manwe_iluvendil

Over the last two days, having spent some time away from the novel, I've really enjoyed the down time. I've been catching up on my reading, and that's great. I've also been looking forward to the material I'm about to cover. However, there's this phenomenon that occurs when I write.

I'm a big picture kind of guy. I've planned this story out as five books and have created roughly 150 years of backstory for it. I've mapped out character arcs and twists and turns: all of it. But I've noticed, as with other projects I've worked on, there's a world of difference between planning stuff and writing it out. I recently killed a character whom I'd been planning to kill since I was a teenager. I'd had more than enough time to prepare for it, and still when it happened, I actually had to shut my laptop and grieve for a day or two before continuing to the next scene.

A few days ago, as I was writing a scene featuring a character who is easily one of the most dynamic in the series, I visualized a moment from the final book, a moment that, if not his final scene, would be very close to the end. I've always known how his character would end, but never had any real specifics. Finally, sitting there, it came to me. A confession and a revelation, a cry for help, just four words: "I got so lost." I don't often make myself cry, but knowing the five books of story behind that statement, I had to wipe my eyes. It made me really think about the places I'm about to take this story emotionally, places I might not be prepared to handle.

I'm specifically thinking of a character who is unabashedly my favorite, a character who is carrying a lot more darkness than anyone will suspect. I constructed him this way, quite deliberately I might add. His story is meant to be painful and traumatic and disturbing, but in unleashing that upon my readers, I've realized I'll first have to unleash that on myself, and it's a little scary, because it taps into feelings I realize I have avoided dealing with for a very long time."

I am honestly terrified of going there, so, of course, there is this gentle voice, a ghost in my head taking my hand and saying, "That's how you know you have to."

And it's right. I do. Dammit.

manwe_iluvendil

So, I've been hanging out via a mutual friend with this guy Kevin. Kevin is a nice guy. He's also very conservative, nothing I haven't dealt with before. Kevin is pretty old-fashioned, and I'd dare to say a bit repressed to the point where he doesn't approve of nor does he engage in blow jobs, because he deems them demeaning to women. I personally don't agree, but whatever. I admire principle.

After the first night I hung out with Kevin, our mutual friend, with whom I was tagging along, told me that Kevin had probably been a little uncomfortable with my openness about sexuality in general and probably the fact that I don't mince words about my gayness. I believe that it took him off guard. I'm not a diesel muscle bear, but I'm far from a campy, willowy twink, and a lot of people -- a surprising number, even by my standards -- tend not to know I'm gay until something I say implies it. To me, Kevin had seemed unbothered, so I didn't think much of it and pretty much ignored what my friend had said. The next time we hung out with Kevin, the rebel in me tested the water a little and threw some salty comments out. Kevin did seem a little unaccustomed to my freedom, but not uncomfortable. In fact, he had a very good sense of humor about everything.

In the months that followed, Kevin and I started talking independently of our mutual friend. We Facebooked back and forth, we talked fairly openly about his relationship with his girlfriend and his sex life. I didn't have much to add about my own that would have been relevant, so the focus tended to stay on him. For someone whom I had been warned was really repressed and uncomfortable about sexuality, he seemed pretty open to me, but maybe that's just me. People do have an odd tendency to open up to me. I guess I'm just that kind of guy.

Well, Kevin invited me over for a guy's night. Maybe some cards, definitely some movies, without doubt plenty of booze. I thought this sounded great, so I told him to put my name down. He mentioned a strip club might be involved. I was game. I'm secure enough in my homosexuality to have some fake titties shaken in my face. Also, I really felt touched, because Kevin immediately counted me as one of the guys, something that would probably mean to a lot of gay guys a lot more than it should, because the general public basically considers us women with penises and chest hair. And we're not. This is not to say I show any disdain for, shall we say more feminine men who enjoy being counted as one of the girls. There's a wonderful and loving spot in the world for the Kurt Hummels that populate it, and more power to them, but I'm not that kind of gay. You won't find me in a sports bar (of my own free will) either, but I'm just sort of a dude, you know? So, Kevin's knee-jerk instinct to include me in guy's night really meant a lot to me.

I was pumped for guy's night, enough that I was ready to drive an hour and a half to show up. Then, this afternoon, I get a Facebook message from Kevin, informing me that his brother might be along for part of the evening, and that I should "ix-nay on the ay-gay" as said brother is pretty much a redneck. I wasn't sure how to respond to that. At first I was a little insulted, then I kept in mind who Kevin was. I also kept in mind the mutual friend who introduced us, who indulges his family in never mentioning the elephant in the room. They all know he's gay. They know his boyfriend. They like his boyfriend. But they, even his brothers who are totally cool with his gayness, never talk about it. They act like it doesn't exist, despite every bit of evidence to the contrary. He just indulges this mutually agreed upon fiction, and I don't mean to judge, but I'm judging. It makes me angry for him, at him, and at the world that endorses this kind of behavior. And that made me angry at Kevin all over again. Because the only gay guy he's really accustomed to dealing with is one that can shut it off whenever it's convenient.

