From Kava To Cargo (and Back Again)

You learn something new every day, and today for me it was cargo cults. Leafing through last month's Smithsonian magazine (I'm always behind), I came upon an article describing the religious practices of the small population of the island of Tanna, Vanuatu. Apparently, besides being a location for one season of Survivor, Vanuatu claims, on Tanna, one of the last of the cargo cults, a religious sect devoted to worshipping the spirit or personification of previous visitors who brought modern goods to the natives' remote locations. It seems these cults can be traced back to at least the 19th century in the South Pacific and North America, although I wouldn't be surprised if there were unrecorded instances much earlier. After all, to the Hawaiians, James Cook was a god, before they wised up and killed him. Fast forward to WWII, and you can see why a lot more cargo cults started up. Western troops came in droves to the isolated islands in the South Pacific, bringing huge amounts of equipment, food and other matériel with them. Locals must have been agog at the influx of durable goods, not to mention the food that practically rained from the sky, either by landing strip or parachute drop. It only stands to reason that islanders figured that if they performed certain rituals, such as cutting imitation landing strips, donning imitation uniforms or worshipping a god that was somehow connected to all this wealth, they might be showered with riches, too. In Tanna, this manifested as the Jon Frum movement, in which a white, American military messiah promised to bring cargo back to the islanders if they prayed to him. Jon Frum is currently thought to reside alternately in the local volcano or America, as he can travel by underground tunnel between the two, and 60 years later Tanna residents still pray to him and celebrate Jon Frum day annually with dancing, singing and mock United States military drills.

It didn't hurt that the originators of the movement, a group of local men imbibing kava, told everyone that Jon Frum wanted them to turn against the French colonists and Presbyterian missionaries who had taken over the island. Rather than follow the repressive practices of the occupiers, they said, indigenous people should renounce Christian ways, get rid of Western goods and return to the old ways of custom. The most important of these old ways was not working in near-slavery conditions for the white men, but also included were ending the prohibition of dancing, singing and yes, the frequent drinking of kava.

Kava is a traditional drink derived from a plant that grows in the area. It is the same kava that is used in the widely popular Kava-Kava extracts and pills alternative medicine lovers take here, except in its original, more potent form. You see, kava is a narcotic, which, depending on the quantity ingested, can result in effects from a tingling of the lips, mild sedation and a sense of well-being to, in extreme cases, hallucination. Various traditions throughout the South Pacific call for ingesting Kava, generally as a drink of powdered root in water, from every day to high holy days only, from every villager to only men or kings, depending on your island. All of them agree, however, that drinking kava is uplifting in some way, it numbs pain and it feels good. I have sampled this elixir myself, in a small bar in Hawaii, where it is called 'awa. I've long been a veritable teetotaler, not just through the natural process of becoming older and holding a day job, but because the anti-depressants I take seem to alter the effects of alcohol. Liquor tends to give me very little buzz. Instead, I just get tired and then don't sleep well. When I heard about 'awa shortly before my trip to the big island, I figured it might be fun to try. Touted as relatively harmless if somewhat unappetizing, 'awa is part of a traditional local custom I could experience, and maybe get a little mood elevation while at it.

Kava lived up to the hype. Served in a coconut half-shell, the muddy-looking, room-temperature brew tasted mostly like - well, mud - with distinct overtones of bitter twigs. It wasn't terrible, so much as puzzling, as in "who first got the bright idea to drink this?" Almost immediately, however, my lips began to tingle, and a numbing sensation progressed down the back of my throat. I momentarily panicked at this, but it didn't seem to get any worse. Instead, I started to feel... loopy. Happy, calm, and a little bit giggly, but almost too serene to laugh. I had another cup, and the sense of content, lethargic one-with-the-worldness expanded. I would have happily consumed more if my girlfriend hadn't become somewhat alarmed, not knowing what might come of this, considering my established hypersensitivity to drugs of any kind.

In short, this shit was the bomb, and I was sad to realize that there's almost nowhere to get it on the mainland, where alcohol is the more potent social mind-altering drink of choice. It seems that there was once a kava bar in the Village, but it went belly-up before I found it, and I haven't yet heard of anywhere local that sells it. I'd pretty much put this out of my mind until reading the Jon Frum article and musing on the role of kava in this socio-religious movement. I could empathize with the Tanna folk - if God doesn't want you to sing, dance or drink kava, just what kind of God can He be? The upshot of the Jon Frum movement is that the Tanna islanders shooed the colonists off of their home, but although they have gained independence, the cult still signifies a strange reverence of Western ways and goods despite rejecting Western rule. More worldly natives are sometimes embarrassed by this "backwards" group, while others revere them as some of the first freedom fighters in the island chain. Meanwhile, splinter cults have developed that incorporate more traditional or Christian customs, including the flock of one Prophet Fred, who recently came to bloody blows with the main Frum devotees. Still, while this may seem bizarre and somewhat sad to the casual first-world observer, our beliefs are not all that different, at the core, and the islanders know it. One notes:

"We have been waiting only 60 years for Jon Frum to come back. Christians have been waiting 2000 years for Jesus Christ. Why are we the ones who are thought of as strange?"

Another says:

"God appeared to the people of Tanna in the form of John Frum, just as he appeared to the Jews as Jesus, and to the Indians as Buddha. It's the same message, the same revelation. Our colonial struggle has happened all across the world, across all different cultures. John Frum is the messiah of all of us who have had the same struggle."

Which just goes to show their practices may be odd, but not necessarily stupid. Not to mention that, ultimately, we are all praying for and dreaming of manna from heaven. Whether it's maxing out the credit card for home entertainment or performing mock military drills, yearning for the winning lotto numbers or Coca-Cola to fall from the sky, we're not, at the core, all that different. Which also means, South Pacific or New York City, I deserve some damn kava now and then. Fortunately, I don't have to perform any intricate rituals to get it. It looks like chanting the sacred numbers of Master Card to the gods of the Internet should do.

Interesting reading:
In John They Trust
The Jon Frum Movement
The Last Cargo Cult
”Cargo Cult” on Wikipedia
HerbalGram Kava: An Overview

Splat-O-Vision

We watched a fascinating documentary on bower birds this weekend. Our cat, Maurice, found it fascinating, too. So fascinating, in fact, that he launched himself into a position like this: Alas, I have no photograpic evidence of this event. As it was, we could barely keep our spleens in from laughing as he ricocheted to the floor. There is a chance we could reenact it, however. How much is the prize on America's Funniest Home Videos up to?
NB: Television, owners and feline have all recovered and are resting comfortably.

Eleven, Twelve

I don't feel like being political today - too tired. So how about something nostalgic?

Here is a pretty darn cool remix of the Eleven Twelve song from Sesame Street. You can find the original version for six here, and more vintage Sesame Street and Electric Company stuff on YouTube, too.

Now if somebody would just buy me the Electric Company DVDs...

I Was Born A Poor Black Child

I have to admit I may be more sensitive to racial issues than your average honky. Strike that - I'm sure I'm more sensitive. I was raised in the seventies by extremely liberal parents, including a father who, as a neophyte minister in his first church, had Martin Luther King Jr. in to speak. I was one of only a very few white children in a largely black neighbourhood and city. But, most of all, I was partially raised in a half-black family by my black activist stepfather. This was a man who started educational programs to help disadvantaged black children, gave presentations on race issues and wore a dashiki nearly every day of his life - albeit dashikis that were sewn for him by my white mother. He made sure to teach me, his "mixed-race" children and anyone else he could about the difficulties and prejudices inherent in living with brown skin in the United States, and the insidious pressures of mainstream society on whites to accept and enforce our privileges. It was not an easy childhood, in many ways, and these were not easy lessons (my stepfather was never an easy man). But I am grateful for having had my eyes opened, at least somewhat, in a way most caucasians never have. It has not made me me comfortable about or an expert on race, but until we are all equal, who can be comfortable, and how much can anyone know?

So, it was with this perspective that I watched the premiere of Black. White. I can't remember where I first saw a commercial for this new show, but I do remember feeling both intrigued and nervous. The concept of a reality show wherein a white family is made up to look black and a black family is made up to look white is chock full of potential socio-political potholes. It could be easily be played cheaply for shock value and laughs, but it might just be fascinating.

I was just waiting for it to become cheesy or offensive. But it didn't. In fact, in it's premiere episode, Black. White. got just about everything right. They didn't choose stereotypical families to participate, but real, thoughtful people. They made them up convincingly enough that outsiders they interacted with seemed genuinely fooled (although I'm not sure how - they definitely look "off" somehow on camera, perhaps akin to burn victims who need to cover their wounds with prostheses and cosmetics). And most of all, they put them in situations where they could really learn, from discussion groups on race to country clubs, slam poetry classes to the kicker, living together in the same house. The cameras didn't shy away from uncomfortable moments, such as the black father, while in his white undercover role, being told by a white stranger that his neighbourhood was one of the last all-white middle-class bastions in L.A., and thus a safe place to raise his kids. But while the producers made the show thought-provoking, they didn't resort to too many cheap stunts like competitions or incendiary exercises or messages. So far, things has been kept as relatively "real" as they can in a show based on disguise.

