The Little Sparrow Flies Again

When I think of great actors and great performances, there are several that spring immediately to mind. Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice". Maximilian Schell in "Judgment at Nuremberg". Katharine Hepburn in "The Lion in Winter". Dustin Hoffman in "Kramer vs. Kramer". The list goes on and on.

Now I add to my list, proudly, and easily in one of the top ten spots, Marion Cotillard in "La Vie en Rose". Portraying the iconic French chanteuse Edith Piaf (aka The Little Sparrow), Cotillard's performance is nothing short of miraculous. Indeed, even labeling her work here as a mere "performance" is to not do it justice. It is, quite simply, a channeling. Almost supernatural, Cotillard's characterization is a complete and total transformation, as if she has summoned the spirit, integrity, and fire of Piaf to flare magnificently in every cell in her body, every inflection in her voice, every corner of her very soul.

These are big words, I realize that. And high praise coming from me, a self-anointed movie snob with a cold and critical heart when it comes to the arts. But I own my praise of Marion Cotillard wholly. Her work in "La Vie en Rose" is one of those rare performances that makes you believe in the magic of the movies, forces you to acknowledge that there are some true artisans left in the world, and inspires you to jump out of your seat and examine your world in entirely new and fresh ways.

I've always felt that portraying a real person is infinitely more difficult than playing a fictional character. Especially when that person is someone who is as internationally known and beloved as Piaf. Comparisons will inevitably be drawn, critics will scrutinize the tiniest of details, and in the end, the performances either really work or really don't.

Cotillard's Piaf, I don't need to tell you, really works. Watching her burn up the screen for 140 minutes, it is impossible to feel you are watching anyone but the real Edith Piaf. Cotillard ceases to exist. With every raise of a penciled eyebrow, with every painfully-hunched shuffle, with every finger outstretched tautly in song, a Frenchwoman who's been dead for 45 years is suddenly achingly, beautifully alive.

To say Piaf's life in "La Vie en Rose" is "tragic" is to minimize it. She knew her share of pain, without doubt, but we never for a second believe that she will be weighted down by it, so intense is her passion for song and her passion for life. Cotillard has some amazing, gut-wrenching scenes exploding with the most tortured of human emotions, but she also winningly conveys the slightest subtlety and flickering nuance with no more than a sparkle in her eyes or the firm line of her lips. Just by looking at Cotillard's face, we can read the autobiography of a complicated, stubborn, funny, egotistical, and scarred woman named Edith Piaf.

This is obviously a meticulously, lovingly researched performance without rival in modern cinema. It is physically, emotionally, and technically flawless, and Cotillard clearly deserves the Oscar, BAFTA, and every other award she won for her work. Never have I seen an artist emerge herself so selflessly and totally into a role.

In this world of action movies caked with blood, actors choosing roles for the big fat paycheck, and studio executives running it all without the slightest respect or homage for the concept of art, I urge you to see Marion Cotillard and "La Vie en Rose". Hell, just seeing it for the final scene alone is worth it: a camera fixed on Piaf's ghostly face and haunting eyes as she performs one of the most beautiful songs ever written, "Non, je ne regrette rien".

It will renew your faith in film. In art.

In life.

The Two Loves of Tilda Swinton (Or: Performers, Painters & Polyamory)

Tilda Swinton, the acclaimed British actress and now Oscar winner (for "Michael Clayton"), is a rarity in show business. Her choices in roles are extreme in their variety: from a gender-bending reincarnate in "Orlando", to big budget Hollywood flicks like "Vanilla Sky" and "Constantine", to the White Witch in "The Chronicles of Narnia". She has served as muse and inspiration for both actors and fashion designers; the Dutch fashionistas Viktor and Rolf made an entire collection inspired by her. Despite her ethereal, almost alarmingly-stunning beauty, she is down-to-earth, very funny and jarringly honest in interviews. She showed up to collect her Academy Award without a drop of makeup, adorned in an unusual but striking black dress that resembled a painter's smock.

And the smock analogy is quite appropriate for Swinton, 47. You see, she lives with her longtime companion, the artist John Byrne, 68, with whom she has twin sons. However, it is her boyfriend, New Zealand painter Sandro Kopp, 29, with whom she attended the Oscars. Yes, you read that right. Ms. Swinton lives with one man, raising their children together, and is also openly involved with another man. The arrangement, according to all three, works extremely well, and Swinton is wonderfully unapologetic, and even quite funny, when discussing it.

It may seem that the press Q & A, which follows immediately backstage after an Oscar winner give his/her speech and is whisked to the wings, is an odd place for this subject to come up. But this is Hollywood, folks, and of course Ms. Swinton's personal life was subject to some post-speech questions from the assembled journalists. One reporter backstage asked her about her husband, to which she promptly replied, "I don't have a husband, I've never been married."

But she does have two lovers, and to this I say, "Go Tilda!". The relationship with Byrne, according to interviews, comes across more as two old chums who love and care for each other, united by a mutual respect and the rearing of their two children. The relationship with Kopp, it can be deduced, is of a more physical, but no less emotional, nature. It's complicated, as I'm sure Swinton and her men fully understand. But it also works for them, which speaks volumes about the emotional maturity, security, and honesty all three of them must share.

People, being people, raise issue with how Ms. Swinton lives her life, and I raise issue with those people, not Swinton. We live in a society that has somehow evolved (or devolved - depending on how you look at it) to this mindset that Monogamy is King. Even though our ancient ancestors did not practice it, and very, very few animals do, we seem to have taken it upon ourselves to be paragons of monogamous virtue.

This is laden with problems, of course. The biggest being that many of us can't live up to the idea that we are paragons of anything, and we seek out affairs and fulfillment elsewhere, which is deceitful, hurtful, and wrong. So what then is the problem with having more than one loving, passionate relationship, with all the cards on the table? As long as everyone involved knows what's up, it seems to me that there is no problem here at all.

When I look at Tilda Swinton's life -- her remarkable, varied career and unusual living situation -- I feel a breath of fresh, exuberant air. Here is a woman who has bucked tradition and fearlessly declared what works for her. And that is all she needs to say. It's not any of our business how she and Byrne raise their children. There is obviously a lot of love, and a lot of honesty, in the Swinton-Byrne household, and I can't imagine a better environment in which to raise children.

Honesty is the key to the polyamorous life. You have to be flawlessly in touch with your emotions and be able to express them with great intimacy and articulation. This is precisely the reason that most people can't handle relationships like this. We are too laden with "proper" images and conventional understandings. In addition to the honesty thing, you also, quite literally, need to be able to share. And we as a people don't really excel at that.

