The Banal Chew

Renaissance?

(Firstly, apologies for the sketchy commenting interface lately. I'm switching to Disqus, and it takes a day or two to settle down and play nicely.)

Did anyone notice that this is the fourth blog post on consecutive days?  This may not be all that substantive a post, but I think it calls for a squirrel dance.

 

(More later today, perhaps something for Cogitation Tuesday.  It is only 5am, after all.)

Exercise your head

March 10 to 16 is International Brain Awareness Week. 

Why not treat your gray matter to a little work-out?

Go ahead.  What'll it hurt?

 

Are the rows in this image parallel?
If no, in which direction do they slant?
If yes, any idea why they don't look it?
(image from SharpBrains)

The answers to the following clues are two-word rhymes. 

Example: The monsters under my bed stay there because of my...
            night light.

1. Birthmark on a person from Copenhagen...

___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

2. Gastropod residue...

___ ___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

3. Eating a diet low in cholesterol and fats...

___ ___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

4. To enjoy festivities in a big way...

___ ___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

5. What Wallace might see after treating his pup to too much cheese...

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Bonus.  Lite, underground reading material for a female impersonator...

___ ___ ___ ___     ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ - ___ ___ ___ ___

(Puzzle modeled after that found on the Dana Foundation website.  Answers on Thursday!)

Cogitation Tuesday

Maybe it's that I'm turning 45 in four days.  Maybe it's the NY Times article I just read about the plight of elderly gay people in homophobic retirement homes.  Or maybe it's that I'm weaning myself off Lovan (per my GP's directive).  Something is eating at me today, and I'm a little down.

Two dear friends of mine resettled in California a few years ago, in order to live in an area where gay men could live together in retirement facilities without being subjected to ridicule or hatred. These men are approaching the most golden of years. Soon both will be fully retired. They have been together over 40 years, having fallen in love while undergraduates all those years ago. 

They are remarkable men, these friends of mine, beautiful spirits whom I cannot imagine anyone ever wishing to cause harm.  The thought of them aging together in a care facility that caters to gay and lesbian residents warms and cools my heart at the same time.  I smile and cry thinking of how wonderful it must be to have shared your life with someone you care for so deeply for so long.  Then tears well from knowing that life in a "rest home", as they still call them in the South, signifies the less time I have to be around them full-stop.

Despite my opening salvo, growing older has never really bothered me in the context of the numbers of years behind me. What I find difficult to bear is that it means there are fewer years I have to enjoy la vita mia like I am now. Life has become very rich for me over the past 20+ years, the last 5 in particular. And while I do not normally sit around in a morose state fearing the unknown region and mourning my aging process, when the mood does hit, it strikes hard. 

Oh, I'll be much better tomorrow. 

Cogitation Tuesday

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran's "firebrand president", doesn't think there are any homosexuals in Iran.  Phooey. 

Here are some links that allude otherwise.

Iran Queer Organization website

LGBT Rights in Iran (Wikipedia)

Persecution of gays/lesbians in Iran (Peter Atchell)

If they don't exist, then why are there so many arrests? (Human Rights Watch)

A lack of understanding

There are gays everywhere, even in zoos.  Those of us privileged enough to live in places that are more tolerant (albeit arguably) should thank our lucky stars that we can live our lives in much, much less fear than those living in repressive countries whose ideologies are fueled by some of the most frighteningly religious fundamentalism around. 

At least we can talk about hate crimes legislation with those sympathetic to the issue.  Where are the sympathizers in Iran?  There must be some.  But then, I suppose they are cowering in their homes, turning a blind eye, and praying that the nice fella next door doesn't scream too loudly when the lashings are given. 

Cogitation Tuesday

Another married Republican politician gets busted looking for love (as it were) in the wrong place. 