Fuck that.

So I raged in private, letting the fury give way to a more rational voice, and when finally I calmed down, I wrote Kevin and told him that I would be sitting this guy's night out, that as much as I don't want to make a scene or make anyone uncomfortable, I came out at thirteen years old... in the early 90's. I walked uphill for years. I was beaten up, abandoned by friends, discriminated against by teachers who permitted bullying that they reasoned I deserved, endured hostile work environments because I didn't let hate speech fly and became "that guy" in the office. I have paid a hefty price every day for the last eighteen years to live my life honestly and openly, and I have never once regretted it. And I am not stuffing myself back into the closet now. Not for him, not for his redneck brother, not for anyone.

It's both happy and sad; sad that I'm still being confronted with stuff like this, happy that it's so shocking, because it's become rare enough that I don't expect it anymore. I'm not prepared for it anymore. I don't live in a world where I have to be... usually.

I will happily attend the next guy's night, but not before I explain things to Kevin, because I don't think he realizes how offensive what he asked of me was. I don't think he meant any harm. I don't think he sees anything wrong with his request, because that's what he's used to and it's the kind of thinking our mutual friend has enabled. I don't play that shit. I do not compromise myself to indulge the ignorance of others. Never have. Never will. Because I am not quiet, I am not convenient, and I am nobody's faggot, nobody's minstrel, nobody's pet gay.

I am strong and I am proud of everything I have endured to earn the freedom I enjoy. I'm a fighter and a survivor and a man of principle who has never backed down to appease those who would subdue me and erase me. Fuck to the no. That's not who I am.


      I am Michael Salvatore Mammano, and I don't sit in the back of the fucking bus.      

manwe_iluvendil

So, my friends' son Jack has developed an interest in writing, which I find beyond awesome. Only 11, and he's setting up his own website and getting his stuff out there. So, I thought I would give a plug here for my young friend Jack, who also goes by his pen name...

The Ink Ninja

Check him out, y'all.

manwe_iluvendil

Yes, and I have. While I did have legitimate reasons to have some corrective surgery to help my breathing, I certainly didn't mind having a little nip/tuck while they were in the area. Ironically, my septum has since re-deviated, so I will eventually need to get it fixed again, but this time, no shaping.

One vanity surgery was quite enough or a lifetime. I've got a nice mug. I ain't Jacksoning this shit.

manwe_iluvendil

This post is the final chapter of what turned out to be an unexpected trilogy of posts about my grandparents. The first was about the loss of my Nonny, my maternal grandmother. The second was about the loss of my paternal grandmother, whom I simply called Grandma. This is for my maternal grandfather, Poppy.

I was on my way to LAX after an awesome vacation in Los Angeles (more on that soon) when I got a call from my dad, who told me in probably the most graceless way possible that Poppy had died. "Hey, Michael? You heard about Poppy?" Now, there was only one bit of news this could possibly be, so that was how I was informed that my grandfather had passed away. I love my dad, but... not his finest hour.

My first thought was for my mom. After all, for her this was a pretty big deal. It's sad enough to lose your dad, but this was compounded by the fact that she'd made it to her sixties with both parents alive and well, which kind of skewed her view of how life works for most people. If there is a good way to be spoiled, I'd definitely say that's it. I called her as soon as I passed through the security checkpoints and asked her how she was holding up. She seemed to be doing okay. I mean, as well as could be expected.

As I sat at the gate, I misted up a little, dry sobbed a few times, then I was okay. By this, I don't mean I felt hunky dory, but I was functional again. My grief was once more invisible to the passing observer. I wasn't trying for this. I don't have some kind of issue with propriety. Seriously, have any of you ever met me? No, I just started thinking about a lot of things. Poppy's death closed a major door, and ended a phase of my life. You see, up until this point, my siblings' and cousins' kids were sort of familial afterthoughts, cute little footnotes to the family structure. With all the grandparents now gone, everyone got an instant promotion. Sure, on my father's side this had already happened, but I'm not as close with my father's family and that was only half of me. This was it. This was all grandparents down. So, my mom's generation was no longer the parents who happened to have grandchildren of their own. They were now the grandparents, thus my siblings and cousins and I became the middle generation, and my nieces and nephews, all these little single-digit (with the exception of Kenna and Julia) cousins playing together, were now us. It is, more so than even my ascension to adulthood, the greatest paradigm shift of my life. My cousin Ben and I spent a good ten minutes at the shivah wrapping our brains around this idea.