What is just as important, though, is tact. I have read a lot of really positive responses regarding Swinton's lifestyle, but those responses are always capped off with something like, "...but these relationships NEVER work." Well, of course the ones you hear about are the ones that didn't work. Do you really think those in polyamorous relationships walk around declaring, "I got laid by TWO different men last night!"? Of course not. A natural offspring of the openness and honesty inherent in these situations is tactful discretion. Balancing an open relationship like Swinton's demands rigorous orchestration, and as long as all players involved know their parts, the results will undoubtedly be successful. These relationships can and do work.

With this said, do you think Adrien Brody will date me even though I'm married?

Tangled: On Life & Great Art

My definition of "great art" could be deemed selfish. I define a great piece of art by my ability to see, however concise or abstract, my own experience in it. For example, I can detect the scent of my history in the painting "A View from the Window, on the Olcha" by Marc Chagall. I can read the confessions of my disparate selves in the book "The Golden Notebook" by Doris Lessing. I can confront both the desperations and deliciousness of my life in the films of Lars von Trier.

And I can unravel the loneliness and frustration, but also the benefits, of my existence in a song like "My Life" by Iris Dement. I'm feeling a bit defeated tonight, as the rains fall -- tidal -- on Boston, and Ms. Dement can reveal the secrets and commonality of just such a rain.


My life, it don't count for nothing.
When I look at this world, I feel so small.
My life, it's only a season:
A passing September that no one will recall.

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they're hurting.
And I can make it seem better for a while.

My life, it's half the way traveled,
And still I have not found my way out of this night.
An' my life, it's tangled in wishes,
And so many things that just never turned out right.

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they're hurting.
And I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better,

I can make it seem better for a while.


Thanks, Iris.

Roadblock: A Response

I write this blog as a response to this op-ed that appeared in "The Aspen Times". I really, in all honesty, did not want to dignify this editorial with a response, but in all good conscience, I have to. If only to prove to the article's author, Gary Hubbell, that the "voiceless" people he abhors so much are not so voiceless, or scared to use that voice, anymore.

I am all for freedom of speech. I have no problem with people voicing their opinion in the proper forum, and I thank God every day that I live in a country that permits such freedoms. I come from a long line of veterans, including my dad, and not a day goes by that I don't feel gratitude for the sacrifices they, and countless others, have made, so that you and I and Mr. Hubbell can perch before our computer screens and pen outraged letters about the state of the union. Questioning our government is one of the most potent political moves any American can undertake, and I do not do so lightly. Just as the Founding Fathers questioned their government, I realize the innate risks and potential liberations of challenging both those in power and those that comprise the status quo.

I don't know who Mr. Hubbell is fooling, but apparently he's fooling a lot of people since this editorial is now circulating the internet. What he's done is vigorously reinforced every single prejudice of American society and called it "Patriotism". He started his article laying out a series of ideas, then completely contradicted each one of them. He is a prime example of someone who wants us to live as firmly rooted in the past as possible and will only vote for the candidate that reflects that view.

Mr. Hubbell clearly feels he and others like him make up the majority of this status quo. In his eyes, the status quo is a bunch of "Angry White Men". He makes a number of assertions regarding the common Angry White Man. He says things like last name, religion, and political affiliation are irrelevant when it comes to defining the Angry White Man. Yet he also makes it a point to say that the Angry White Man: a) has issues with children of illegal immigrants -- which, let's be honest, we all were at some point in our ancestral lineage (last name); b) goes to church every Sunday (religion), and c) put George W. Bush into office (political affiliation). So clearly, last name, religion, and political affiliation do indeed matter.

He claims the Angry White Man is from all manner of socioeconomic backgrounds, from all walks of [American] life, but in the same breath says that most Angry White Men are independent businessmen who employ several people.

He is also convinced that the Angry White Man is not racist, or sexist, or anti-gay. Though at the same time he avers that there is no logic to the viewpoints of certain African-American leaders (Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Barack Obama among them); that women are "more emotional than rational"; that he despises Hillary Clinton for -- from what I can deduce -- no reason OTHER than the fact that she's a woman; that the Angry White Man is never -- gasp! -- gay.

So of course he doesn't like that both an African-American AND a woman are running for president. That scares the hell out of him. Every piece of discriminatory rhetoric he's been absorbing his entire life (we all know that behavior like this is learned early on) is now being flung back at him with a fierce power. The bogeymen and bogeywomen of his nightmare America are finally gaining the keys to the kingdom. Mr. Hubbell knows that soon, HE will be one of the "disenfranchised", "marginalized", and "voiceless" for the first time in the history of this country. The rest of us have stood on the sidelines long enough.

The rest of us watched in horror as Angry White Men have run this country to the current state it's in today. Some of them did a fantastic job and were indisputable leaders and inspirations. Some of them failed miserably and behaved worse than criminals. Well, the Angry White Man obviously hasn't done much worth lauding in recent years, so now it's our turn.

Our turn. Women. Non-whites. Gays. Hold onto your archaic ideals, Mr. Hubbell, because WE are the new status quo. You've had your turn and you really f---ed it up, as is evident in your op-ed, by the sheer ignorance and arrogance of your stance. You want a level playing field, but you've had ample opportunity to stand up and offer one. For example, did you know that I can get fired or be refused housing in nearly every state in the union, just because I'm gay? What kind of fair game is that, I ask you? I don't know ANYONE -- female, black, gay, whatever -- who wants SPECIAL rights in the eyes of the law. We want your supposedly-welcome "level playing field" just as much as you do. We just want the SAME rights and the SAME chances to beat you.

And come November, we will.

The world is not the same place it was fifty, twenty-five, even ten years ago. The populace is ever-evolving, ever-changing. To quote Mr. Dylan, get out of the new road if you can't lend a hand. Hang back with the apes if you must, but clear the way for the majority of us who see a light at the end of the road.

I know it's scary for you and your clan of Angry White Men, Mr. Hubbell. I admit that a new, stronger status quo, full of hairy-legged women's-libbers and big-mouthed queers and Harvard-educated African-Americans, will be frightening for you.

But, unlike you did for us, we'll protect you.

"I Am Not A Myth" (My Love Affair With Marlene Dietrich)

Swept up in the spirit of Oscar, I seem to be blogging a lot about movies this weekend. But no Donny Does the Movies Festival would be complete without a post devoted to one of my favorite personalities, Marlene Dietrich.

The morning after I posted "12 Performances the Academy Overlooked", I woke from a dead sleep, bolted upright in bed, suddenly awake, and realized that I had omitted what is arguably (though most film historians will agree on this) Oscar's most heinous snub. It is a performance that is downright effin' brilliant, and Academy voters disgustingly ignored it.

