or the crazy mechanisms in the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies shorts (you know, the ones with that great Roland Scott theme “Powerhouse” in the background)? Heck, maybe it was playing Mouse Trap. Whatever it was, intricate machines tickle me, but add the whimsical feature of making them look like creatures, and it’s a whole different ballgame.

I mean, let’s face it, what demonstrates mankind’s god-like powers more than being able to simulate life? If you can do that, you must have serious skillz. The problem with it is, it really is supposed to be the work of God (gods, higher beings, whatever). It seems wrong, somehow – presumptuous. And it’s never quite right. It’s always – almost, but not quite alive, and that’s disturbing. Think of baby dolls whose eyes open automatically*. Furbies. Or, to get more meta, zombies. Heck, how about Frankenstein’s monster? Even those damn Billy Bass things are a little bit freaky.

But while full-on robots are disturbing in that they make you think man’s AI children are going to kill us all and take over the world (which would not be so bad, if they looked like Number Six), robots that look like disembodied parts of living creatures are just plain horrifying. Because clearly, brainless parts of things should not be alive, nor appear to be so. That, my friends, is The Devil’s Work. Unnatural. And probably the last thing you’ll ever see.

So, that explains why I keep watching those damn videos over and over even though they give me the serious willies. But afterwards, perhaps I can cleanse my brain with some less anthropomorphic, yet equally fascinating mechanical wonders. To this end, I give you videos of Goldbergian creations from the Japanese children's educational television show ピタゴラスイッチ ("Pitagora Suicchi", or "Pythagorean Switch") and the artier and much larger scale German production Der Lauf Der Dinge (“The Way Things Go”). Enjoy!

*Incidentally, I had a baby doll with opening eyes that someone gave me when I was a kid. I hated that thing, and hid it in my closet, burying it under layers of crap. I already avoided looking into the closet because I was convinced it was home to 1.) a vampire and/or 2.) a headless woman. Nevertheless, I had to get clothes, sometimes, and somehow, every once and a while, I’d open the door and it would be sitting up, looking at me and nearly causing me to wet my freakin’ pants. Neither of my siblings admits to setting this up to this day, so my only suspects are the vampire, the headless woman, or the doll itself, which makes this story All. The. More. Chilling!

Gym Bunny

Thoughts regarding recent workouts:

1. Ow, my goddamn shoulders!

2. Why can’t I stop listening to Kanye West’s The New Workout Plan? It is completely misogynistic. But so very funny. And the beat works for everything from crunches to the elliptical machine!

3. After a couple months of seeing almost no visible results, this morning I accidentally ironed the wrong pair of pants, which I hadn’t been able to squeeze into since before I herniated my neck, and put. Them. On. They are a little tighter than I’d prefer, but still. Feeling stronger and more energetic is great, but this? I can really get behind.

4. Great, only five or six sizes to go…! (plotz.)

Abraca...YAWN

Am I supposed to be excited that David Blaine will be setting up shop in an aquarium right outside my office next week? Because, not so much.

You might assume that as a fan of magic I would be all a-twitter, but I'm not. That's because I'm a fan of magic, not endurance stunts. Blaine was interesting when he did street magic, but what's the point, now? Are we all supposed to go along with him on some kind of Zen minimalist journey? We already know that people can live in hardship for long periods of time, and it's not like he's doing it for a political cause. It's just a stunt, without even any major skill involved, except perhaps staying calm and the breath-holding at the end. Houdini would be bored.

Scuttlebutt has it that Blaine cooks up these isolationist bits partly because he just doesn't like speaking with people. So? When am I going to get fame and big bucks for sitting in my office oubliette, eating lunch at my desk and avoiding phone calls? Because I could do that for far more than a week straight.

Feh.

Cheesiest poster ever?

ARRGGGGHHH!!!

Christ in a hatchback, this "president" drives me into inexpressible, apoplectic rage! Now that his war and reach-arounds for the oil industry have driven up gas prices enough to threaten his party's mid-term election results, one of his bright solutions is to "temporarily" lower EPA clean-air standards for fuel.

Is anyone willing to join me in a plan to have him mauled to death by endangered species? What if WE are the endangered species?

More intelligent analysis here.