I know I'm an asshole, making this all about me. Hang in. I'm getting to the part where I'm a good grandson.

I knew that I would be asked to speak on behalf of my mother's kids. That's just sort of how things tend to roll at special events. And I certainly don't mind. Of the three of us, I'm the best speaker and speechwriter. The trouble was, I wasn't entirely sure what to say. My relationship with Poppy had never been as well defined as my relationships with my grandmothers, which really says a lot about me, I suppose. I've said it before and I'll say it now. Nonny gave me my spirit, and Grandma gave me my heart. I had no idea what fundamental aspect of my personality Poppy had given me, and it made me kind of sad. This was doubly distressing as... well...

My paternal grandfather, whom I call Grandpa on principle but Nikki and Paul call "Sal," died years before any of us were born. I've never known more about him than I could glean in glimpses and passing comments from my dad's family, so in terms of grandfathers, Poppy was always my main man. He was the whole of what a grandfather was. That made him very special. And yet I had no idea where to begin. All I could do was piece together various comments and incidents from my childhood, some basic characteristics of this man that we all laughed about at every opportunity (with him, not at him). So, I'll take you through my process, and you'll see how I got to where I ended up.

Bill Friedman was born in the Ukraine, just outside Kiev. He came to U.S. when he was three. Yiddish was his first language, English his second. He grew up in New York City, I believe the Bronx. He was raised a communist, later leaning more toward socialist, but always a lefty, always out there fighting for the rights of the working man, on behalf of unions and social equality. That was his groove. When he was about twenty, he met a hot, feisty chick at a political demonstration. He promptly found this tough, intelligent, opinionated young woman (young but two years older than he was) to be the hottest girl he'd ever encountered in his life, and not long after that they were married. This was how my grandparents met. It also set a very clear precedent in my family of men digging strong women.

When my mom was a kid, Poppy got arrested for standing up for a black family that was being edged out of the apartment complex. This was the early Fifties, mind you. My mom wasn't ashamed of her dad for getting arrested. Not for this. She was proud of him.

Poppy was a jeweler. Yes, a guy named Friedman working in a jewelry shop. I know, a shock runs through the crowd. He worked hard and a lot. He was crotchety old man at thirty, but it was all part of his charm. He was famously high strung, easily irritated, and he was not fond of non-family members in his house (something that trickled down to my mother constantly making it clear to me that I was welcome to have friends over), but he was also sweet and the master of little gestures. He had that sort of mellow yet unimpeachable Gregory Peck masculinity. He was a real man, and made the perfect baked apples to prove it.

And dear God, were those baked apples awesome.

So, I'm thinking of all this stuff, and I'm still not sure what exactly to say about Poppy that anyone else who knew him couldn't say. It was all good stuff, but all of it largely factual. And I loved the man. I just wasn't sure how exactly my love was all that unique. Nonny had a very different relationship with every one of her grandkids. I knew Poppy had sort of a thing with my cousin Danny, since Danny was his only son's only son. He was the future of the Friedman name. But as for the rest of us, I really didn't see much of a difference in how he interacted with us. And that's no bad thing. He was great to every one of us. I just didn't know what to say. So, I kept on thinking about it.

Poppy was an awesome grandfather and lot of fun to imitate. Like, a lot. That early 20th Century New York accent was simply "beauty-full." Every one of the grandkids had a Poppy impression. It was mandatory. We'd all do our best to impersonate his gestures, his mannerisms, the way he pronounced Nonny's name "Leeza" instead of Lisa. That gravelly grumpy old man voice he was sporting long before he was one. You know, the kind of voice that sounded like he'd had a stomach for five solid decades (even when grinning from ear to ear). Poppy would often and randomly give any one of us a shmeis, a playful wollop on the butt. You never knew when it was coming. You could pass him twenty times without incident and then, as soon as your guard was down, bam! And you ran away, laughing. Try explaining this concept as a child to a world of kids whose only frame of reference in regards to gluteal percussion was disciplinary spanking. No one ever got it. Sooner or later, every one of us got too old for this, but he'd still hold up his hand from time to time, faux-threatening to shmeis any one of us, even the fully functional adults with kids of their own, but you knew he'd never actually do it. Probably.

And then, I realized it all. I knew what to say. What was Poppy to me? Poppy was childhood. He was fun, even when he was grumpy. When An American Tail came out, I thought he was totally awesome, because he had a whole bunch of hats just like Fievel's, and he gave me one. A blue one.