Personally, my most pervasive emotion while watching this episode was a slightly nauseated embarrassment on behalf of all caucasians. While both families cast were clearly carefully picked as people who are fairly liberal and eager to participate, warts began to be exposed early on. Carmen, the white mother, displays an overly earnest idealization of black people that comes out most creepily in a seeming sexual fetishization of her husband when she first sees him in blackface. Meanwhile, Bruno, the white father, pig-headedly insists that black people too often assume racism where it doesn't exist and can't wait to be called racial epithets so he can "diffuse" them by not caring. (Even as a person who was deeply affected by what is ridiculously called called "reverse racism" as a child, I see that claiming black folks are too suspicious bespeaks a serious case of willful blindness.) Fortunately, Rose, the white daughter, seems to have a better head on her shoulders in terms of genuinely wanting to learn from the experience and respect all who are involved.

I am curious to see, however, if the black family finds their preconceptions changed whatsoever from the exercise. They know many white people are prejudiced, and what it is to have to "act white" to get along in life. This puts the parents, Brian and Renee, in the all-too-common role of educators and defenders of their own perspective that blacks often find themselves forced into in the presence of "progressive" whites. It's not lynching-variety racism, but it is is another burden, one that most minorities carry when faced with the juggernaut of the "average" American culture (read: privileged, male, heterosexual, Christian, caucasian). Meanwhile, the teenaged son, Nick, claims that, amongst his generation, racism is dead, which may point to evolving youth culture but, sadly, naiveté, as well. As a gay person, I am thrilled that more queer youths feel they can come out in high school, but that doesn't make me believe they won't face discrimination along the line. Unfortunately, I'd wager that his is the viewpoint most likely to be changed with experience.

So far, the jury is still out, but based on the premiere, Black. White. shows promise. Looking over the show site and myspace profile, I found that the producers, R.J. Culter (whose 30 Days with Morgan Spurlock is a logical precursor), Ice Cube and Matt Alvarez, put serious thought into how to create a show that was both meaningful and watchable. Something more than a reality show, but less than the documentary the creators want to be, it raises more questions than it answers, but still may not ask enough. I'll continue to watch, and judging from the reactions on their sites and some reviews, a wider audience will, too.

It's Going To Be A Bumpy Night

It's more than a wee bit disturbing when one arrives home to furniture knocked over, several areas strewn with large clumps of ripped-out fur and nary a one out of four cats in sight.

Update: Loaner kitty has been found with a bloody patch on his leg. That's it - everyone back to your corners. We'll open the doors when you deserve it.

No One Dies In This Post

At least I hope not, despite the NY Times noting it's now trendy to kill major characters off. That's in television shows, not blogging. Besides, I'm not sure I count as a major character, and this post is just another lesbian rant about The L Word.

That said - oy. The show has been stinking up the joint for some time now, and it seems they're interested in alienating as much of their audience as possible. Not that I disagree with killing off a major, well-liked character, in general, nor do I think it was terribly played in this show. Frankly, I think the final scene as Alice realized Dana's death was one of the best, most moving and real of the entire series (yes, even despite the previous episode's mortifying lightbulb-head baldy wig). But that's just the problem. The show has been so bad-it's-laughable-then-past-funny-to-grating, so melodramatic, so bizarre in it's structure this season, yet now they want to get serious? By killing off one of the more endearing characters and emotionally destroying the other for a second time?

Mrs. Nator and I have come to imagine Chaiken and her troupe as obtusely self-congratulatory. They must think they are being so clever with their quick-change characterizations and soap-opera "plot"lines punctuated by random after-school special/PSA-style soliloquies. But they're not. Most of the time, the show is just plain stupid. And the only reasons we watch are 1.) lesbian sex, even if it is often between frightening people or, even worse, not lesbian at all and 2.) as it's really the only queer chick drama out there we so want it to be worth watching. We're desperate, and, what's more, afraid to look away for fear of missing out on some important part of the dykely zeitgeist. I could stop watching Queer as Folk (the awful US version, not the fab UK one, of course) when it became truly unendurable because eventually I felt I wasn't obligated or motivated to participate in parsing it, somehow. With The L Word, I feel as though I'm supposed to have some investment in it, because it's all we lesbos have in the major media. I know that it's a dumb show about people I'd most likely never interact with (i.e., rich, skinny, self-centered L.A. residents), but I want it to be better, to be more. It might be different if we had at least a couple other dyke shows out there, and I know it can't be all things to all people, but we don't and... well, I'm not even sure the creators have any idea that who might be watching, at all.

Alas, in killing off Dana it seems they've gone both forward and back. They have an opportunity to use this to advance some real emotion and drama, but considering the variety-hour see-saw of narrative styles they've got going within even single episodes, it's unlikely. Instead, everybody the audience even vaguely likes is put through interminable crap or completely re-imagineered beyond recognition, and who wants to stick through that?

Meanwhile, in other storylines, as I think I've mentioned before, it's come to the point where I can't remember the difference between what's happened with Bette and Tina versus the farkuckt lesbians who used to be on QAF. I find myself literally asking Mrs. Nator things like "what happened to the ugly painter? Didn't Tina sleep with him?" "No, honey," she has to explain, "that was the stupid privileged LA lesbian who just had a baby and now wants to sleep with men on the other show. This stupid privileged LA lesbian who just had a baby and now wants to sleep with men is seeing the ugly non-painter."

Oh.

Once again, I'm sure I'll continue to watch, mainly because Mrs. Nator makes me. And, for some strange reason, I do seem to feel glimmers of hope now and then, in a funny line or particularly well-acted scene. I just keep wanting, beyond reason, to like the program, and feeling disappointed or even purposefully goaded. I suppose I should just keep a sense of humour about it, like they've done over at Fake Gay News. But I'm just too aggravated. Sigh.

At least Leisha Hailey's cute.

Of Mice and (Scary-Ass) Men

Most New Yorkers are revolted at the sight of large rodents.

I've been in a nasty mood lately. The combination of hating my job, endless health problems, working out but gaining weight, steroid shots and never getting enough time to do the things I want to do have been bringing me down and making me angry. I knew it was a danger sign when, after watching the well-done but extremely disturbing prisoner rape episode of Battlestar Galactica, I found myself unable to sleep and downloading Iron Maiden songs. The evil, oppressive, imperialist, abusive white men are coming to get us all! Run To The Hills, indeed. (Also, evidently I have regressed to the age of 13. I mean... Iron Maiden?)

I was in a foul fettle during my incredibly-delayed-as-usual commute this morning, reading about the continuing malevolence of the Bush administration in The New Yorker and listening to heavy metal (it really is the music of Satan!). I nearly yelled at the Screaming Preacher Lady who regularly touts Jesus as a remedy for hellfire in a West Indian accent at Atlantic Avenue, but we all know that rarely comes to any satisfactory end, so I just fumed. Finally arriving at my stop after multiple delays, I geared up into the disgruntled worker race-walk of Monday mornings towards my office. And that's when she appeared.



Incongruously, before Alice Tully Hall stood an animal mascot-costumed version of Maisy the mouse, super cute star of toddlers' books and television cartoons. Maisy looked happy but a little confused, teamed up with a giant rabbit I did not recognize and a woman in a suit, who seemed to be prepping them for whatever event that had not yet started. I can't explain why my heart lifted as I saw this group - it was just a couple of underpaid day labourers in fuzzy suits, no doubt - but they were damn cute, and just so random and silly. As I passed by, Maisy's gaze seem to follow me as she reached up and suddenly squeezed her nose at me as if it were a bulb horn. Why? I don't know, but a giggle bubbled up and I grinned. Maybe Maisy saw my sour puss and knew I needed a smile. Maybe a frustrated actor was adjusting his sagging headpiece. Whatever reason, it's the little things that get us through, sometimes. So thanks, Maisy, for the lift.

Word Up, Bro

OK, Blogger's server shit the bed today, and I've been busy between a major project at work and working on a new fiction piece, so here's all I got for you. Check out the elegantly profane new cartoon site Married to the Sea, a collaboration by the makers of Natalie Dee and Toothpaste for Dinner. You won't be sorry.

Viva La Revolucion

I hate Time Warner of NY. Our internet service is completely down and our TV service has digital hiccoughs yet again. Hate. After 4 service visits and a personal trip to their Brooklyn warehouse for a new modem. Hatey-McHate-Hate. And naturally, they had no appointments available for this Saturday, so now I have to take time off of work (not) or wait until the freakin' 18th to get yet another idiot in my house who does not know what he is doing.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaate.