Marlene Dietrich in "Witness for the Prosecution".

Dietrich never considered herself a great actress. She even said she never enjoyed working in films at all. But one can't argue with her cyclonic talent when confronted with her performance in "Witness". Now, I can't say much about this role, because in it lies the biggest plot twist in movies until "The Crying Game" came along 30+ years later. Dietrich pulls off something akin to Houdini-esque magic with what she does here as Christine Vole, transforming herself in a daring way that she never did in any of her films before or after. That's all I will say about this performance. You must see it to believe it.

I've always loved Dietrich. When she died at age 90 in 1992, I became swept up in the mystery and myth that was her life. But as she herself once said, "I am not a myth." Indeed, she was not. Dietrich was a tangible legend that she herself created. Unlike Britney Spears (see yesterday's Britney post), Ms. Dietrich was fully conscious of the fact that she was marketing a unique and valuable product: Herself.

At first, she was helped by the great German film director (and bona fide hunk o' man) Josef von Sternberg, who catapulted her to fame as Lola-Lola in "The Blue Angel" (1930). Dietrich was given complete artistic control: she chose how she was lit to best emphasize her features; how she was made-up, often doing her own hair and makeup; how she would move across the frame to best show off those famous gams and best accentuate the swivel of her tiny hips. She would continue this control for the rest of her career, long after she and von Sternberg parted ways.

Her vanity is now legendary. By the time she was doing her renowned cabaret act in the '60s and '70s, she would physically pin back the skin on her face, concealing the pins beneath her wig, in order to appear more youthful. She wore gowns outfitted with special form-altering devices that would, when the gown was on, give the appearance that she still had the same body in 1970 that she had in 1930. Even as an old woman, Marlene still embraced herself as Dietrich-as-Product, and she did it magnificently.

But there is more to Marlene Dietrich than image and vanity. There is undeniable talent. See any of her films for proof of this. To get the full gamut of her range, I would recommend the following:

-"The Blue Angel" (1930) - It's easy to see why men fall to jello around Dietrich's Lola-Lola.

-"Morocco" (1930) - Dietrich in a man's tux, making out with a woman, in 1930!

-"Dishonored" (1931) - A kick-ass scene with Dietrich checking her lipstick in the blade of the sword of one of her executioners.

-"Destry Rides Again" (1939) - Dietrich down and dirty. And she sings "The Boys in the Backroom" with that unique, unmistakable, husky voice.

-"A Foreign Affair" (1948) - A great flick, but one scene, one song, is eternal: Dietrich performing "Illusions".

-"Witness for the Prosecution" (1957) - See opening of this blog.

-"Judgment at Nuremberg" (1961) - Probably my favorite Dietrich performance and definitely her most serious. Rumor has it she couldn't bring herself to say her lines, she was so disgusted by the character. It was only after some counseling from Spencer Tracy that she was able to continue filming. It's truly an incredible (and devastatingly sad) performance.

Despite this impressive body of work, Dietrich's personal life is still far more interesting. She made no qualms about her bisexuality. She had an open marriage with the same man for 52 years. She slept with half the men (and many of the women) in Hollywood and made no apologies. She denied her homeland of Germany and worked with the Allies in World War II. She was one of the few in America willing to speak out about Nazi atrocities during this time. After she retired from films in the 1960s, she refused to be photographed ever again (even for Maximilian Schell's brilliant documentary, "Marlene" (1984), she consented only to the use of her voice).

I suspect, though, that underneath it all, Marlene Dietrich wasn't as mysterious and mythical as she has been made out to be. She has said that her favorite meal was hot dogs and champagne. Her favorite flower was the unassuming geranium. She rarely made friends with show-biz types (outside of sleeping with them); Mae West was one of her only confidants, and they never saw one another outside of the studio. She even played the musical saw, for god's sake! No, I think Dietrich was a lot less highbrow than people think.

A great actress? Without doubt. A dynamic personality? Surely. A genius who knew her strengths and weaknesses and marketed herself accordingly? Definitely.

A legend? Absolutely.

The Bang of Lange: The Films of Jessica Lange

"I've got nothing left to lose at this point. The work I've done is out there." -Jessica Lange


And we are the luckier for it.

Since yesterday's post about Oscar's greatest non-nominated performances, I haven't been able to get Jessica Lange, who featured prominently on my list, out of my head. This incredible actress, rivaled (in my opinion) only by Meryl Streep, has given us some of modern cinema's most remarkable and powerful performances.

Lange, who turns 59 this year, has always wielded a sultry, earthy gravitas, coloring every character she plays with this potent quality. Yet beneath her age-defying sexiness lies a wonderfully complex woman and consummate, chameleonic actress. It would be a great injustice for me to only blog about two performances (Tamora in "Titus" and Mary MacGregor in "Rob Roy") from her impressive canon of work.

Consider this your Jessica Lange Primer.

"All That Jazz" (1979) - Jessica as the Angel of Death. A difficult character (how exactly does one convincingly portray a celestial being?) made, by turns, frightening, funny, and sensuous. Every time I see her in this film, I can't wait to die. Maybe then I can get her autograph.

"Frances" (1982) - Considered by many film aficionados to be one of the greatest screen performances ever, Lange delves into the vibrant, troubled mind of actress Frances Farmer. Wrongly committed to an asylum by her shrew of a mother (the fantastic Kim Stanley), Lange's Frances takes us into a bleak emotional landscape never before so skillfully explored on the screen. Lange lost the Best Actress Oscar that year to Streep (for "Sophie's Choice") but was awarded Best Supporting Actress for "Tootsie". Though no one can argue the worthiness of Streep's win, most consider Lange's supporting award a consolation prize.

"Sweet Dreams" (1985) - Jessica as Patsy Cline. On paper, it doesn't play well. Onscreen, it is pure magic. One of those all-too-rare moments when performer and role mesh so completely that you totally forgot you're watching an actress portray a character. Fiery, complicated, witty, and technically and emotionally flawless, this is Lange at her best. Oh, and she lip synchs Cline's songs so astonishingly well, it's hard to believe she's actually not singing at all. Ashley Simpson, take note.

"Cape Fear" (1991) - Only Jessica could turn the underwritten role of a simpering housewife into a dynamo of strength and maternal power. Her Leigh Bowden is no mere terrorized hausfrau: she is a raging force of womanhood who will stop at nothing to protect her husband and daughter. One of Lange's regrettably overlooked performances.

"Blue Sky" (1994) - If you've ever wondered what mental illness, namely manic depression, looks and feels like, watch Jessica in "Blue Sky". She won an Oscar as Carly Marshall, the volatile and unstable wife of a straight-laced army engineer. Lange throws herself into this role with every muscle in her body, and she rages and crashes and burns -- and then does it all over again -- with an expert control and deft understanding. The film itself is kind of a dud, but Lange lifts it into the stratosphere with her wrenching performance.