Poppy loved kids. He never asked us to grow up the way adults always do when they lose their patience with your perfectly age-appropriate behavior and sensibilities. I guess he figured that we had the rest of our lives to be adults. Why rush it? He'd let me count all his "belly buttons," as several surgeries over the years had left his chest looking kind of like a potato, full of little holes. I thought it made him magic, like some kind of mythical creature. I was four. I didn't know what surgery was.

Poppy never hurt my feelings. Others in my family made me the butt of jokes, often without malice, not realizing that you don't do that to a sensitive little boy who was always made fun of in school. But Poppy realized it. He never told me I was too fat. He never told me I was too weird. He never tried to make me throw a ball. You know what he did? He bought me sketch pads and colored pencils. He listened to my stories and came to at least one performance of every play I was ever in. When I'd bring a guy to a family event, he'd shake his hand and say "nice to meet you." Doesn't sound like much, but it was. And I loved him for it. You know how much?

My cousin Matt, the oldest of my generation, wouldn't hug me head-on for about fifteen years. For almost two decades, I got the sideways bro hug. It was a subtle little dig at me, and here's where it comes from. One time when I was ten or eleven, still really small, Nonny and Poppy were leaving a family gathering, so I gave Poppy a hug. I hugged him as hard as I loved him, lifting him off the ground even. He grunted a little and patted my shoulder. "Easy, Mikey. You're so strong." I didn't find out until years later, well into college, that I'd broken his rib that day. He never told me. He probably didn't want to hurt my feelings.

About a week before I left for my little vacation in L.A., I went to see Poppy. I knew it would very possibly be the last time. He was lying in that hospital bed they'd moved into his condo in the assisted living facility he and Nonny had moved into about seven or eight years prior. His caretaker, a fabulous Jamaican woman named Kalette, was there. Kalette's been a part of the family ever since Nonny died, taking care of Poppy and jokingly referring to him as her boyfriend. "Bill, what I'm gonna do wit you?" Fab-u-lous. Anyway, my mom had told me that the circulation to Poppy's foot had stopped and that the only course of treatment was amputation, the recovery from which would render him so out of it he might as well not even be there. He was completely disoriented half the time as it was. So, my mom and aunt and uncle decided to let nature take its course, and Poppy would be around for however much longer Poppy would be around. I understood. One thing I've been blessed with is that none of my grandparents went quickly. Their bodies wound down naturally. It gave everyone, including them, time to get used to the idea that they were on the way out. I'd been grieving for Poppy in pieces ever since Nonny died four years ago. It doesn't take away the pain, but it eases it a little.

Every time I'd visit Poppy in the hospital, he'd shake his fists at me like we were boxing, his old, spotted hand just pumping feebly at the air, challenging me. Far be it for me to decline. So, we'd box a little, knocking our fists together. Don't worry. The rib incident taught me years ago to literally pull my punches. That last day, standing there by his bed, he shook that fist at me, and we went a round. He won.

It was a good way to say goodbye, and when I was sitting im the terminal in LAX, I was thankful for it.

After the funeral service, before the burial, there was a private viewing for the family. After everyone had gone away, I stepped up to the casket and looked down at him, so gaunt and little. I smiled and shook my fist at him. "All right, Pops. Rematch. Come on, old man. I'll kick your ass." It was probably just the light and the angle, but from where I stood, it looked like he was smiling. And I cried a little as I walked away from the casket, knowing for the first time beyond doubt, that there'd be no shmeis coming up behind me.

Poppy was an impatient little boy in the body of an old curmudgeon. He was, as my parents divorced when I was very little, the first example to me that you could bicker with someone and still be madly in love with them. That fighting is a growing pain, that you don't walk away from relationships that require some regular maintenance and occasional renovations. He showed me that you were never too old to joke around. He taught me that men who appreciated and admired strong women were strong men. He taught me that I was exactly the boy (and later, the man) that I was supposed to be. He never had to tell me that, but I knew.

One last thing. One time -- I couldn't have been more than five or six -- I'd somehow scored a sleepover at Nonny and Poppy's on a school night, the best part of which was always breakfast the next day, because they had the Kellog's Variety Pack, which to me was, like, amazing, since we never had it at home. To my eyes, those little boxes were like those miniature animals bred in captivity to be pets, and I could pick any cereal I wanted, even the ones my mom wouldn't buy. Fuck you, Mom! I'm having some Frosted Flakes! Seriously. That was my train of thought. So, anyway, it fell to Poppy to drive me to school. I had no concept of time or miles per hour, and I was amazed that he knew what time to leave, how I'd get there on time, all of that. He was like a wizard. He was like Gandalf Dumbledore...berg. So, we're on the road, and he switches into the next lane, and I am wowed. All I can see is my view shifting horizontally across the lanes. It's just amazing. So I ask him to do it again, practically jumping out of my seat. I swear I'd have popped through the roof of his Oldsmobile if I hadn't been belted in. He looked at me, that old school fuckin' tweed newsboy cap on his head, and said, "I can't, MIkey. I can't just do that." I didn't get it. I didn't get why you can't just switch lanes all willy-nilly. And I was disappointed, but about thirty seconds later, for no reason whatsoever, Poppy switched lanes. Twice.