And guess what? They keep saying they're going to give us a discount on our bill to make up for all this, but then they don't. Instead, they send us threatening overdue notices because we pay them the amount they said would be due after the discount.

Muuuuuurrr-deeeeerrrrr.

I would switch us to broadband, but guess what? It's not available at my address. So, TW can continue dicking us over as long as they like, unless we go back to the old-fashioned modem - which, no.

So, I have a new plan. The next cable guy who comes to my place is getting jumped, bound and held hostage until I get some real goddamn service guarantees.

Who's with me?

I Will Never Get Anything Done Again

Now that I have found Cuteness Overload and The Daily Kitten exist. It's a good thing I am genetically predisposed to be bitter and cynical, or I might turn into a giant sugar lump.

Human Apes and Chicken Teeth

It's not every day you see a news headline like "Human quadrupeds discovered in Turkey." It turns out that five siblings out of nineteen in one family (nineteen!) in Turkey walk on all fours. If that's not odd enough, the discovery of these people has led to a debate in the scientific community over whether the behaviour is a product of "backwards evolution" or "a combination of unusual factors - genetic, physiological, psychological and social." It seems they also have an unusual form of mental and physical retardation and have been raised in an isolated and poor setting, which means it's hard to tell how much of what they do is purely instinctual vs. not ever being thoroughly taught how not to do it. What's more, some scientists are excited, because observing them might help resolve the debate whether early human ancestors walked using their knuckles, like modern apes, or their wrists, like these siblings do.

Now, I'm no scientist, but although I find the concept of reverse evolution interesting and a little unsettling (who knew researchers were going around making chicken with teeth?), I can't see how this one familial group can definitively prove anything, even if they do all have a defect in one particular genome. I mean, it might lead to something, but is it definitive proof of either unmanipulated reverse evolution or how bipedal walking evolved, especially when you consider all the other contributing factors in their case?

Most of all, I really that out of all of the people that are studying this family, making a documentary and debating them, somebody is helping to improve their living conditions. I mean, the discovery of their behaviour might be freaky, but that doesn't mean they should be treated like modern-day freaks. Even if we may be going through some reversals, it is theorized that we're still evolving. Let's hope we're at least that evolved.

Goodbye, Superwoman

Cripes, those poor Reeve kids.

Everybody's Stupid

Normally I hold the BBC news in higher regard than most USA news, but I heard the most asinine debate on their radio broadcast this morning. The commentator briefly interviewed a journalist from a Paris newspaper, and they began to get into a back-and-forth over whether Zacarias Moussaoui was "radicalized" in France or Britain. The BBC commentator kept pointing out that Moussaoui was raised in France, where Muslims get the short end of the stick and - hey, weren't there a whole bunch of riots about that there, recently? The Parisian, meanwhile, insisted that while Moussaoui may have experienced discrimination in France, he didn't become radical until he started attending the infamous Finsbury Park mosque in London.

So, let's get this straight: either the "20th highjacker" decided to become a terrorist because the Frenchies were mean to him, or because he moved to that unchecked hotbed of political foment, England. Vive le France, God save the queen, you suck, no, you suck. Blah de bling blee.

How about this? Girls, you're both pretty. It's possible that experiences he had in both countries alienated him and influenced his life-path. Gahd.

Oh, and thank you for reminding me that the US isn't the only place filled with nationalist, agenda-touting imbeciles. I thought we'd cornered the market, but I feel a wee bit better now.

The 78th Annual Academy Awards

ZZzzz... can't speak... in an... Oscar-induced... coma...

Friday Cat Blog

Completely juvenile version - and one reason I want a Roomba.

Of Thylacines and Theosophy

[Note: This is the long one I warned you about. Any comments on subject matter or the piece itself are appreciated.]

Don't tell anybody, but I think I might believe in intelligent design. No, not the creationist folderol that the school boards down in KY and PA tried to add to their curricula – evangelism gives me agita. But I kinda think there might be more to this old universe than biomechanics can account for, even if there's not some big, bearded dude sitting on a throne somewhere all whittling wallabies out of the clay of life and smite, smite, smite.

Some might attribute this spiritual bent of mine to being born a soul miner's daughter. But although my father is a minister, he's an extremely liberal Congregationalist who believes in evolution and rarely made us go to church (mainly because he was usually getting kicked out by church boards for being too much of a liberal activist). And, yes, my mother, also, has a faith-y bent. She was recently ordained as an interfaith minister. However, as far as I can tell, that’s about 10 steps more fringe than being a Unitarian Universalist, and she doesn't even preach, except about how honouring your inner child and wheat germ are good for you. So, although the seeds for some kind of belief system are there, I've mostly come up a godless heathen with a distinct distrust of organized religion (and many other types of authority). I always figured nobody knows some one real truth about life, death and the universe that governs everything, and they're pretty egotistical if they think they do. That egotism, translated into a strong belief in a particular dogma seems to be what divides people and starts wars much of the time. So, what good is subscribing to a particular spiritual outlook, anyway? Besides, we'll all find out when we die, right? So what's the hurry? Why go off all half-cocked?

Well, it turns out that later in life this has become a struggle for me, because I like to see myself as mainly rational, but it's hard to go through some of the deep shit I have without some kind of faith in a greater meaning or purpose. On top of that, a few years ago I started having some very convincing spiritual experiences. This is not the post where I go off on all that - it's still marinating. But suffice it to say I had a long series of psychic and spiritual experiences that not only made me feel as though there was some greater connection or purpose in life, but involved inexplicable, verified proof. (Here's a hint: I got into animal communication, I was scary good at it, I could see what people's houses looked like from thousands of miles away with no information given to me, I even went "professional" for a while.) Then, several months ago, I descended into a depression after suffering a series of health setbacks and surgery and I began to question all my faith and experiences. I went from "who knows?" to "I do!" to "life is pointless suffering" at about warp speed, and it hasn't been pretty.

All of this has been roiling, stewing for the past several months as I continue to work out my health issues, what the hell I want to do with my life, how to get myself out of a soul-crushing job and into doing something I enjoy, if I even think that's possible and I whether I even deserve it. Wah, wah, wah. So, it caught my attention when I came across this little article while blog-surfing the other day.

It seems the author, one Carl Buell, is an illustrator who uses fossils, remains and physiology to create pictures of long-extinct animals. Now this is just the sort of thing that appeals to my rationalist side and I set down to slopping up with my geekarella spoon, so bear with me. He posits, more elegantly and at greater length than I will here, that evolution is basically all there is in terms of a "design" of life, because the limitations on body construction are so clear that they indicate a lack of imagination that one would expect from an intelligent creator. He mentions how closely the structure of a flipper, wing and hand resemble one another, and says that this is because nature is blind, philosophically speaking, and really only has so much to work with. One illustration he includes - and it's a nice one - compares the marsupial thylacine to the placental carnivore the dingo (although just about any canid would do). If you look at how the thylacine developed, he indicates, from a line of marsupials removed from placental creatures, and compare it to the development of the dingo, what you get is two extremely similar beasts that essentially fall into the category of "doggish", just because that's the best construct nature can come up with for surviving as mid-sized carnivores in their environments. He concludes:

All too often I hear narrators on the National Geographic, Discovery or Animal Channel refer to one creature or another as perfectly adapted to their environment. Perhaps since a species can last a long time and fit well into an ecosystem, that statement seems close to true, but individuals are evolutionary fodder. Each animal lives on the edge of the precipice, one misstep away from disease, injury and death. All that matters is that enough members of a population reach breeding age and parent the next generation.

It can be depressing if you dwell on it, and indeed, there's always a touch of melancholy present as I marvel at the natural world. But if anything, their imperfection makes the individual creatures I portray that much more beautiful and all that more endearing to me because I know the absolute indifference they face in their world; a world without the medical and technological insulation we surround ourselves with.

Why, yes, fascinating thought, my friend. But you did depress me with that, and I do tend to dwell, so let's examine it.

I strongly believe in evolution and have no problem accepting his theory - that two distinct animal families evolved into very similar bodies based on what they needed for survival. But yet... can you really definitively say that that adaptive, convergent evolution indicates a complete lack of creativity and imagination? I mean, think about it - didn't the very rules of life development and physical limitations have to be set somewhere, sometime, to begin with? Any good artist knows there is a place for rules and restrictions. Just because I say "I'm only going to allow myself to work with watercolours today" or "I'm going to use a fundamental system of punctuation and grammar so my writing can be better understood and more effective" doesn't mean you haven't put some thought and imagination into it. In fact, the very construction of certain rules and limits – which do not need to come down from on high, but rather develop through experimentation and mutual agreement amongst a number of creators (artists or writers, in this case) is evolutionary itself, and allows for even more creativity when those rules are used, restructured or broken. All in all, it strikes me as patently odd that a guy who spends his time creating illustrations that are, ultimately, somewhat speculative and require not just interpolation of facts but, yes, imagination, wouldn't think that fit into the rest of the world. It only seems to prove a lack in his imagination, if you will.