"A Streetcar Named Desire" (1995) - I have a particular fondness for Jessica's Blanche DuBois because I was fortunate enough to see her play the role on Broadway. In the TV version of the Tennessee Williams classic, she is no less astounding. Many actresses have portrayed Blanche, but Lange's embodiment is wholly unique and crushingly tragic. She can utter a single line, and, with just the inflection in her voice, break your heart in two. I remember one line in particular ("The boy died") that I had heard Vivien Leigh say repeatedly, since I'd seen the film version of "Streetcar" about a gazillion times. When Lange said it, I broke into tears.

"Normal" (2003) - If I was asked my opinion on which performance of Jessica's is her best, I would be hard-pressed to find an answer. But I think slightly nudging out all the rest would be her portrayal of Irma Applewood in "Normal". In this HBO movie, Roy, a Midwestern, blue-collar husband and father (the equally amazing Tom Wilkinson), decides to have a sex change, hurdling his wife Irma on a brave, terrifying path of discovery. In lesser actors' hands, this film would never have been pulled off. Lange's work here is unrivaled. Her Irma is so forceful a presence that, even though the filmmakers want you to think this is Roy's story, it is not. It is Irma's. As she navigates the unchartered territory of genderless love, marital fidelity, and a totally new existence, we are taken on a roller coaster ride of human emotion. And the scene in the basement, after Irma has taken the washing down from the clothesline, is one of those movie moments that will stick with you forever. A compassionate, brave, explosive performance, as only Jessica could play it.

Now...go rent these movies! You won't be sorry.

She's Come Undone (My One & Only Britney Spears Post)

"There's no master plan. I'm just gonna be me and hope it all works out!" -from an old interview with Britney Spears


Well, clearly it hasn't worked out so well.

I've been wrestling with the Britney dilemma for a while now: the dilemma being that I don't know whether or not to blog about her, as any more publicity on this subject is just further distraction from truly important -- or even remotely more entertaining -- subjects. But I came across this interesting article from 2000, written about Spears, by one of my favorite writers, Elizabeth Wurtzel. Reading this view of Britney in her heyday gave me a lot of perspective on why she is how she is at the current time. Then I figured, what the hell? Everyone else in creation has weighed in on this topic, so why not me dammit?

I've never owned a Britney Spears album. I've never even seen one. Nor have I ever listened to a Britney Spears song all the way through. It's not my style. It's not that I've just never been a Britney fan, I've never been a fan of any singer of bubblegum pop with a computer-perfected voice and a stripper's dance moves. There are a lot of them out there, and I regard them all as the same old tired product.

And that's precisely what has led me to blog about Britney today. We seem to have forgotten that she has always, from the day she stepped into public view, been a product. Record company executives, money-seduced parents, parasitic hangers-on, agents, managers, makeup artists, music industry honchos, the millions upon millions that bought her albums....we all created her. Now we watch as she unravels and wonder how and why and scrutinize her every move. We have no one to blame but ourselves.

It is baffling to us that this product, which has never malfunctioned, is now beginning to show actual human emotion. She is struggling. She is in pain. How can that be?!?!? We created her to be perfect, and now she has turned on us. Well let's do the only thing we know how to do in situations like this: crucify her. Send her back where she came from. That's the only solution. I mean, How dare she remind us of our own imperfections? She was supposed to be our ideal escape.

Yet where did she come from? She will never have a normal life. At first, she was able to maintain some normalcy. I remember seeing Rosie O'Donnell interview her after her first album came out. She was all "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am". It was completely endearing. Even though my ears bled during her musical number, she was a charming Southern girl still rooted in reality. But there were world tours, more albums, provocative photos and interviews (and let's remember, she was underage for a lot of these). All of these things were orchestrated by the grand puppet masters of her life and career. At some point, I'm sure Britney just wanted to be a real girl. Yet that wasn't in her future. Too many people were relying -- are still relying -- on her to make them insanely rich. The only way to satisfy everyone was to destroy any semblance of a human being and replace it with a Southern-twanged wet dream for every adolescent boy and old perv out there, and a down-to-earth good girl for every preteen female. For the last several years, this plan has worked alarmingly well.

Then the product started to show flaws in its design. It started to make mistakes. Questions were raised about its ability to mother, to choose a worthy mate, to make wise and healthy decisions. Of course she can't do these things! She has never been allowed anything remotely resembling human emotion. She treats "her people" like garbage, she seems not to care that her sons were taken away, she surrounds herself with, what Ouiser Bordreaux would call, "boils on the butt of humanity". Is this any surprise? My toaster oven, thrust into the exact same set of circumstances, would probably behave the same way.

I'm not comparing Ms. Spears to a household appliance, I'm simply using it as a "product analogy". I'm also, despite the tone that may come across in this post, greatly saddened by what has happened to her. I firmly believe she has created none of it. Those around her have created it, many, in their defense, unknowingly. Now we see her traipse around Los Angeles at all hours, frequenting Starbucks and, inexplicably, gas station restrooms, and the paparazzi follow her everywhere (yes, even into the bathroom). We chastise her to just stay home already! Even LAPD Chief William Bratton said this in an interview yesterday.

But this cannot be. Why? Because the only time Britney is permitted to feel anything is when she is in the spotlight. That's how she was created, controlled, and marketed. The flashbulbs are pretty and all those men holding them love, love, love her. She has money to make for a lot of people. Her work, even today, in all her turmoil and unending drama, is still not done.

She's ready for her close-up.

Eyes Wide Shut: 12 Performances the Academy Overlooked

I always get giddy around Oscar time. For as long as I can remember, I've been positively enchanted with the Academy Awards. To draw a comparison with which Bostonians can relate, the Oscars are my World Series, or Super Bowl.

But don't misread me here. I realized ages ago that there is really no such thing as a "best" actor or actress. It's all relative, and assigning awards in a popularity contest-styled way leaves the door wide open for criticism, error (Marisa Tomei for "My Cousin Vinny"??? That HAD to be a mistake!), and ignored performances.

As Sunday is Oscar time, I've been reflecting on some of the performances over the years that have particularly moved me, or really stood out in my brain for whatever reason, but failed to get a nomination. And please don't cue the exit music until I'm done with my ramblings.

-Daniel Day-Lewis, "The Crucible" (1996) - Day-Lewis has given us a varied career full of powerful, award-worthy performances, but his portrayal of John Proctor in "The Crucible" is DDL at his finest. How the Academy could ignore him, I don't know. In one of his most commanding, take-your-breath-away scenes, John Proctor proclaims with tortured, gut-wrenching passion, "I say God is dead!". When Day-Lewis failed to nab a Best Actor nomination, I felt the same way.