Look at that. I had plenty to say after all. Goodbye, Pops. I love you. It was ninety-one and a half years of life well lived.

Beauty-full.

manwe_iluvendil

"Grown-ups like to tell you where they were when President Kennedy was shot, which they all know to the exact second... which makes me almost jealous. Like I should have something important enough to know where I was when it happened."   - Angela Chase, My So-called Life

manwe_iluvendil

So, as I'm sure it's remained secret to no one, I'm in the middle of a little RENT renaissance. I've been watching the movie (and turning a blind eye to its many, many flaws), the filmed final performance of the original Broadway run, and I've downloaded the soundtrack off iTunes, having previously lost two different physical copies since high school.

Part of this little trip down memory lane has been checking out clips on YouTube of various high school and college performances. The results are appalling. I know we were never professional quality, but some of our shows came pretty damn close and if this is the best they have to offer, then high school theater in American is in a sorry state of affairs. I mean, this is RENT we're talking about. It's not like these kids have been condemned to stage a performance of H.M.S. Pinafore or even Bye Bye, Birdie. Hell, by today's standards, even Grease is kind of soft serve and lame. And true, this is RENT: School Edition, the neutered version, but it's still RENT. It's still a love story between a stripper and an unemployed musician who very likely requires some anti-depressants, both of whom have AIDS. It's still boasts a duet about a gay anarchist falling in love with a drag queen, both of whom also have AIDS. And lest we forget about the guy and the girl whose friendship is born of their commiseration over being cheated on by the same woman? Who's a performance artist? And if that's not enough, it's a rock musical. I mean, seriously kids, what else do you want?!

And yet, they suck. They're off key, they miss their cues, and they have like zero passion for the material. And all I can think is, "Listen, whipper snappers, when I was your age, every theater kid in America knew this show backwards and forwards and could sing it in tempo and on key. This is the cool show, the one your directors are supposed to be pissed at you for singing perfectly in the dressing room while you have yet to memorize the relic that they were actually able to afford the rights to. True, it's slightly dated. It's about the nineties, and you came of age in the aughts, but you know what? Until RENT came along, we did the best we could with Hair, so until there's an edgy, controversial, my-parents-don't-want-me-to-see-this rock musical written about the decade in which YOU came of age, this is as relevant as it gets for you, so stop treating it like it's fucking Oklahoma! and GET IT RIGHT!"

And now that I've exorcised that demon, I'm going to take it down a bit.

As I've alluded to in a previous post, I really don't look at the show the same way. My affection for it is no less, and I still find the themes relevant and the characters lovable. The messages of compassion for the homeless, of living in the moment, living in the face of disease or heartbreak or both, of people caring for one another and celebrating what they have rather than lamenting what they don't, of finding ways to connect to others in real life in a time when the internet makes it less and less possible every day... these still rock me to my core.

And then there's the part of me that really thinks that outside of the immediate crisis of Act 1, in which they are both totally justified and in the right, Mark and Roger should really just shut the fuck up and get jobs. Have I sold out, lost compassion for my artistic brethren? That's a valid interpretation of the text. Not one I'd agree with, but valid from a certain perspective. The thing is, having spent my entire adult life in abject poverty, stretching thirty dollars into a month's worth of groceries because I'm barely making the rent, temping from job to miserable job and never knowing for how long because my degree turned out to be for shit, having had to insist on coffee dates because it's all I could afford, I've really learned that being a starving artist really fucking sucks.

Now, there may be some people who sincerely enjoy living in cramped little hovels that they've managed to decorate with style and quirk, suffering for their art, and if this is truly someone's path -- and for some, it is -- then that's awesome and God bless them. But the other 90% of us grow out of that somewhere between 27 and 32, and even if we're still living it, if we haven't given up on our dreams, we've stopped romanticizing faulty plumbing, empty fridges, and a lack of legitimate furniture.

When I was in high school, RENT made all of that seem shiny and new. There was something so noble about enduring poverty for the sake of beauty, for the sake of blowing off the system and coloring outside the lines, for taking their taboos and enjoying them like delicacies. Now, it's like, "You know, there's no reason I can't do all that with heat, hot water, and a functional bed frame." Granted, I don't have as much free time, and it is hard to work on your art when you can't jump to it any damn moment of inspiration. I could be at work, bored out my fucking mind, and suddenly, the juice will flow and my brain, heart, and soul scream, "NOW!" and I can't. And I have to pray like hell that the momentum will still be there when I get home and that I won't be too tired from standing on my feet for seven hours and wrestling with the stress of having to accomplish a job to a certain standard with substandard equipment for pay that is beneath me. If I can manage to write ten pages a day, I consider myself productive. That's how bad it is. And let's not even get into how much sleep I don't get. And why do I do this? So that I don't have to live my parents.