This happened a couple of months ago, but U.S. Senator Larry E. Craig has now pleaded guilty.  According to the cop who busted Craig for lewd conduct in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport restroom, the clincher was not the fact that after a soft-shoe number that would have made Fred Astaire blush, the two men's shoes were eventually touching under the stall partition (which, according to Craig, was due to the wide stance he takes to do a poo), but that Craig began making "swiping motions" with his hand under the stall.  Hmm, swiping motions, wiping motions...no, surely there's no confusion there.  But all of this came after Craig had stalked the policeman for a couple of minutes, peering through the door crack to get a view of the crack potential delights perched within.  So after Craig's hand-jive, the cop finally felt compelled to show his badge under the stall.  [cue sound effect: descending slide whistle]

So what makes you cringe even more? 

• That police continue to use underhanded (mwahaha!) sting methods to arrest guys for hooking up in toilets;
• The sad truth that, although we have come a long way, many closeted men remain stuck in the past when homosexuality was considered pathologic and illegal and gays had little choice than to have sex in places that could get them in trouble;
• The thought of the look on the faces of Craig's family members when they found out their husband/dad/papa/uncle had been caught like George Michael;
• That Craig was asked to come out in 2006 but flatly refuted that he was gay, stating the accusations had "no basis in fact"; 
• The way this reflects on gay men in general?

I wonder what Craig will do now.  Maybe he'll come out, shed the Stafford suits, move to Palm Springs and open up a commune for aging, oppressed T-room queens. 

Cogitation Tuesday

Mark and I had dinner with our very good friend, Alison, last night. 

[sidebar...a bit of history:  when Mark and I met nearly four years ago, he and Alison were studying for the Master of Laws degree within the Indigenous Peoples Law & Policy Program at the University of Arizona James E. Rogers College of Law.  Alison was there on a Fulbright scholarship, and Mark as a Rotary Scholar.  (Goodness, I'm surrounded by smart people.)  Alison ended up moving around the corner from us in Tucson's historic University West area, and we all became the closest of friends.  After they graduated, Alison returned to Perth and Mark to Sydney.  Thankfully, she and her equally wonderful partner (fondly referred to as "the hippy," but formally known as Ian) moved to Melbourne a few months ago, so we get to see her more regularly.]

Whenever Alison and Mark get together, it invariably (and understandably, considering their research interests and work) leads to fervent discussions about the state of Aboriginal affairs in Australia.  As an "outsider" I usually sit, goblet in hand, and remain in awe of the effortless manner in which they radiate their knowledge and the mellifluence of the discourse.  They tell me it's the same way they feel when I start talking about music with my colleagues.  Hardly seems equivalent to me, but I'll take their word for it.

Sometimes I courageously open my mouth and attempt a contribution to their discussions.  On occasion I have walked away feeling a bit proud that, 1) I could keep up well enough to do so, and 2) perhaps I'm not just a dumb singer after all.  Last night, however, was not one of those times, and I went to bed feeling naive and evilly duped by the knowledge I've gained throughout my life. 

The topic had to do with the idea of collaboration with Indigenous Australians in rural communities to achieve a higher quality of life for them.  Now that is hardly a revolutionary issue these days, but it is a burning one.  If you live in Australia or even remotely keep up with the politics and cultural landscape here, there is little way you would be unaware of the problems in rural Indigenous communities and the Liberal government's crushing methods of dealing with them. 

Alison and Mark were discussing ideas as to how these communities might be helped by shifting from the false ideal that Native Title is all that rural Indigenous people really need to claim their rightful heritage as true Australians, to thinking of ways in which these Australians could achieve a better quality of life.  Truly, in some communities it seems it couldn't get much worse.  Anyway, I opened my mouth and raised the issue of Aboriginal Australians as "custodians" of the land.  After their very kind admonishments and redress, I began to see how shaped my ideas are by  the media, (white) anthropologists and public opinion.  As smart and cynical as I like to see myself, I then realized that many of my thoughts are simply the product of what I've been fed...and that is something that scares me. 

It is always enlightening, inspiring, challenging and eye-opening to be around Mark and Alison in the same room at the same time.