-Kimberly Elise, "Beloved" (1998) - "Beloved" remains to this day a film that is criminally overlooked, and Kimberly Elise's performance in it is simply flawless. As the sensitive, maturing Denver, the daughter of slaves, Elise is luminescent, easily walking away with every scene she's in. A flawless, emotionally taut performance that deserved more, much more, attention.

-Jessica Lange, "Titus" (1999), "Rob Roy" (1995) - Jessica Lange can do no wrong in my book, so I had to find a way to squeeze two of her non-nominated performances in this list. Her sexy, seductive, and calculating Tamora in Shakespeare's "Titus" is Lange at her scene-chewing best. In "Rob Roy", she is the eponymous hero's devoted wife, Mary MacGregor, a role light years away from Tamora. Lange plunges into Mary's very soul with a divinely emotional abandon. I will never forget her words to her husband's arch-enemy, after he has raped her: "I will think on you dead, until my husband makes you so. Then I will think on you no more." I still get chills just typing those words, hearing Mary MacGregor in my ear.

-Sacha Baron Cohen, "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" (2006) - Sacha Baron Cohen is too talented for his own good. It's easy to watch "Borat" and regard it as nothing more than silly humor and pratfalls. But it is much more than that. His Borat is a fearlessly executed, raucously hilarious, and totally endearing character, and Baron Cohen makes it seem as natural as a second skin. You can't watch this film and separate actor from role. They are perfectly joined, and the result is not only the funniest thing I've seen in ages...but one of the most thought-provoking as well. Borat bravely holds a mirror up to American society and says, "Look at yourselves." And that is probably the precise reason SBC wasn't nominated.

-Katrin Cartlidge, "Breaking the Waves" (1996) - When Katrin Cartlidge died at age 41 in 2002, the motion picture industry lost its next Meryl Streep. Cartlidge was one of those easy, natural actresses who never made it look like she was acting, and she did the best work of her career in "Breaking the Waves". She plays the long-suffering Dodo, dealing with an unstable sister-in-law in a cloistered Scottish village in the 1970s, with understated power and raw emotional intelligence. Actors often talk about "making choices" when navigating their way through a character, and Cartlidge's choices in Dodo are brave, unique, and devastatingly real.

-Maria Falconetti, "La Passion de Jeanne D'Arc" (1928) - Had Falconetti, who never made another film after "Jeanne D'Arc", been nominated for Best Actress, it would have been at the very first Academy Awards ceremony. This performance is often regarded as one of the finest performances ever committed to celluloid. A silent film, the movie chronicles the journey of Joan of Arc's last days. In fact, the shooting script was the actual transcript from the trials of the real Joan. The bulk of the story is told with a single camera fixed on Falconetti's radiant, makeup-less face, conveying every emotion, feeling, and nuance with her amazing eyes and naked features. A master class in great acting.

-John Cazale, "The Godfather" (1972), "The Godfather Part II" (1974), "Dog Day Afternoon" (1975), or "The Deer Hunter" (1978) - Another great actor gone too soon, Cazale starred in some of the best-loved and most well-respected films of the '70s. Though "The Godfather Part II" is generally considered to be his masterwork, he could've easily, justifiably, been nominated for an Oscar for any of the previously mentioned films. I bet Oscar is really kicking himself right about now.

-Debbi Morgan, "Eve's Bayou" (1997) - Mostly known as a soap opera actress, Debbi Morgan tackled the role of Mozelle Delacroix in "Eve's Bayou" with an expert ferocity, making it one of the greatest supporting performances I've ever come across. "Eve's Bayou", like "Beloved", is a tragically underrated and overlooked film, and Morgan's fiery, passionate, and emotionally-driven work was worthy of more attention. Her husky voice rising and falling in lush Cajun cadences, Morgan's Mozelle is wrenchingly unforgettable, shatteringly fierce, and hauntingly sensitive. A powerful, original performance.

-Darlene Cates, "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" (1993) - Bravery, Thy Name is Darlene Cates. Weighing 500 lbs and discovered after appearing on "Sally Jessy Raphael", Cates turned in a powerhouse performance as Johnny Depp's homebound mother in "Gilbert Grape". Not an actress by trade, Cates is natural and alive in front of the camera, and imbues her Bonnie Grape with an unshakable pride and commanding presence. This is a performance that will break your heart, and, like all heartbreak, you will never forget it.

-Juliette Binoche, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" (1988) - Juliette Binoche, like Katrin Cartlidge, is one of those actors that you'll never catch "acting". She is so easily natural and real in every role she plays, but none was as affecting as her turn as Tereza in the amazing "Unbearable Lightness of Being". This is a performance that could rightly be taught in an acting class on how to believably portray a character on a transformative journey. From a naive girl who only sees the good in everyone, to a world-weary woman who discovers that our contemporary landscape is not as easy or kind as it makes itself out to be, Binoche's Tereza is an expertly-drawn character study.

-John Cameron Mitchell, "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" (2001) - As the title heroine with the botched sex change, John Cameron Mitchell soared to breathtaking heights of emotion in the film version of his play. Like Baron Cohen in "Borat", JCM makes it look deceptively simple to play such an outrageous, larger-than-life character. But if you watch closely, you will see that Mitchell has his finger on the pulse of human emotion: emotion that rises above sex, gender, and, most importantly, music. An incredible, startlingly singular performance.

-Anyone but Julia Roberts, "Steel Magnolias" (1989) - Like Tomei's win for "My Cousin Vinny", I was baffled by Julia Roberts' nomination for "Steel Magnolias". She is the weak link in an otherwise-perfect cast chock-full of flawless performances. Any of the other central women in the film could have understandably garnered a nomination. My pick would've been Sally Field or Shirley MacLaine (come on, folks, can any of us ever forget the cemetery scene?!?), but, alas, it was Roberts who got the glory. Thankfully, she didn't win.

The Upside of Anger

I think it's time to get pissed off.

I've always worked customer service jobs of some sort. These jobs demand that the majority of my daily tasks consist of dealing with angry people. So I am surprised that we, as a human population, still frown upon anger as a negative emotion. I deal with other people's pissed-offedness every single day, yet I don't think the majority of us, myself included, get angry often enough. Except Naomi Campbell.

I don't know where it comes from. My parents are calm people, yes, but they're ready to get angry when a situation calls for it. So I didn't get it from them. I've always had the bad habit of turning my rage inward, upon myself, which of course results in not-very-pretty psychoses and decidedly unhappy endings. I like to think I've learned from past mistakes, but to be honest, I'm a work in progress and you gotta crawl before you can walk.