Because clearly I've maintained that standard.

And I've suffered all this, and I think... Mark, Roger, face it. You do not work on your art with every waking hour. You actually spend most of your time whining about how you've got no material, an affliction I was never burdened with. I have so much material that if I'd had the copious free time you do, I'd be an associate producer at ABC by now. Ditch the loft, find a cheap studio apartment, get part-time jobs at Subway, pool your wages to pay the rent, and live off free sandwiches for a while. I mean, Roger, it's what? 1991? 1992? Antiretrovirals haven't been invented yet. You don't got a lot of time, buddy. You might as well face death with a full stomach. Splurge. Have a bagel.

And then I think, shit. Am I Benny? Have I become that guy? And I think no, but the only reason for that is that Benny was specifically written to be a villain, and as such certain character traits were ascribed to him to clearly paint him as a black hat. He's rampantly materialistic, he has no compassion for the homeless, and what's worse, it's explicitly stated that he didn't start out that way, that until the recent past, he was right there in the trenches with them but sold out those ideals for his own personal decadence. And, just in case there was any lingering ambiguity as to who the bad guy in this story was, the dude cheats on his wife, to whom he hasn't even really been married for that long, with a 19-year-old girl whom he probably knows is HIV-positive. True, he does redeem himself a little toward the end, but he's the villain. Let's not front.

However, at the core of his character, beyond the douchebag moves he makes in the musical proper, I kind of see the guy's point. Here's a guy who gave Bohemia the old college try. And then he graduated. In life, there are people who find a path and it's theirs, it's what was meant to be. And then there are others who think something is what they want, then they get it, then they realize it's not. I thought I wanted to be a parent until I was twenty-six -- twenty-fucking-six -- and then I actually lived with children full-time and realized, no, I was wrong. Really, really wrong. And I could pretend it's still what I want just because I've wanted it for so long or I could move onto what's right for me, whatever that might be, because this isn't it. At his core, Benny was just the guy who realized that what, for his friends, was a true calling was merely a stage of his life that was over, and he moved on to what felt right. Now, he was a complete dick about it, but did he really have to be? No. I think Larson really wanted to eliminate any doubts that this was the bad guy, and if that meant throwing in some mustache twirling, well then that was what it took. I, for one, always interpreted Benny's affair with Mimi to symbolize his affair with the boho life; it was a fucked-up way for him to re-establish intimacy with his friends by proxy. Now, I'm not saying Benny is the poor, misunderstood hero in all this, but I think it would have been far more interesting if the year covered by the narrative was sort of his last hurrah, if it was him taking a step back from the life he'd made and questioning those choices, asking himself whether or not they were the right ones. And that if, in the end, he realized that while he did miss the good old days, he couldn't go back now. Whether or not he wanted to be, he'd crossed over the other side and he belonged there now. For him to have a number, a solo or perhaps a duet with Mimi, where he revealed himself to be fully aware of how much he'd changed a mixed up inside about it, that would have been awesome. I think a Benny who feel more into the role of tragic anti-hero who does one last mitzvah before his corruption is complete would have been far more interesting and true to life than him just being the sell-out yuppie scum. I mean, that view is pretty fucking simplistic and childish.

And here we come back to my original point: that I don't see RENT in the same way. I still sing the songs at full volume in my car, and I'm not just paying lip service -- I really believe in what they have to say -- but I don't view it with the same absolutist fervor that the characters share. Because I've lived la vie boheme, and I wouldn't trade it for anything, but that time is over for me. It's kind of like when you're a kid and everyone older than you is a grown-up. I mean, when you're ten, teenagers just look like adults who aren't boring and lame, and then you get to high school, and you feel like an adult in a kid's body. And then you get to college, and you think "Why do these fucking kids look so goddamn pleased with themselves all the fucking time?  Are they unaware of how annoying they are or do they just wear it like a badge, because me thinking that behavior is annoying makes me the lame one?"