Of course, science is not supposed to be about imagination. Science is supposed to be about experimentation, and proof! Fair enough, but you've got to have the imagination to theorize and question before you figure out how to experiment. Heck, you have to have imagination to fully grok the idea of a quark, or evolution itself, lacking actual film at eleven of either. And while I do think that the principles of science and reproducable experimental results are what should be focused on in schools, I don't think it should be at the exclusion of say, philosophy or comparative religion. Do we have to throw the baby out with the bathwater? Is there some room for spiritual faith even when there's no double-blind study to prove it? I dislike mouth-frothing fundies as much as the next intelligent, liberal, feminist queer, but does that mean I have to frown on anybody who believes that we're something other than links in the food chain?

Unfortunately, in a socio-political climate where most of the discussion is heavily weighted with references to aggressive religious extremism – whether jihadism, evangelism or some other variation - it seems that, perhaps unsurprisingly, the liberal faction has taken on a strong reactionary, rationalist/scientific bent. This means that even though much of the general public seem to be willing to question traditionalist church doctrine (witness the healthy sales of The DaVinci Code, which is loosely based on modern interpretation of recently discovered Gnostic texts), among the political intelligentsia you can either have faith, which is comforting but stupid, or only science, which is smart but leaves one lacking the higher purpose in life that we as humans seem to inherently crave. So, here I was, finding myself on the horns of this particular dilemma: I want to be smart, and I want to feel like I have some individual purpose beyond reproducing my (rather ridiculous) species. Is there any safe space for both?

Here's where a strange association formed. Buell really got me in talking about thylacines. They were (or, some think, are) fascinating creatures - large, marsupial carnivores with jaws that could open like bear traps and fetching stripes on their rumps. Also known as Tasmanian tigers, they were hunted to extinction sometime in the nineteen-thirties.* He even gets bonus points for including a link to the Thylacine Museum at naturalworlds.org, a fascinating spot on the Web that contains real, if low-quality, clips of movies of what are thought to be the last surviving Tasmanian tigers. The fact that they got wiped out by humans so quickly definitely depresses me. It not only exemplifies mankind's blatant disrespect of other creatures and the environment (a sickening trait that is a frequent spur to my doubting any sort of higher meaning or divine justice), but the lack of adaptability and closeness to death of all beings Buell references in his piece. But what else here was bothering me? For some reason, some word kept coming up on the tip of my tongue to match with "thylacines," and I didn't even know what it meant.

Theosophy. What is it? Damned if I knew. I'd encountered the word, but I don't think I ever read up exactly what it meant. It was just one of those antiquated terms that came up in my habitual noodlings through 18th and 19th-century lit, history and trivia. Probably something akin to phrenology or spirit photography** I figured, some pseudo-science that went in and out of fashion and was later disproven or exposed as a predatory cult. But it kept nagging at me. So, I decided to look it up.

Here is an excerpt from theosophical.org:

The three basic ideas of Theosophy are (1) the fundamental unity of all existence, so that all pairs of opposites—matter and spirit, the human and the divine, I and thou—are transitory and relative distinctions of an underlying absolute Oneness, (2) the regularity of universal law, cyclically producing universes out of the absolute ground of being, and (3) the progress of consciousness developing through the cycles of life to an ever-increasing realization of Unity.

Huh.

Further:

These abstract ideas have some very specific and practical implications, for example the following:

• The world we live in is basically a good place, to be used wisely, to be treasured, and to be honored: rejoice in life.
• We develop as human beings, not by forsaking the world, but by cooperating with nature to preserve and perfect it: respect the environment and be ecologically responsible.
• You and I are different expressions of the same life, so whatever happens to either of us happens to both of us—our well-being is linked: help your neighbor, and thereby help yourself.
• Disharmony and evil are the result of ignorance and selfishness: live in harmony and goodness so as to teach others by your life as well as by your words.

Sounds lovely, but potentially kinda cult-y. And what does that have to do with science?

The motto of the Theosophical Society is “There is no religion higher than Truth.” That is a statement to which a scientist can subscribe equally well. Theosophists and scientists are indeed both engaged in a search for Truth. However, scientists seek for truth at the outward physical level, whereas Theosophists are concerned with Truth at an inner and more spiritual level, as taught by the great mystics and sages throughout the ages. That deeper Truth is sometimes called the “Ancient Wisdom” or the “perennial philosophy.”

The scientific and mystical methods of search also differ, being complementary rather than contradictory. Science does not need mysticism and mysticism does not need science, but we human beings need both. Yet many scientists, perhaps even the majority, do not see a need for any deeper Truth than those which objective scientific procedures discover. Others would like to have some involvement with religion but are discouraged by fundamentalist religious teachings that are inconsistent with well-established scientific knowledge. Nevertheless, many great scientists—for example Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Erwin Schrödinger, and David Bohm—have seen the need for the deeper spiritual understanding taught by the great religious teachers and mystics of all ages.

About this time I was feeling floored that this seemingly random word I’d come up with had led to a philosophy addressing the exact issues I’d been pondering as I read Buell’s piece. Still, it wasn’t quite clear if theosophy was merely a byword for a particular spiritual set of beliefs with its own subtle, discriminatory dogmatism or if there was something actually more inclusive and, yes, scientific there. I read on:

Among the features shared by science and mysticism is that both experimental results and mystical experiences must not be unique, but available to everyone under the right conditions. Just as a good scientific theory has to be tested and confirmed by several scientists working independently, so a convincing mystical experience has to be shared by a number of mystics in different cultural traditions and expressed in metaphors that may be different from one another, but are equivalent in what they represent. And like science, mysticism is progressive, being supplemented and revised by succeeding generations of investigators into the inner world of experience.

[snip]

The Theosophical Society promotes freedom of thought and encourages its members to use their own judgment and discrimination on all matters—whether scientific, philosophical, or religious. Many scientists have found inspiration and insight in Theosophical ideas, and members of the Society have always included scientists, some quite prominent in their fields. Since the Society’s founding in 1875, many Theosophists have expressed their views about scientific matters. Some of those views have stood the test of time and even proved to be prescient of current scientific knowledge. Other views uncorroborated by subsequent discoveries have been superseded by present-day knowledge.

And finally, from another page on the site:

The Theosophical Society is nondogmatic, and Theosophists are encouraged to accept nothing on faith or on the word of another, but to adopt only those ideas that satisfy their own sense of what is real and important.

Wow. So, let's leave aside the fact that there's a society founded by some folks in 1875 that discusses these things, and that some people might view this group as unscientific and a bit of a cult in itself. Here we have some theoretical concepts that allow for both a belief in science and something beyond - a safe space for those undecided or open-minded about the role of soul, as it were. It's not about telling anyone what specific god or practice to believe in, but at the same time it's not about accepting that what we can prove today with our current scientific methods defines and contains the entirety of life and beyond. It doesn't have to be either/or, black or white. We can accept that "hard" science demonstrates a lot of things quite well, but that, at the same time, humankind's experiences with spiritual, parapsychological or other unexplained phenomena can be completely valid and, perhaps, fully understood as we integrate them with scientific studies.

And the kicker is, this word, theosophy, just came to me after reading the word thylacine in an essay that pooh-poohed a world beyond science. Coincidence? Subconcious association based on a penchant for alliteration compounded with things I must have heard in the past and forgot? Or... just another unexplained little miracle, leading one human being from depression in the face of perceived pointless existence to hope for a higher purpose? Perhaps, if you will, a message from the divine?

Maybe what we feel is not quantifiable, and faith cannot be proven or disproven by its very nature. But in trying to stick to "the facts" and avoid impositional dogmatism, we may be closing our minds to learning more about a universe that, in reality, we really know very little about. After all, the scope of basic physical evolution may provide us with some explanation of our forms and actions, and even much wonder, but do we not learn from dreams, as well?

--------------

*Some folks do think there might still be a few thylacines out there, and I highly recommend Carnivorous Nights: On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger for an exploration of the kind of thoughtful conservationists who hope so and a general romp through Tasmania.

** Incidentally, if you're interested in this type of spiritualism, or just the scientific exploration of the afterlife in general, Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife, Mary Roach's follow-up to Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers is a fascinating and quite witty read.

I Quit

Seriously, why bother ever blogging again when I am so obviously outdone?