Headlines

Emotions du jour, in alphabetical order:

• Apprehension
• Disgust
• Disinterest
• Dismay
• Dispassion
• Sadness
  
• Sadness II
  
• Schadenfreude

Cogitation Tuesday

CNN Money has ranked Sydney as the world's 21st most expensive city to live in.  Moscow was at the top.  To live anywhere near the Red Square, you have to shell out US$4000 a month for a luxury 2-bedroom apartment.  CDs are $25.  But you can eat crap food cheaply. A fast-food meal is $6. 

In Sydney, you'd pay upwards of US$3800/mo to live in a luxury 2-bedroom in the city.  It costs you about $22 to groove to your favorite band's CD.  A value meal at McDonalds is around $7.  That said, it's Sydney, and you do get what you pay for.

I'd also like to live in Melbourne at some point.  I visited my dear friend Mark there just over a year ago, staying for about a week.  It was a magnificent introduction to a remarkable city.  While Mark has since taken a flash job in the former Party Girl of Asia, our friends Alison and Ian have moved to Melbourne from the end of the earth Perth, so we still have ample opportunities to travel to the Victorian capital city. 

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

Yesterday, while playing golf on Zane's new Wii [mm hmm, to this I've come], I was thinking about how it is that although I am a product of everyone I've ever come to know well enough to call friends, they also serve as a mirror.  I see little parts of them in me, haphazardly stitched together like a Harlequin costume. 

While I have held a consistent group of very close friends for years, the gallery has been small and preciously maintained.  That hasn't always been by choice.  Sydney is the first time I've had a chance to live in a city when I wasn't preoccupied with school or eking out a living as a musician and whatever else.  Now, although I am focused on the job pursuit, I have a chance to live and enjoy the company of family and friends. 

Sometimes when we are hanging out with our pals, often media tempora gay couples like us, their behaviors and viewpoints cause me to inwardly yawp, "Woohoo, I'm not alone!"  Perhaps if I'd spent those years a little less self-absorbed, increasingly overeducated and acutely career-driven, I would have had this little epiphany sooner.  At any rate, it's fun and welcomed.  And, more importantly, I really am not alone.

Cogitation Tuesday

Musicus Interruptus

A recent article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette discusses the issue of premature clapping during classical music concerts. Even those of us for whom classical music is a way of life have fallen prey to the temptation of early applause. (Usually it only takes once, for the embarrassment caused by the cold sneers of neighboring audience members is punishment in itself.) The tide, however, seems to be turning. Some conductors and performers, Leonard Slatkin for example, are happy to forgive audiences for the once unforgiven.

I have a couple of thoughts on this issue.

First, why can't audiences clap after what must have been a moving and possibly exhilarating moment that predisposed them to such a physical expression of emotion? Go to any nonclassical concert these days, and chances are you'll find cheering and applause exuberantly and intermittently throughout the show. When attending last night's Scissor Sisters concert here in Sydney, I can't begin to imagine having to sit quietly during and between numbers. No way. And during my doctoral lecture-recital performance of Adriano Banchieri's madrigal comedy, Saviezza giovenile, I was thrilled to hear the occasional bit of applause during the exit of a character who had so thoroughly entertained her/his spectators. Yes, you could argue it's selfish in a way, but it is also gratifying in another.

Secondly, however, I have to admit that when I program works for concerts I am conducting, I usually build the program in sets of related pieces. The program's thematic construction often dictates where applause is deemed "appropriate." In order to maintain both the flow of the program and, more importantly, the mood I endeavor to evoke from sets of pieces, I often make sure that the written program groups the works into sets, placing a symbol (eg, asterisk, flourish, etc) between the sets. A statement is included at at the bottom of the program page requesting the audience to hold applause until after the program sets, as indicated by the symbol. It doesn't always work, however, and in that case I don't sweat it. If people clap in the middle of sets, I usually turn around and give a brief nod to acknowledge the applause. After all, I'd MUCH rather they clap than not.  Furthermore, we performers should be delighted that folks want to show us their support and appreciation.