When I was a teenager, the idea of living in an impoverished metropolitan apartment, suffering for my art and still finding the day-to-day joy to love others to the fullest seemed like the very essence of enlightenment. Now it just seems kinda like kid stuff, which is why I don't hold it against the characters. I mean, they're what, twenty-two? Twenty-four? They're exactly where they're supposed to be. And maybe they're the real deal, and Maureen Johnson will be that cool aunt who smokes a joint with you when you visit her and Aunt Joanne to escape your humdrum life in Jersey. But my money says that a few years after her friends Roger and Mimi died (Collins luckily got on the antiretroviral cocktail and is doing great. He's made tenure at NYU and ain't apologizing to anyone for that shit), she put down the cowbell, took out her nipple piercings, and got a job as the manager of a small local theater, earning enough money to send your cousins (conceived by way of a generous donation by her friend Mark) to that good charter school with the strong performing arts program.

Where I once saw the kind of adult I wanted to be, I know see the age-appropriate phase I've successfully completed. It wasn't a mistake, it wasn't a delusion, it certainly wasn't a waste of my time, but I look at it like high school or college. It was an experience worth having, an experience I'd be a lesser person without, but you know, I'm past that now. I'm kind of like Mona Ramsey in Tales of the City.

"I need some security, Mouse. I'm thirty-one."
"So?"
"So I'm sick of buying clothes at the Good Will and pretending they're funky. I want a bathroom you can clean and a microwave oven and... and a labrador who'll know me when I come home."

manwe_iluvendil

I will be at my computer, writing or reading or watching some video on YouTube or Netflix. Whatever I'm doing, it could not be more clear that my attention is focused and that I'm doing everything in my power to tune out the world around me and maintain that focus, because I find what I'm doing very interesting or at the very least important. And then, some asshole comes along and just starts talking to me. And because I'm not a rude motherfucker, I can't simply ignore them, and now I have to deal with this shit.

Somewhat related: the phenomenon by which my mother will always wait to interrupt at :25 or :55 of every hour. Because that's not anywhere near where the climax of a show is.

I'll be sitting around, watching something on TV, clearly into it, when my mom will walk into the room, see me there, and decide that, FUCK, this is the perfect time to just start up a conversation with me about nothing of an even remotely emergent nature. It's never, "Michael, I'm running late. Have you seen my keys?" It's always something to the effect of "So, sweetie, have you heard from your old roommate Dan?"

What? Seriously? We just finished a ninety-minute meal packed to the gills with conversation. You didn't think that maybe that would have been a more appropriate time to inquire about my mildly estranged friendships? And it's not like she walks in, calls me by name, and waits for a response or for me to pause what I'm watching to give her my attention. Nope, she just hits the ground running, taking this conversation wherever the FUCK she wants. My consent could not be less relevant. Sometimes she doesn't even look at me to see if she has my attention. She just walks into the room, starts doing shit, and assumes that if she starts talking, I am all ears, like I've just been fucking waiting for her to completely disrupt whatever it is I'm doing so that I can give her my undivided attention while she multi-tasks.

My dad's no better. I'll be typing furiously, brow furrowed, tongue sticking out the side of my mouth, really getting down to the heart and soul of a scene, about to cut a character open and lay their essence bare in a climactic moment of revelation and catharsis, and my dad sees me wearing this face and somehow looks upon it as the perfect time to tell me the same lame joke he just told me three hours ago or complain about how the Republicans are heartless crooks (which as a party, not individuals, they pretty much are, but that's not the point) for the 457 MILLIONTH time, as though by this point in my life I didn't know his stance on the issue. Like this is breaking news that simply could not wait.

I understand that what I have come to refer to as "the sanctity of story" does not hold as much weight with some people as it does with me, and that's okay. It doesn't have to. But when a person is watching something or reading something, does it not occur to you that maybe they might need to pay attention to it in order to, I don't know, KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! I mean, is it possible that people as intelligent and literate -- Gods help me, LITERATE -- as my parents could be so casual in their enjoyment of film and television that they personally don't mind missing out on massive chunks of information about the plot? Or is it just, as Shane Botwin so eloquently described, "Mom's subtle announcement to the world that her time is more valuable than everyone else's."

This behavior isn't limited to my parents. I could be sitting around the break room at work, listening to music on my iPod or writing in my notebook or doing all kinds of shit that does not lend itself to divided attention, and people will just up and start talking to me. I mean, I'm a friendly motherfucker and I talk to strangers all the time, but not if they're doing something! If a person appears to be otherwise engaged, I have the good fucking sense to leave them alone. What kind of person doesn't? What kind of person thinks that everything they have to say is so fucking captivating that it automatically trumps anything else currently holding a person's attention?

What the fuck is wrong with these people?! What. The fuck?

manwe_iluvendil

To all my conservative friends, the following is meant to be neither inflammatory nor insulting. I'm not picking a fight. I'm just thinking out loud, or rather on the page, and I welcome any civil disagreement for discussion. I'm always open to intelligent disagreement.