Behold The Face of Evil

"Snapple Pie" Limited Edition Beverage

Pro:
Tastes like delicious, yummy pie, yet even sweeter!
Con:
Has about the same amount of calories as an actual pie; may cause your tongue to explode.

Pro:
You can have all the goodness of Starbuck's hot caramel apple cider out-of-season.
Con:
According to the Snapple site, this "limited edition" came out in 2003, which, unless there's been a change, would make present bottles very out-of-season.

Pro:
Would probably go great with some spiced rum.
Con:
So would a two-dollar whore, and she wouldn't make me fat.

Pro:
Highly addictive.
Con:
Highly addictive and stocked in my office cafeteria! NOOOooooo...!!!

Make Them Earn Their Keep

We've now got four cats and two turtles in the house. One of the cats is merely on loan, as we're caring for him as his human works out some housing woes, but he counts in this scenario. See, although I feel privileged to care for these fine creatures and receive their trust and affection in return (well, at least in the case of the cats - the turtles are cute but skeptical of our motives), I've always thought it would be nice to get something more... tangibly rewarding out of the deal, just to make up for all the kibble, litter, electricity and various filter parts they consume. Is that so wrong?

Nobody's up for acting or modeling, so that's right out. Maya, our queen bitch cat, did have her own advice column for a while, but that was non-profit and is on hiatus. I've come up with a few ideas here or there, but making them wear Swiffer skirts seems too labour-intensive and possibly death-defying to bother (not to mention they don't ever cover the same range as a Roomba - we'd have narrow dust-free tracks between the beds, litter trays and food bowls), and a lot of people seemed grossed out by my proposal for cat-fur clothing (which - don't most of us cat caretakers end up in veritable sweaters of it, anyway?). Besides, 1.) where do you buy a spinning wheel nowadays? And 2.) I got beat to the punch.

Well, I think I might have the answer. It turns out that San Francisco, that shining hippie haven, is actually planning an experiment to harvest local pet poo in order to generate electricity. It's actually not a bad idea: many farms use methane digesters to process manure into energy and compost, and think how much unrefined shit gets dropped on city streets or into landfills via pooper-scooper laws and cat litter cleaning each day. If they can find a cost-effective, environmentally friendly way to use this natural resource to help power the grid, I'm all for it. But, most importantly, and I think what all of us are wondering here, is, what's in it for Da Nator?

Well, I'll tell you. If someone can just devise a methane digester the size of, say, your average ottoman, I could transform our daily scooping chores into pure power. Maybe not an amount sufficient to sell back to ConEd, or anything, but I bet I could get at least enough juice out of these animals to recharge our iPods once in awhile. I even have a name for the product: Felectricity™. Now, if only I knew something about basic science, construction and patents, I'd be all set.

And they say Edison was a genius.

Cock Pop

No, it's not some naughty lolly you'd find in Spencer Gifts or some mangled Engrish Japanese sports drink. I'm talking about music - the kind by male-led bands that are on the border of Cock Rock and Pop. You see, I finally configured our damn computer to run two separate instances of iTunes - and trust me, getting this to work is a real bitch. M & I had been sharing one library of all our music, and one more surprise Ani DiFranco marathon on my iPod and I was going to hunt down and garotte all spoken-word performers within a 10-mile radius... which, come to think of it, should be on my to-do list, anyway.

At any rate, now we can store 50 squillion hours of music and video on the ol' hard drive but have our own separate libraries. This means that, while we can sample each other's music, we can both concentrate on what we each like. Although we share some tastes, there are always selections that make the other's eyes roll. For example, I enjoy Barbra and Judy, but only in limited doses when the mood strikes me, whereas my nearly non-discriminatory hoarding of 70s and 80s pop based on the good, so-bad-it's-good or hey-I-remember-that-vaguely standard drive her crazy ("Oh, good - Amy Ray is emoting to another 15-minute lame-ass guitar solo again," "OK - Run, Joey, Run. Need I say more?").

The cool thing is, since I've got the iPod I've been immersing myself in music more than I had in years. I had dreams of stardom and used to perform in coffeehouses and do sound editing for some really awful bands in college, but was far too self-critical and perfectionist, so I couldn't hack public performance in the long run. I stopped listening to music very much because I wasn't over the pain of having dropped that dream, yet. M has gone through similar issues, having been a music performance major with serious talent who emotionally beat herself into temporary vocal chord issues. But now that we have access to more music, we're both really enjoying it. Plus, as we're newly able to load lots of our own preferences, what we really like to listen to comes to light.

Hence, my new phase. I'd been listening to a lot of folk-rock and 80s pop for a while, and I have Kanye on there just like everybody else, but now I'm starting to get interested in some more current pop/rock bands. Some stuff is "alterna" (whatever that means nowadays), but I'm learning that, at least recently, I have a predilection for male rock/pop. It shouldn't be surprising, having spent my childhood listening to my brother's Cars albums and my sister's Squeeze tapes, then my teenage years immersed in groups ranging from New Romantic to Hair Rock like Duran Duran, The Cure, The Smiths and Def Leppard (with house, metal, goth, punk and proto hip-hop on the side) that I'd have this weakness. It only follows that I'd eventually end up downloading bands like Green Day, Vertical Horizon, The All-American Idiots and Third Eye Blind. Because, come on, "Stacey's Mom" is basically a remake of "Just What I Needed", if you get right down to it. I've even been sampling the heavily popular Fall Out Boy, but mostly on the basis that my friend worked on their video. The small problem is - I'm somewhat embarrassed. After all, isn't this that big, bad commercial radio I'm supposed to be too smart for? No, it's not Aaron Carter (or whoever the kids are listening to nowadays), but it is rather frat-boy middle-America. Of course, today's frat boy is probably listening to more rap than pop/rock, but I'm sure it still exists out there, mainly as what we used to call "college music" or "alternative" stations for teens and twenty-somethings who don't want to be "too black."

I suppose it doesn't matter - what we like is what we like. A difficult part of being semi-intellectual is feeling it's plebian to like anything that isn't deeply meaningful or, at the opposite side of the spectrum, so laughable as to be trash camp. So sue me, I like Cock Pop. I love The Darkness and their Queen-derivative ways and I think Maroon 5 is kinda catchy. And I'm not totally down with my girlfriend when, after playing John Mayer's first record to death when we first discovered it (being from Georgia, he was a local find she'd seen at Eddie's Attic for her), it was decided he had sold out and become overplayed by the time his second rolled around. I mean, there's part of me that thinks that way, but hey, he still sounds similar and you know what? Good for him for making a buck. Really.

So, do I have to turn in my queer card for being too Middle America? Well, I doubt they'd ever let me live in Williamsburg, anyway. We all have our guilty pleasures, and it's time I came out about it. Besides, Foo Fighters? Totally awesome when you're working out, dude.

[Note: this isn’t the long, semi-meaningful post I’ve been alluding to recently. That should be up soon.]

God Bless The U.S.A.

The Anna Nicole Smith case is being heard in the Supreme Court. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case.

I Wish I Knew How To Quit This

Lego Brokeback Mountain. Definitely more awesome than Sanrio characters.

The Meaning of Life

Just a warning that I'm working on a rather lengthy and semi-serious entry coming up. I hope y'all will take time to read it and comment. Meanwhile, you'll have to make due with this.

Poor Wee Beastie

OK, not so wee, but it is kind of sad - especially since I can empathize with this guy so much. The weird thing is, this cat, markings and all, looks almost exactly like my ex-roommate's cat. Ex-roomie Cat started out a little feller, but sometime after getting fixed he grew and GREW. Not quite that big, but he is pretty huge, himself. And he really doesn't eat that much - he's been on a restricted diet for years!

I wonder if there's some kind of genetic connection between the cats' general looks and their weight disorders? I also wonder if there's some hormonal disorder related to my other health issues that has caused my weight problems, although I'm still working on that one. But most of all, I wonder if I'm a terrible person for laughing at this kitty. Because: Squishy-Fatty-Angry-Kitty-Boo-Boo!!!

Mangina!

I don't know what it is, but what with the popularization of "man with a pussy" porn star Buck Angel (warning: his blog is NSFW - if less so than his other sites) and the transitoning, pan-sexual character Moira on The L Word, I just can't stop saying the word "mangina." I am seriously analysing my reactions to this phenomenon and how it reflects my perceptions of gender and the impact of traditionalist morés vs. queer liberation, but in the meantime, I just like using the word as an exclamation or random entry into otherwise unobtrusive sentences. Just try it:

Mangina, mangina, mangina!

Or:
Honey, would you please pass the mangina?

It's fun for the whole family!

We'll Throw in Our Airports at Half Price

Unbelievable. What else can I say about the Bush administration's latest debacle with the ports? As Kos succinctly put it,

We bomb Iraq which had nothing to do with 9/11, yet we hand UAE the keys to our ports.