So I still deal with the everyday anger building up inside. I wish I were one of those people like, well, Naomi Campbell, who can just throw a Blackberry at someone and feel a hell of a lot better...and get a Dunkin' Donuts commercial out of it to boot. Actually, I'd be more apt to throw the Blackberry at a wall, I'm not really into injuring others in order to exorcise my rage. But, alas, I don't own a Blackberry.

I think a worldwide anger fest would be terrific. We all just start screaming and throwing things. Damn, that would feel so good. We could get Jack "I've Played the Same Character For 40 Years" Nicholson to host it (remember his little anger episode with the baseball bat and the parked car?); Naomi could be our spokesmodel. Kenneth Anger, the avant garde film director, could sponsor it, on the basis of his appropriate name alone. So many things could change as the result of our collective anger. Imagine the catharsis. Imagine the freedom.

Now excuse me while I hurl my keyboard through the window.

Spamalot: The Joy of Junk Email

Like the vast majority of the wired world, I get bombarded with spam in my email account each and every day. I know spam annoys a lot of people, and I can understand why. John's email account, for instance, gets literally hundreds of junk messages every day. I also get my fair share, but in much smaller numbers, which is probably why I find it more entertaining than annoying.

Here are a few of the favorites that landed in my inbox:

• Great Deals and Special Savings on Art Linkletter's Craftsmatic Adjustable Bed. Now don't judge, because I love everything about this bed. I've always wanted one. Imagine the ease! I can lay in bed and not even move, this thing will do all the work for me. If I want to get up, all I have to do is push a button and this amazing device will put me in a standing position! But why the hell would I want to get up? I'd never leave this bed!
• Subject Line: "You KNOW When the Girls Start Staring At Your Pants, You're Doing Something Right!" Oh, this one tickles me. It assumes so much. It assumes I like girls. It assumes the girls I encounter are the type to ogle men's crotches. It assumes I have a small penis (I just realized that this is my second blog in a row where I talk about penis size. Don't read too much into this.) It also assumes I wear pants.
• URGENT. Your help is desperately needed. These emails always try to come off as a gentle Christian woman in the barbarism of Africa (usually Nigeria) who is in desperate need of money for her church, or her daughter's life-saving operation, or new straw for the roof of her hut. The letters go something like this: "Dearest, I call upon you to send me cash so that I may buy food for my babies. Today I went to the market, and I had to sell my left hand for a pig snout. Please help. Yours in Christ, Mary Ndugu".
• I'm sure we all get the same spam from Reunion.com. The emails, which arrive at least twice a week, always contain the same subject: "Donn, 4 People Are Searching For you!" This one always makes me chuckle. Cuz ain't nobody lookin' for me!
• Subject: "equinoctial Vyiaggra $1.09". I admit, I had to look up "equinoctial" in the dictionary, and now I kinda like this word. It means "pertaining to equinoxes". But "Vyiaggra"? And why isn't the e on "equinoctial" capitalized in the subject line? And most importantly, why is Jai Washington, the sender of this email, so concerned with what's happening "down there"? Sheesh, he could at least buy me dinner first.
  

Ah, good old spam. It's not just a processed blob of luncheon meat anymore!

Romancing the Keyboard (Or, The Art of the Bodice-Ripper)

Let me begin with a confession.

I love historical romance novels. You know the ones. They typically feature a busty dame and a muscley hero emblazoned on the cover in an embrace just short of actual schtupping. The stories are usually formulaic, and the bad guys always meet their ends badly, and the good guys always live happily ever after and have lots of good sex. That appeals to me. It always has. As if in some mythical netherworld of heaving breasts and dinner-plate pecs, the world still works: the good guys win and the bad guys lose.

Though my reading is typically on the "serious" side, ever since I was 12 years old I've peppered my Proust and Nabokov with a hearty helping of spitfire heroines, rakish men donning barrel chests, and misty scenes of Medieval castles, Regency England, the Old West, or the antebellum South. It's just plain fun to choose a book to read not based on the quality of the writing, or the author's previous work, or the accolades of the story...but based upon how hot the guy on the cover is. In what I can speculate is only an attempt to further titillate the straight women and gay men of the world, I've noticed that many romance novel covers now leave the heroine off completely. They just sport an oily, sexy image of the hero, usually in period-garb, with a decent amount of chest exposed and a bulging crotch not achieved through the use of a codpiece, thank you very much. There were no small penises in Regency England.

A few months ago, I came across a downright brilliant website. It's called Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. The two women who write this romance novel-driven blog are fierce. Intelligent, warm, insightful, and laugh-till-your-panties-are-wet hilarious. I don't know if men qualify, but I like to think of myself as an honorary Smart Bitch Who Loves Trashy Books.

Given my self-proclaimed Smart Bitch status, I've decided to write an historical romance novel. I've flirted with this idea for years, but it's never really come to fruition until now. Honestly, what propelled it to actually happen were the staggering statistics I read on romance novels:

• Romance novels generated 1.37 BILLION dollars in sales in 2006.
• Nearly 6400 romance novels were released in 2006.
• Of all the readers around the globe, one in five read romance novels.
• One out of every two paperback fiction novels sold is a romance novel. That's 50%, folks!
• Those who read romance novels have 70% more sex than those who don't.
• Those who read romance novels have 70% more sex than those who don't. (I just felt that bore repeating.)
  

These numbers called forth a romantic hetero love story I've been developing in the furthest recesses of my brain for the last five or six years. At last, a few weeks ago, I sat down and put this tale to paper, and I gotta tell you, it's a lot of fun -- and a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be.

It's given me a newfound respect for both the genre in general and the romance novelist in particular. It is tremendously challenging to write these stories. Believability isn't so much as important as creating a natural progression to the unfolding of the story's dynamics. Love is capricious and can come about in a variety of ways, but stretching those ways to encompass 400 pages is a challenge. Sub-plots and sub-genres within the novel are key to making the story work and further solidifying the total rightness of the hero and heroine's love.

Also surprising to me was the amount of research required to write one of these novels. I mean, you can't just say, "She whisked the eggs in the bowl." You have to know very key things. Like when was the whisk invented? Did it exist in 1802? Was it used in the part of the world where the story takes place? What did it look like? Was it different from the whisks we use today? You see the hardship here. These ladies have to do their homework before writing even the most trivial detail. And I've found a lot of historical romances to be infinitely detailed, down to the smallest points worthy of note, and this, I'm learning, requires a major degree of scholarship and study.