Futureworld, Present Tense

I am almost creeped out beyond words. I just read a post on and viewed a video of a robot on And I Am Not Lying, For Real. The video should be innocuous - it merely shows testing of a four-legged robot to see how well it navigates uneven surfaces. The thing is, the way this robot moves? Brrrr. It is just waaaay too life-like. Honestly, it looks like a headless animal. The testers even kick it, and it staggers just like a dog.

Jeff at I Am Not Lying explains the disturbing nature of this video excellently, and you should go check his thoughts out for yourself. Honestly, I don't think I've been quite so squicked out by an animatronic figure since Herbie Hancock's Rockit video. Heck, that one still makes me scream a little when I see it. The question is, why am I so fascinated that I can't stop subjecting myself to these videos over and over again, even though they make me a little queasy and dizzy every time? Perhaps they are sort of a safer version of an adrenal gland-stimulating trip through Castle Dracula? Or perhaps they just invoke the specter of man-as-machine by being too lifelike, giving one a sort of spooky uncertainty about how to distinguish life from death, consciousness from physical manipulation? Freaky, freaky stuff...

Although I am almost loathe to display them here, you be the judge...

The DogBot

Rockit

Yikes. The doglike 'bot turns out, by the way, to be aptly named "BigDog", and you can see more about it and other slightly less scary robots at Boston Dynamics. Oh, and the Rockit video was directed by Godley & Creme, formerly of 10cc, who directed quite a few groundbreaking videos back in the day.

One last note - in pondering this I somehow accessed a horrifying scene from my early childhood. I was watching some program, and it involved a person's face coming off to reveal that they were actually a robot. In retrospect, I'm sure the effects were rudimentary, this being the early 70s, but it left a huge impression on me at the time (nightmares about my parents being robots and whatnot). I've been scouring the internets trying to figure out what it was, but I can't figure out if it was even a movie or a television show. The closest things I can find are references to a film called Futureworld, although I can't be sure it wasn't an episode of The Six Million Dollar Man. I'm pretty sure the robot, however, was a woman. If you have any idea what show this might have been, I'd love to know!

Not A G'Day

Well, mate, I'll just put anothah shrimp on the barbie and... Holy Mary, mother of God!

Say hello to Monica, a category 5 cyclone approaching the northern coast of Australia at this very moment. That's category 5 as in currently packing winds of up to 217 mph. Remind you of anything?

Actually, it looks a little more impressive than the shot of hurricane Katrina above. And guess what? This comes only about a month after Larry, another category 5 cyclone hit North Queensland. Meterologists are saying these two cyclones are two of the biggest ever seen.

Hmm, isn't it interesting that Australia and the US are the only two major developed countries that have not ratified the Kyoto Protocol, thus insuring continued environmental damage that can lead to global warming and worse storms? Aah, but what could that have to do with anything? After all, New Orleans has Mardi Gras and Australia has Gay Mardi Gras (not to mention Kylie Minogue). God must just be sending these storms to smite the faggots!

But seriously, the Northern Territory is one of the least populated areas of Australia, but it's also relatively financially poor. It's populated by more indigenous Australians ("aborigines") than anywhere else. This means that once again the poor, brown people are in the path of the natural disaster. Be sure to send them your thoughts, good energy or prayers, and let's keep an eye on this story.

Your Humour Style Is: Lemming

Everybody else is taking this test, why not me?

Your humor style is: the Cutting Edge (61% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi The 3-Variable Funny Test! - it rules - If you're interested, try my best friend's best test: The Genghis Khan Genetic Fitness Masterpiece

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 73% on darkness You scored higher than 40% on spontaneity You scored higher than 43% on vulgarity

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Somehow I think I'm slightly more vulgar than that, but whate'er. I'm glad I still have a sense of humour today, what with being such a big, fat softie that I've been completely devastated by Loaner Cat going home.

Sigh. So a dyke walks into a bar with a cat on her head...

I Am So Gay

I just spent a good half hour searching for Real Life on Limewire. Then? Rebbie Jackson.

So. Very. Gay.