Plus, more bonus points for the Battlestar Galactica reference. More here.

Update: I've since read an excellent and enlightening piece on this situation by Soj at DailyKos (and most of the attending comments, before I pooped out). It seems to be a volatile subject. Now that I understand the situation better I am less incredulous at the administration's position. I'm willing to admit I was misinformed. I'm still okay with the Dems (and some Repubs) attacking the deal, even if it is not certain that it would cause any security threat, just because it does seem ridiculous on the face of it that Bush advocated attacking Iraq on the pretense of lessening terrorism (which did nothing of the sort, as Iraq was little threat on that front but is now becoming a larger training ground and focal point for just such activity) and yet continually conducts major business deals like this with companies that are essentially puppets of the families that rule Dubai and the UAE. The Bushies' logic is generally so... well, I was going to say twisted, but it's more like...not. logic. So, why not have everybody jump all over it and obfuscate and call them stupid on what is clearly a trigger issue even if they do make a wee bit of sense in this case? It's just a wee bit, mind you. Certainly not enough to outweigh everything else.

Now, another main reason I was agin' the whole deal wasn't specifically related to U.S. security, but human rights. Let's face it, the majority of countries run by oligarchs, especially single families, tend to be breeding grounds for human rights violations and slave labour. In addition, I admit that I have a healthy skepticism about Islam-based governments when it comes to religious tolerance and women's rights. Now I find out that Dubai, in particular, is supposed to have one of the best records on these issues of any place in the middle east. So, does that make working with them okay? And, does it follow that anyone who feels uncomfortable with this deal, including me, is being xenophobic and racist, like the administration is implying in their recent counter-attacks?

Could be. I am willing to be educated. But I'm kind of with Kathy Griffin on this one. I have impulses to be "PC" and respectful of other people's cultural traditions, but I have to draw the line at treating women - not to mention gay people - like second-class citizens. And yes, I am even for banning governmental business deals with any other kind of discriminatory group - like, say, fundamentalist evangelical Christians. So, I'm an equal-opportunity discriminator. I discriminate against the kind of people who discriminate against, well, me. And if it's prejudiced to feel skeptical that a government run by Muslim sheiks would be 100% on the up-and-up on equality for women, gay people, non-Muslims and foreigners on their soil, I'm guilty.

Anyway, it will be interesting to see how this all pans out. I do hope it doesn't devolve into pure xenophobic rhetoric but, if that's what it takes to counter Bush's overarching bullshit, then, I don't know. Let 'er rip.

Confessions of a South Sloper

Good Lord, I haven't been to the North end of 7th Ave in a dog's age and it sure has changed. Not along the lines of the East Village, where I still can't get over the transformation from homeless/pushers' shantytown to playground of the privileged in Tompkins Square Park, but it's way more gentrified than even when I lived there, maybe 8 years ago. And what the hell are they doing to the school down there near 2nd? I've gotta get out more often.

This isn't to say I haven't seen my share of butt-ugly construction in my neck of the woods, even if I rarely venture off of 5th Ave. From my digs in what we tartly call "SoSoSlope" or "Sunset Slope" (although it's really on the border between the South Slope and Greenwood Heights, depending on whether you're an old-timer resident or a real estate developer) on down to Atlantic one set of new condos pops up after another, each looking like the wet dream of a New Jersey mall architect circa 1980-something (expanses of green glass highlighting... the concrete staircases? Why?). Lots of blocky, tall structures with heavy-handed geometric sections in brick, teal and weird pinkish-beiges attempting to look "modernist" but coming up "cheap" or "community college dormitory" are beginning to block out the skyline. And who the hell wants to live there, I might ask? Not that I love pulling square nails dating to the dawn of the industrial age out of my feet every time I cross my apartment or worrying that all those old gas light fixtures might not be fully sealed, but from what I gather, people are paying upwards of $2,000 per month for a one bedroom in these places. I mean, I love my neighborhood, but even if I could afford it? Not ever. No. I don't get it.

I suppose I should never tempt fate, lest my landlords renovate us into the market rate (not bloody likely), and I don't claim to be a born-and-bred denizen who can complain about gentrification too much. But I can complain a little bit. I like old buildings. I like the feel of a brownstone neighborhood. I especially like being able to see the Manhattan skyline from my rear window, even if I'll always remember watching the towers fall from there and regularly inhale emissions from the expressway in my back yard. And I can't afford it if the prices keep climbing. As it is, I just moved to the Slope in the mid-90s, when things were just getting rolling before the big boom, and you saw more queer artist types sprucing up the place before the hipster/stroller-pusher set ran amok. I know that, technically speaking, I was a part of gentrification, or at least on the edge of it. And, naturally, I do benefit from it in having interesting new restaurants to go to now and then, relative safety and so on. But I'm tired of construction cranes and Starbucks, and it seems harder and harder to get away from them nowadays, without moving smack out of the city altogether. Is that the next step?

What's That On Your Head?

No, not a wig, but I'm sure you were all just on tenterhooks waiting to find out how my haircut came out. Well, the verdict is: fabulous. Upon finding very high ratings for Medusa on 7th Ave, I decided to try it out. The place is cute if a bit small and grubby. My stylist was called Kelly and I felt as though I could trust her once 1.) I saw she had quite short hair herself and 2.) it came up in the conversation that we had both been at the Duran Duran concert in Worcester, MA in 1984. Little things mean a lot.

Anyway, she was nice and did exactly what I asked her to do, to the letter. She quickly figured out what my hair could do and texturized it correctly. The price was reasonable - $52, not including tip and a product I bought. Oh, and the woman who washed my hair did a nice, long massage version with a wonderfully coconutty-smelling shampoo and conditioner, so that was a real plus.

Being the loyal tenderhearted soul that I am, I can't help but feel guilty that I "cheated" on my hairdresser of so many years. But sometimes you need to shake things up - and it was kind of nice getting this service from someone who doesn't know all of my business dating back to way back when.

At any rate, mission accomplished. No highlights, yet, but I'm thinking about it. Oh, and if you're looking for a place in Park Slope to get your hair done, check Medusa out. Even my exacting standards were met, and that's no small feat.

Hairy Business

I have been going to the same hairstylist for about 16 years. For some reason, like many other kids, my adolescent mind seized upon my hair as a major route for self-expression starting in junior high. I've had it almost every colour, but since I got to New York it's almost always been fairly short. Anything from a crew cut to a short bob was fair game, but generally it's been quite cropped, most often what they used to call "spiky" but now call "texturized". I guess when I think something fits me I stick with it, even if it means boring my haircutter after years of the same shtick (minus the early experiments with colours and perms).

Well, lately I think Miss Gina has been too bored. She is still a great stylist - she now even owns her own salon. But in the whirl of her business I think my coming in every couple month for "the usual" has led her to sleepwalk through it a bit, and I haven't been thrilled with a cut for a while.

Granted, it could all be a problem of self-perception. The personal difficulties of the last couple years, along with the weight gain, have made me loathe to look in the mirror much of the time. My hair has much reflected this. I've let it grow out into odd feathers or what I call "the Han Solo look" several times, and I listened to people who told me they liked it longer and softer. But, now that I'm starting to emerge from my funk a bit, I've decided I don't like it. So what do I do?

Why, I go to a new salon, of course. Normally, this would be a terrifying proposition for me. As much as the average person grows attached to the one hairdresser who understands what they want, I get twenty times more superglued. My obsession with getting each lock just right is legend - enough so that a friend even filmed me for her documentary on how people's self perceptions are connected to their 'dos (I got left on the editing room floor for not being dramatic enough, but maybe that's because by the tail end of the shooting I'd begun to slip into not caring so much about tonsorial perfection). But now that I'm making some changes in my life and taking some big risks - like quitting my job - I figured I might as well shake things up in other areas. So, I made an appointment at a new salon for tonight.

There's just one thing. I haven't become that devil-may care. I still want a haircut that suits me, something a little puckish, à la the Calvinesque side of my personality, without voyaging into the realm of unemployable. So, I decided to bring some pictures of how I want it to look. The problem? I can't find any.

Look, all I want is a semi-standard dyke/fag short haircut. Short on the sides and back without being a fade, a little textured on top without being architectural, a little rock and roll without being Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Is that too much to ask? But apparently, although I see variations on this haircut frequently in the city, it is never photographed. Perhaps all the little queers I see running around with it are vampires. That would explain them being stuck in a haircut that's really a couple decades old fashion-wise (which is just long enough to make it retro-cool, I suppose), but who am I to say? I want the same thing. Just like I still want those monk-strap Docs I had back then, too. And maybe the fedora.