I realize I face a major obstacle should I ever decide to try to publish this manuscript: I have a penis. Men don't write romance novels. This makes sense, of course, because what woman wants to pick up a female-centric love story written by a man? There have been, however, men who have published romances under female pseudonyms (the late Tom Huff, a.k.a. Jennifer Wilde, wrote some of my favorite historical romances), so this is the path that I too am going to have to take. Deciding on a female pen name is difficult, as I don't want to sound like a porn star, but I also don't want it to be a forgettable and commonplace moniker. Email me your suggestions, I'm open to anything flowery and saucy, but not slutty or cheap. Despite what you may have heard.

Undertaking this book has been, above all else, challenges aside, a lot of fun. I find myself thinking of these characters all day long, brimming with excitement to get home and continue their story. And it's just wickedly delightful to write love scenes. Love scenes, too, pose their own set of unexpected challenges, because where else in literature can you use words like "elongated hardness", "pink bud of pleasure", or "hard rosy aureole" with a straight face?

All this begs the question, How does one write a love scene and still respect their computer in the morning? Should I buy my keyboard flowers? Or should I ignore it for the day, despite its repeated voicemails on my cell phone? Or maybe I should get it something practical, like one of those aerosol cans with the long red straw that blows air between the keys?

Damn, that sounds kind of sexy.

Love, Love, and Love

I like lots of things, but there are three things I like most...love, love, and love." -La Dolce Vita


Don't think it has escaped my mind that the last several blogs I've written have been, well, rather negative. In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I will blog today only about that most positive of all positives in the world: love.

I am lucky that I have such amazing creatures in my life to love. Here is a completely random compiling of those I am fortunate enough to have great love for. This is a totally arbitrary and casual list. If you don't find your name on here and are a key player in my life, don't feel offended if your name doesn't appear. These ten names are simply the ones that float to my mind at this moment.

I've often felt my emotions and convictions to be rather small. But I've also always thought the only larger-than-life feeling I possess with every fiber of my existence is my ability to love. These ten beings, in no particular order, whether they like it or lump it, are objects of my intense, crazy, passionate, unconditional love.

10. Rupert, Fergus & Claire. Three animals that have changed my world. To me, they embody grace and affection, forgiveness and good humor. They made a father out of me and taught me the meaning of unconditional love.

9. My family. Our road has not been an easy one, but they drive me, challenge me, humor me, infuriate me, and support me. I adore them.

8. Phyllis, my mother-in-law. She is the personification of class, elegance, and wit. Just being in her presence elevates me. I treasure her.

7. My two Katies: Kat and Caety D. Not a day goes by I don't feel their love and raucous humor from across the miles. These ladies have gotten me through some of the most trying times of my life, and they are never far from my mind and always in my heart.

6. Tony. The calmest, most generous person I've ever met. He is not just a friend. He is a mentor. I look up to him with respect and pride. Should I ever grow out of my 31-year awkward phase, I want to be just like him.

5. Molly. She is the first writer I've ever met whose voice on paper is exactly the same as her voice in "real life". There's no discrepancy between who she is as a writer and who she is as a human being. Her authenticity and sincerity are eternal lessons for me.

4. Steph. Because her heart is an organ of pure fire and she brings light to my life, a life that is always in danger of slipping under into darkness.

3. Josh. After eleven years apart, he found me again, and we've reestablished a much-missed friendship. He is the poet of my spirit.

2. Edith. My dear friend, my guru. Her guidance is palpable in every step I take. I admire her for reasons that are difficult for me to put into words. Suffice it to say, she inspires me.

1. John. I could write forever about why I love John, but let me just say this: "My life without you would be a place of parched and broken trees." (Mary Oliver)


Happy Valentine's Day, one and all.

An Open Letter to the MBTA, Part I

Note: For those of you fortunate enough not to live Beantown, the MBTA (or T for short) is the Greater Boston mass transit system. Though it encompasses the range of public transportation options available, including the subway, bus lines, and ferries, whenever someone refers to "taking the T", they are usually referring to the subway.


Dear MBTA,

From the bottom of my cold, critical heart, thank you for wiring all T tunnels for cell phone use. This means I can use my cell phone for the one and only reason I own it: to tell the time. You see, I have an aversion to wearing watches, and my cell has a clock that only works when service is available, so it comes in wonderfully handy to be able to tell what time it is when commuting. I love knowing that my mile-long commute takes over an hour.

But I offer an even more enthusiastic thank you for allowing me all-access knowledge to every other passenger on the T. I don't know how I lived without this added perk for so long. I adore knowing what the Curtis family is having for dinner. Or what despicable shenanigans that beyotch Wendy is up to now. Or how trying it is for Frank to only make $50K when he clearly deserves, at the least, $60K. Or how Susan will be meeting Sheila at the Harvard Square Station -- no, not at that exit, the Church Street exit. Or where Ted is taking his lady for a pre-Valentine's dinner, hoping to get lucky one day earlier than expected. Or....

How did I ever live without knowing facts like this, screamed at full lung-power from every seat on the T?

Oh, and I also love hearing the "Sex and the City" ringtone blaring at peak volume at 7:00 a.m.

These things just make my dull life a little brighter. Thank you very, very much.

Love and Kisses,
Donn

In Defense of Home: A Ballad of Wild Roses & Beefsticks

While waiting to see the dentist yesterday, I flipped through the well-worn pages of a travel magazine. Most of it was filled with images of sand-blanketed beaches, rustling palm trees, and bright, easy sun. Then I happened upon something altogether different and unique: a look at the 50 U.S. states through a snack food each state has made popular in the national consciousness.

New York has those delicious black-and-white cookies; California the delectable and delectably-named Abba Zaba bars; Florida the coconut patty (my personal favorite); Vermont the eye-bulging sweetness of maple syrup candy. And what was my home state of Iowa's contribution to the Wonderful World of Snack Food?

Beef sticks.

Beef sticks?!? Even Tennessee was credited with something funky and retro (Moon Pies) and Iowa was relegated to the hillbilly caviar known as beef sticks?

Oh, hell no.

You see, it's supposedly-enlightening material like this that makes the rest of the world think Iowa is a redneck backwater with no electricity and a toothless populace. Thousands of people are going to pick up this magazine and regard Iowa as no more than a flat-chested state with nothing to offer the country except dueling banjo music and Ashton Kutcher. Most people think this already anyway, if they think of Iowa at all. The great majority of people consistently view Iowa as the state with all the potatoes. (The potato crown, incidentally, belongs to Idaho, not Iowa. It's tough, I know. Those "I"s are baffling letters.)