Fare Thee Well, Fine Feline Friend

Boo and hoo! Loaner Cat is leaving. His real person finally got a new place, so we are bringing him back to her this Sunday. Alas! We got accustomed to his face, if not his chronic indigestion. We'll miss his goofy, gangly, adolescent ways - with the playing and the annoying the other cats, knocking things over and continually looking perplexed. Queen Bitch Cat must've lost at least a pound or two on the Pure Hatred Diet™, thanks to him. He has bumbled and snuggled his way into our hearts.

It was perhaps fotunate I was home sick, today. We shared some excellent farewell cuddling, and he showered me with affection, purrs, and fur - lots of it. Take good care and thanks for visiting, our sweet, spotted bandito. We hope you don't get too bored with no other kitties to harass. Don't forget to write!

Joan Osborne at Southpaw

It’s about time she was back on the scene again, ‘cause the lady can blow. It had been five or six years since we saw her last, at Irving Plaza, and it was evident last night that she had matured as a musician. I mean, she was terrific back then, but to see her in the intimate setting of Southpaw with the band hanging off her every word and motion just proved she’s not been lying fallow. If anything, she’s gained more control over her soulful voice and more mastery of leading a band. If her early recordings sounded like Janis Joplin with more vocal depth and less pain and drugs, her current vocals contain a lot more Etta James, with patches of Patsy Cline restraint and hints of the Qawwali music style she learned from Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.*

The Patsy Cline influence was most obvious last night, with a few nods to Dolly and Loretta, as she and her band used the audience as “guinea pigs” to test a new set of country-style tunes. Mrs. Nator and I had been musing during the country-flavoured pre-show music that Osborne might be moving toward this style - which is not surprising, considering her southern roots - and agreed that her voice could easily fit a country-soul mode. We were not disappointed. Taking the stage in a simple white cotton dress, Osborne called to mind a shy 50s housewife at a VFW dinner who suddenly busted out with serious talent (“Hey, y’all know Ellie Sue can sing? Git up there on the stage, Ellie Sue, and show them what you can do!” “Aw, no, I couldn’t… I’ve got to serve up the pie, now. Welll-l-l, o-kay…” Ka-POW!). Despite the unfamiliarity of the material, the audience ate it up, and each song was CD-perfect, tight. One of my particular favourites, not surprisingly, was a country-western lesbian love ballad to one “Jane”. Alas, Ms. Osborne is, as far as I’ve heard, all hetero, but that didn’t stop her from imbuing the piece with the sincerity of a consummate performer. Don’t make me stalk you, Joan.

Despite our advancing age, Mrs. Nator and I probably fell in the mid-range of the audience spectrum, proving Osborne’s wide appeal. We were, no doubt, not the only ones out past our bedtime – and Mrs. Nator with a bum knee, no less – but it was well worth it to stay for through the end of the set and into the encore. Despite protesting that her some of new band didn’t know her old songs well, Osborne treated us to stomping renditions of “Spider Web” and “St. Teresa” that had almost everyone out of their seats and pressed toward the stage. Although the set could easily have stood on its own without the old material, it was a satisfying coda that left everybody energized and smiling.

All in all, the best show I’ve been to in some time, and well worth dragging my sorry ass out on a Wednesday night. I certainly do hope that the material Osborne’s been shopping around for the last year or two finally gets released, and the songs she did last night do get recorded in Nashville soon, as she is planning. It’s sadly unsurprising in this candy-pop, hip-hop world that a singer of such old-school skill and substance can go unreleased and unpromoted for such a long period of time, but that doesn’t make it any less of a crime.

*Note: I didn't just have that memorized because I really am a stalker - I just read it on her bio this morning. Besides, Mrs. Nator frowns heavily on stalking, unless it's related to ridiculous kitty hijinks.

Completely Unfabulous?

Yuck. I just took a look at the site for the upcoming movie adaption of The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Ethan Green. It looks... nothing like the comic. And possibly quite lame. Apparently, Eric Orner has given his blessing, and it's even got Meredith Baxter in it, which must indicate at least some camp value. But I'm a fan of the cartoon series from way back - I actually much prefer the earlier, hand-drawn episodes - so I have been prepared to be disappointed. It's just that, now that I've seen the site? I am convinced I will be.

If anyone's seen this, let me know what you thought. Otherwise, I will continue to wallow in narrow-minded pre-judgement, as per usual.