Anyway, the closest thing I could find was, naturally, a picture of one of the Butchies. Of course. It seems that, however individual I may believe myself to be, I can still be lumped into the old stereotypes. And, truth be told, it's not that far off from the same haircut I've had most of the time since I started going to Gina (minus the experi-perms, and so forth). So, why change stylists at all?

Call it a metaphor. I want to make some changes. But most of all, I want to recognize what I want and have my desires listened to with interest when I express them, even if they're stereotypical.

Knowing me, I'll probably end up back at Gina's, eventually. But at least I'll have tried something new. It isn't exactly skydiving or joining the Peace Corps, but we shake things up in the ways we can. And sometimes risking even very minor disasters can make you feel alive.

Lyric of The Day

Tell Slenderella to leave me alone
I'm not that hot, but my shape is my own
That's why the lady is a tramp

Fact of The Day

I hate shoelaces.

They Could Just Pay Us Not To Enlist

According to a new study, the U.S. military has spent at least $363 million over 10 years kicking 10,000 gay soldiers out of the service. And let's not forget that a large number of Arabic translators were booted, so who knows how much has been lost in the way of lives and equipment due to our soldiers being unable to communicate with locals in the middle east. Oh, and the cost of a Kevlar vest? $700 - $1,200. You do the math.

More great blizzard of '06 photos

from flickr. Might as well enjoy 'em, as the snow should be completely gone in a day or two.

Brokeback Mountain Shopping Lists

I am frazzled today, and when I get frazzled I can't concentrate on writing. So I just rip other people's shit off.

(Yes, that is most of the time, thank you.)

This little list comes from Uffish Thoughts, but she got it from a co-worker, so maybe she's frazzled, too. Enjoy.

Weekly Grocery Lists for Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist, Summer 1962

WEEK ONE
Beans
Bacon
Coffee
Whiskey

WEEK TWO
Beans
Ham
Coffee
Whiskey

WEEK THREE
Beans
Bacon
Coffee
Whiskey
K-Y

WEEK FOUR
Beans
Pancetta
Coffee (espresso grind)
Whiskey
2 tubes K-Y

WEEK FIVE
Fresh fava beans
Jasmine rice
Prosciutto, approx. 8 ounces, thinly sliced
Medallions of veal
Porcini mushrooms
1/2 pint of heavy whipping cream
1 Cub Scout uniform, size 42 long
5-6 bottles good Chardonnay
1 large bottle Astroglide

WEEK SIX
Yukon Gold potatoes
Heavy whipping cream
Asparagus (very thin)
Eggs
Lemons
Gruyere cheese (well aged)
Walnuts
Arugula
Butter
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
6 yards white silk organdy
6 yards pale ivory taffeta
Case of Chardonnay
Large tin Crisco

Winter Wonderland

Somebody needs to buy me a new digital camera, dammit! I wish I were out in the snow today, sleddin' and takin' pictures, but here I am at work... typing this. Folks from out of town keep asking me what it looks like here after the big blizzard. Snowy. Oh all right, Dope on the Slope has some nice photos of what my neighbourhood looks like here.

Since our old digital camera kicked the bucket I only took a few photos on film, and who knows how long it will take for me to get my ass in gear and develop 'em. I think some may be cute, though. We took our queen bitch cat, Maya, out to see the conditions. She's always trying to sneak out of the house, so we thought we'd show her what she's missing. She looks kind of like a polar bear, anyway, so why not? Wrapped her in a leopard-print throw and took her out. At first she was fascinated, and looked adorable snuggled up in the bright green arms of M's puffy coat (made the colour of her eyes pop nicely, too). Then - smack! - a big wad of wind-driven snow flew off the tree above us and straight into her face. Not so fascinated anymore. Never saw her hightail it up the stairs faster. Poor gal.

Other than torturing not-so-defenseless beasts, the day was dull. We both felt crappy and slept a lot. But the scenery was priceless. More snow, please!

I'm of Two Minds

about... well, everything, lately. Actually, it's more like 73 basquillion minds, but I wouldn't want to make you count all those little 0s (and it just doesn't fit any saying, don'tchaknow). Being back at work today after essentially asking to be laid off by the end of March has left me both oddly exhilarated and semi-panicky. I'm actually leaning a little more towards "Woo!" than "Ack!" for now, though, but we'll see how it goes.

Friends have already sent me two job opportunties: writing for a travel book on Costa Rica and freelance proofreading. I don't know much about either or if they are really possibilities, but one probably comes with a free ticket to Costa Rica, so hells yeah, I'm sending in an inquiry. Maybe if I go there professionally next time I won't get bugs in my head, thrown off a horse, blown off by dolphins, bitten by toucans, threatened by a deadly snake or invaded by trots-inducing stomach critters. Or, even if I do? More party stories + money. Hey, you never know.

So, forgive me if my posts coming up are all coloured by this shiznit. Probably less boring than my usual random links, anyway - at least I hope. Just in case, however, I've got some links for yuz that I've been thinkin' about that do illustrate my confusion, reaction-wise. Like, should I be amused or appalled that Dick Cheney has finally proven that all Americans should be allowed to carry guns? Similarly, should I laugh or be outraged that the NSA is trying to indoctrinate children with lame-ass cartoons? I am definitely outraged that the administration is designing and hoping to test new H-bombs, but should I be relieved that if they're going to do it, at least they're trying to make them less vulnerable to capture or accidental explosion?

Well, just to cheer myself (and you) up, here's an animation I definitely like. But wait - should I feel squicked that the song is by a Christian-music singer?
Thanks to Alix for the tips.
Animation by artsyexistence.

My Ass Ate My Thong

I bet you didn't know that, now that I am recovered from my spinal fusion, I am character modeling for computer animations. Oh, yes:



More here.

Andy Serkis, eat your heart out.

The Blizzard of 2006

WHOOOOOOOO! Hell, yeah, muthafukkaaaahhhhs!!!

Helen Damnation

A hearty welcome to my latest link addition, The Ninth Circle of Helen. This chick's eloquent and very, very funny. Reminds me of the days when I used to stay out late drinking with fabulous gay boys. Now help me back to my gurney...

A Whole New World?

Oh my God. I did it. I finally did it. I gave notice. I'm leaving my job.

This is years overdue. I don't have anything else lined up yet, but I had to take a leap of faith.

I think I have the vapors...

More later, perhaps...

Funny or Lame?

So I've got a couple friends who are 1. gay and 2. fans of the Sanrio characters, and I made this little design for t-shirts for them. (I know, I know - copyright infrigement. It's two gift shirts, not selling racks of 'em.)

Let me know what you think. And if you want to use it, please ask.

My Girlfriend Is Psychic

OK, so I thought I was supposed to be the woo-woo one around here. This morning M tells me about this upsetting dream she had where our girl turtle somehow got out of her tank and fell to the ground, injuring her shell. This has never happened to either of the turtles, so I reassured her that it was highly unlikely.

Well, she had to go home early today to wait for the cable guy (who still hasn't shown up, BTW), and when she checked in on the girl turtle, she was fine. Suddenly, M got the inexplicable urge to sweep the office - not something that happens often in our apt. Well, guess what? Our boy turtle had somehow escaped from his tank (he's never done that before) and fallen to the gound! [insert creepy theremin music here]

Fortunately, he is fine, it seems. No cracks in his shell, the cats didn't find him, and he didn't crawl into any dark, hard-to-reach places. He's back in his tank zipping around now. But tell me: how weird is that premonition?

Or did she force him out of his tank with the power of her mind?! [theremin!]

A Shadowy Flight...

...into the dangerous world of a man who... Jesus, I can't believe this exists!



I'm speechless.

Neater Crapola

For ease of use, I've updated my Neat-o Crapola section - aka Links. I've added a few interesting sites and lumped stuff into rough categories. Enjoy.

My recommendation for the day would be The Loom, the science blog by popular science journalist Carl Zimmer. The Loom presents fascinating scientific discoveries while maintaining a journalistic style that is easy to read. So, if you want to learn about dinosaurs' sexual displays, zombie roaches, how changing the kitty litter can alter your personality or just watch a video about leeches, check it out.

Animal News of The Day

Just because I can't resist promoting how we should respect animals as often as possible, here are a couple of tidbits.

Item:Undercover Agent in Fur Snares a Fake Veterinarian Who better to snag an unqualified creep who's performing backdoor surgery on animals than this handsome guy? Cute crime-story treatment in the Times, too.

Item:Rescued Dogs Used to Sniff Out House Mold Cheaper, more effective and way cuter than some guy with plumber's crack, why wouldn't you hire this lovely lady to inspect your house for hazards? And to think she could have been euthanized!

Now go show some critters some love.

As Long As The Climate Ain't Gay

Well, whaddaya know? According to the NY Times:

Despite opposition from some of their colleagues, 86 evangelical Christian leaders have decided to back a major initiative to fight global warming, saying "millions of people could die in this century because of climate change, most of them our poorest global neighbors."