It was a while back that I realized that my mom is conservative. Not politically or economically. She's a card carrying Democrat, through and through. She believes in collective bargaining, socialized healthcare, civil rights... all that jazz. But whenever she says she's liberal, I kind of have to snort down a chuckle, because I guess she kind of is, after a fashion. I mean, she's super liberal... for, like, 1965.

The truth is, for someone so adamantly matriarchal -- she'll say her marriages were all equal partnerships, but no one is buying that party line nor have they ever -- she's taken all three of her husbands' names. She never even considered keeping hers, and that's fine. It's a personal choice, but she never actually made it. She just went with the establishment. She's cool with gay people and supports gay marriage and parenthood, but when her son came out, it took her years to accept that it was 1) actually real, and 2) not "caused" by something. She believes sex is natural and healthy... as long as it's between two people who've known each other for a while... and only if it's done in a bedroom... in a bed... at night... in the dark. And you never, ever, ever talk about it, except in the most clinical or euphemistic terms. She loves folk art and world music. She'll listen to Paul Simon's Afro-inspired stuff and totally dig on it, but openly pokes fun of the rhythms, styling, and vocal runs of Hip Hop, which is a direct musical descendant of many of the techniques of traditional African music, such as call and response, tonal fluctuation, etc. She's all about the arts and self-expression, but anyone with dyed hair or a pierced nose is "out to lunch" or just acting out unnecessarily or trying to piss off their parents. It couldn't possibly be because they thought having purple hair might look kinda neat.

And I realized then that my mom isn't a liberal. She's a conservative who votes Democrat. And this led me to really think about the defining difference between the conservative and liberal mindsets.

Whether political or social or just down to the matter of personal expression, it's that conservatives ask why. Why do this? Why talk about this? Why make movies or TV shows about this? Why wear that outfit? Why be so fucking weird?

Liberals ask "Why not?"


Why shouldn't I? Why wouldn't I? Why does it bother you so much if I do?


Yeah, Lady Gaga is weird. Why shouldn't she be, and does it invalidate her musical innovation, whether you're partial to her style or not?

Why shouldn't there be a TV show on a major network with multiple gay storylines when almost every other show on almost every other channel doesn't? Have you lost so much precious screentime?

Indeed I talk about sex a lot. Why shouldn't I? It's a major part of my life, more than a lot of people's, and my conversation reflects that. If you don't like it, I won't have that conversation with you. Why does it bother you if I have it with other people? Why do the topics of my personal discussion become a matter of principle rather than a matter of personal taste?

Why shouldn't I listen to Japanese or Russian pop music without you rolling your eyes at me? Why shouldn't I speak Spanish or Chinese or Tagalog in front of you if I'm not talking to you? Does not being able to eavesdrop on my conversation, in which you are completely uninvolved, offend you on some profound level? Or is it just the reminder that other languages exist?

Why shouldn't I have a husband? Why shouldn't I have two? Why shouldn't the paradigm of the American family change or diversify? It's not like it's going to erase yours. Yours will still be whatever you want it to be. Why shouldn't mine? What does it take away from you? Why shouldn't I dress however I want? Fuck whomever I want? Marry whomever I want? As many as I want? Why shouldn't I remain childless?

Why shouldn't my life be completely different from yours? Why shouldn't I make different choices? And why shouldn't I be afforded the same basic respect if I do?


Why not?

manwe_iluvendil

What could he be talking about, most of you are probably wondering.

Duets. That's what I'm talking about, specifically duets between two guys. I've been listening to my Glee soundtracks at length -- as is proper -- and I've noticed something. None of the Kurt/Blaine songs really sound like a duet between two boys. I mean no disrespect to Chris Colfer, who is an amazing talent on many levels, and I praise Glee for having a musical part for a countertenor. However -- and Glee isn't the only culprit here -- I've found gay duets aren't really all that gay. They all default on a heteronormative ideal of a moderately high male voice and an essentially female voice.

Think about it. Every gay love song -- and there aren't many -- is between a slightly to moderately masculine guy, usually a tenor, and either another guy who is so effeminate in both sensibilities and vocal range that he might as well be a chick OR just a straight up drag queen. I'm not personally getting enough of a sense of this being a song between two guys. I'm not saying they gotta be big, hulking bears or anything (though I would pay good money to see that number) but just imagine it:

A stirring power ballad between a Second Tenor and nice, rich, mid-range Baritone. You know, a song where they're not trumpeting their voices singing about brotherhood and war or something. A strong, intimate ballad between two voices in that rich, velvety lower register. Why has this not happened? And am I gonna have to write this musical? Because I can't write music.

But this is something that really bugs me. We're so used to the musical combination of voices we think a love song is supposed to sound like, that's really all we ever get. So, let's gay it up people. Let's make those guy on guy duets a little more manly, and thus, a little more gay.