Well, goody! Although...

The statement calls for federal legislation that would require reductions in carbon dioxide emissions through "cost-effective, market-based mechanisms" — a phrase lifted from a Senate resolution last year and one that could appeal to evangelicals, who tend to be pro-business.

Although it's pleasantly surprising to see this large number of evangelicals breaking with their usual ranks and actually doing something Jesus might approve of - that is, trying to save the Earth and help the people and other creatures on it - it's not surprising that they couch it in terms of market-based mechanisms. After all, this group is often "conservative" - not in the old fashioned fiscally practical sense, but by being both socially traditionalist and very capitalism and big business-friendly. It's no secret that many megachurches teach that financial success follows from strong faith (and seemingly, therefore, vice versa). Now, I'm not against using market incentives to promote cleaning up the environment, but then the evangelicals have to go ahead and do something like this:

In their statement, the evangelicals praised companies like BP, Shell, General Electric, Cinergy, Duke Energy and DuPont that it said "have moved ahead of the pace of government action through innovative measures" to reduce emissions

Oh, yeah. I hear that has Jeff Immelt been chaining himself to rainforest trees, lately. (And by the way, I'm so glad to hear coal is sexy again.)

Granted, these companies have have shown some spunk of late with new emissions-reducing programs. But let's not start pretending that a few small concessions and some new marketing campaigns - aptly nicknamed "greenwashing" - negate the continuing damage companies like Shell and "BP inflict on all life on Earth.

The truth is that while market pressure might help motivate big companies to reduce emissions (or at least put out better PR), it's not going to do the whole trick. The demand is just too slow, especially in the US, where people want to pay as little as possible for everything (and with the growing number of extremely poor, have little choice), and megacompanies want to make us much money they can as quickly as they can. Maybe I should be happy that a bunch of traditionally conservative religious "leaders" are finally noticing the environment - any help is good help. And perhaps you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so praising the few things oil companies do right couldn't hurt. But in a political environment where we couldn't get the Climate Stewardship Act passed (even with the addition of a nuke program the second time around), much less Kyoto ratified, forgive me if I don't do much besides raise an eyebrow at this news.

There is some hope here, at least for the tide turning to some kind of cap-and-trade system, if not some more aggressive program. So here's one clap for the 86 environmentalist evangelists. I'll hold applause until I see you caring for the world in more actually Christ-like ways.

Even Newer Guinea, Pt. II

Hello. I am a golden-mantled tree kangaroo. No, not the big guy, the littler one he's holding. See? That's me again on the right.

I'm letting him hold me 'cause I don't have much experience with humans. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen one before. This one seems pretty nice.

He also got to meet my rare friend the long-beaked echidna, too. Say hi, Echie.
Hi.
Heck, the only thing this guy has missed is a sighting of the never before photographed Pip-Squack bird.

This Da Nator person says she'd love to come see us, too. That would be okay with me, but she says that if I get too many human visitors tromping through my habitat I might get near extinctamated like my kind have been in other areas. I wouldn't like that.

Anyway, you can find out more about my home and the other animals in it here. You can find out more about the humans who found me and give them donations here. But if you want to touch my mantle, you'll have to travel a long way. And scratch my itches. But please don't extinctamate me. Thanks!

Fagel

Granted, I'm just catching up on the whole F-line Bagel Shop vs. the MTA debacle, but although I the shop owners' current solution is intriguing (despite the MTA being undeserving of the homage), I think I've created a new logo that might make everybody happy:

Even Newer Guinea

Hello. I am a golden-fronted bowerbird. Aren't I sexy? This is the first photographic evidence of my species ever taken in New Guinea. You can find more information and photos on a bunch of new species recently just discovered in New Guinea here. Now don't forget there's always more to discover - and more to preserve - out there on our Earth.

Fact of The Day

The carpet matches the drapes.

Oh My Non-Denominational Higher Being

You have got to read Fafblog's take on the big cartoon scandal. I think I peed myself.

Not only that, but it's "enlightmelicious"!

Poodles and Other Roommates

From a spike in my visit stats I noticed that brownstoner linked to my post on NY living situations. For all those who got here that way, welcome. I promise I will try to be more interesting and thus worth your visit. Heh.

I'm always fascinated by people's NY housing stories. I just spent some time yesterday helping a friend pack who has to move out of her Park Slope apartment due to a break-up. She's decided to get out of the country for a while and will be putting her stuff in storage - a big change from her lifestyle. We've offered her a bed if she needs it, as eventually she plans to come back to the city and will be crashing at friend's places.

Now, this friend is an ex-roommate of my ex-roommate; that's how we met. That is, the friend, whom I'll call X, was rooming with Y. Y moved out and became my roommate, but they stayed friends. I got to know and become pals with X through Y, get it?

So, that brought up a couple of questions for me. One is, just how often and in how many ways do people "crash" at friends' apartments while looking for a place in NYC? I never did it - I went straight from living in the NYU dorms to the first spaces I sublet. I did visit friends before I went to college, but that's it. If I had friends to stay with or look for a place with, I may have avoided some of the seedier arrangements I ended up with, such as staying in hallways and rooms separated by curtains or not at all, or cohabitating with the aforementioned geriatric toy poodle who was always trying to bite me and his aging gay parents who pronounced his name - Pierre, of course - with three syllables in true southern belle fashion. (It sounds faintly fabulous in retrospect, but it was wearisome at the time.) However, it seems to be pretty much the norm to live with friends temporarily amongst people I know who were not raised in the city or wealthy when they moved. I wonder if this is the same everywhere, or, as I imagine, more prominent in areas with decent housing shortages like NYC. Do people in other areas just find apartments almost immediately? They can't all be staying at the Y (although I do have a friend who did that when she moved here, which strikes me as particularly old-school and ballsy).

The other question is, how often do roommate connections branch into a sort of web of friendships? We've all met a roommate's friend that we can't stand, but sometimes we end up sharing buddies. Being something of a reclusive curmudgeon I don't have many extant connections from such circumstances, but I know a lot of folks who do. I'm not going to go all "the chart" on you, but I'm curious.

Any stories out there? Where did you stay when you arrived, and how many friends have you made through cohabitation? Maybe we are connected, and not just though Kevin Bacon.

Portents of...?

My God. The trees at Lincoln Center are budding. And it's early February.

Normally the appearance of new buds is a happy herald of the coming spring. Now it just makes me paranoid about global warming and worried the trees will be thrown even more out of whack as it gets colder again.

Still, seeing the new growth gave me a momentary, instinctive surge of joy. Maybe everything will be alright, in the end.

I feel I am trying to change and begin new growth, as well. I'm afraid and unsure of the outcome. Only time will tell.

I Say Sexy Things To Myself While I'm Dancing

How is it that I am both a Web geek and a cat freak and I'd never yet seen this?

Wide Open Spaces

If you've never lived in NYC (or you're rich), you might not believe this. The Times has an article today on the kind of spaces people rent to sleep in. Some rent mere beds in already occupied rooms, some share rooms in shifts. In this particular article, some students stuffed a mattress into the cutout space above a door and tried to rent it out for $35/month as a living area in Craigslist. The kicker? They got a number of takers.

I'm awfully lucky to be sharing an 1100-ft apartment I got an outstanding deal on with my partner (plus 3 cats and 2 turtles). The truth is, if I wasn't with her, I'd need a roommate, and we could easily sublet out several rooms here if we wanted to do so - provided we engaged in some subterfuge regarding our in-building landlords. But I've never lived alone since I moved to this city seventeen years ago, and some of the places I've stayed in have been not that far off from a mattress in the wall. My first two apartments involved sleeping on a twin-sized foldout chair on the floor in a shared studio with a relative stranger and on a foldout couch one room of a two-room apartment (minus the bathroom, which my middle-aged couple roommates and their angry, ancient toy poodle had to squeeze through my room to get to, while I had to pass through theirs to get to the kitchenette). Ah, the bohemian life.

Let's just hope those days are over for me, although I sometimes wonder. If you don't own your apartment here, you never can tell what might happen. I don't expect a break-up in my relationship, which could cause me housing woes, but any period of unemployment could leave me scrabbling for affordable spaces. It's just something you live with in the city. It's why most middle-class party conversations are about apartments and rent, and everyone has a dream of finally landing their own brownstone, if they don't quit the urban life forever.

As for me, this is just one of the reasons I've stayed in the job that's been killing my soul for the last few years (more on that later). As I contemplate finally leaving it, I do start to have nightmare flashes - could that be me up there on that mattress between rooms?

If that ever happens, you'll be reading this blog as posted from New Jersey. Hey, my mom could use the rent.