Iowa is more, so much more, than a land of beef sticks and Mr. Demi Moore. Had I written this blog ten years ago, you would've heard a far different voice: one decidedly more critical, lambasting all the things the Hawkeye State lacks. But with maturity, moving away, and traveling, I've come to view my home state in a softer, and I think more realistic, light.

It's true that Iowa is predominantly a farming culture. It's also very flat: drive just a mile or two outside of any town and you can see all the way to the horizon in any given direction. People tend to talk in Midwestern twang, not unlike what we heard in the movie "Fargo". There's not a heck of a lot in Iowa. It's a very spare, very stark place.

All of these facts are reasons I love my home. Farmers play a vital role in the function of any society, and these men and women live their lives with an intimate, powerful knowledge, not only of tractors and combines and crops, but of the earth, the sun and moon, the cycles of life itself. The land is indeed a level landscape. In winters, the snow can reach to a place where it meets the sky, and in summer, the sun can wash the fields and grasses in lambent dazzle all the way to the tip of the world. There have been many July evenings I've looked to the horizon, only to see an eternity of flickering candles: fireflies hovering with their unassuming grace.

Outsiders will note that Iowans talk funny; we drop our "g"s and infuse much of our language with lightness, with ease, with laughter, and we are friendly to a fault. And Iowa is far from many of the modern conveniences the rest of the country find so necessary: one minor airport, infrequent cell phone towers, scores of unpaved roads.

But I ask you: what exactly is wrong with this? Boasting these, I think positive, attributes, how did Iowa grow to be regarded as a mecca for yokels and trailer parks? I must have missed the memo that said farmers are backwards, unspoiled land is offensive, and regional dialect is laughable. Where is the unsophistication in saying "Good morning" to a stranger, or "Thank you" to someone who has patronized your store? I've been around the world, and I've yet to encounter a place with the singular beauty of Iowa.

I spent many years as an adult in Iowa. I always found things to do (to briefly dispel another myth, there is plenty of culture to be found; for example, Des Moines has an opera, most communities have local theater troupes, and headlining musical acts come to Iowa just as readily as they play anywhere else). As a grown man, and a gay one, I never experienced any discrimination. As a Buddhist, there is a huge Zen retreat center near Decorah. As a Democrat, I was never without like-minded liberal friends (let's not forget that, contrary to popular belief, Iowa is more often than not a blue state).

So how the hell did beef sticks get to be our state food? With goldfinches our state birds, and the wild rose our state flower, we deserve better than poor man's Slim Jims as our entry into the Snack Food Hall of Fame.

Even corn, in all it's abundant Iowa glory, would've been a more appropriate choice. Corn, at least, is vegan.

Life Concentrate! (Memoirs in Six Words)

I recently came across this interesting article and was inspired to write my own autobiography in six words. What I found is that this is both a lot of fun and incredibly frustrating. How do we condense our lifetime of experience, love, loss, triumph, heartbreak, fart jokes into just six words?

Here are some of my attempts.

-Passionately, I lived, loved, hated, died.

-Wanted to be Bea Arthur. Failed.

-Ate meat. Then didn’t. Found compassion.

-Drank too much. Quit. Discovered peace.

-Will the real Donn stand up?

-Seemed to have misplaced my dreams.

-Spent too much time answering phones.

-Read with abandon. Glimpsed God there.

-Met Meryl, but never banged Brody.

-Alas, I am just too much.*

*Thanks, Bette Davis. I stole that line from a Barbara Walters interview she once did.

This Stifling: On Work & Happiness

"Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies."

-Albert Camus


Webster's Dictionary defines work as "the occupation for which you are paid". It stands to reason that if you figure in Camus's above-mentioned view, you should damn well be performing work that is soulful and vibrant or a great repression can and will blanket your life. This blanket is wholly smothering and will affect every corner of your existence, even -- and especially -- those corners of your life that are far away from your place of employment.

I don't hate my job. That's my problem. Hate is a strong motivator, and for me, when I hate a situation I'm in, I do everything in my power to get the hell out of it. I have a tremendous respect for and sense of self-preservation. But while I don't hate my current work, while it's not sheer torture for me to show up in the mornings, I don't love it -- or even remotely like it -- either. For some, it's a dream job. For me, it's not, for the simple yet frustratingly complicated reason that it's just not what I want to be doing.

Herein lies the Great Dilemma of My Life. The two occupations I've ever felt born to do (italics are vital here) are not traditionally "easy" professions. They aren't jobs you just surf the classifieds, submit a resume, have an interview, and show up on your first day in a dandy new pair of slacks with a Dilbert coffee mug in hand. The fields of acting (film, television, theater) and writing (books, journalism, copy) are terrains one must "break into". The number of actors who won an Oscar for their first role are minimal; the writers who publish their debut manuscript are virtually nonexistent. I tend to look at people like Marlee Matlin (who won an Academy Award for her first movie) and Margaret Mitchell (who never published anything before or after "Gone With the Wind") as unicorns or Santa Clauses. They can't possibly be real. For the rest of us, a lifetime of 40-hour work weeks, water cooler gossip, and monotonous drudgery are the standard until we just might happen upon a break of some kind.

40 hours a week. That is such a huge chunk of our lives. That's well over two thousand hours every year that we devote to work that isn't at all rewarding. Most people can do this, and, given my yen for the stage, you'd think I'd be an old pro at walking into crappy jobs with a crappy smile. And up until now, I've always been able to pull it off. But lately, as I get older, I realize there is an inherent danger to keeping up these appearances. Camus's stifling is very real. In the past, what I only sensed on the periphery has now become physically and emotionally manifest in my life. It bleeds into everything I do.

Two thousand hours+ per year. Think about that.

Bypassing the 'Hood: Notes From a Non-Father

The question is inevitable, and if you are coupled, be it a month of dating or ten years of marriage, you will assuredly hear it:

When are you going to have kids?

Being that I am one part of a same sex union, I naively figured I was immune to this question. Why I thought this, I don't know. After all, we live in an ever-opening society in which gay couples and singles have children every day, be it through adoption, surrogacy, or in-vitro fertilization. This is, of course, a terrific thing, and worthy of celebration. It is no more acceptable, however, to ask us when we are having children than it is to ask any other couple on the face of the earth this same question.

In fact, I've always thought the When are you having kids? inquisition to be an inappropriate one. First, it's very insensitive. What if one, or both, people are physically unable to reproduce? Second, it's diminishing. The million-dollar-question undermines the whole reason we get married in the first place: because we are in love and want to make a lifelong commitment to that love. And third, it's intrusive. Whose business is it if John and Jane Doe, or Sally and Callie Smith-Johnson, don't want to reproduce? 'Taint nobody's business, that's what I say.

Before I go any further, let me just make this brief caveat. I have no problem with kids. To be truthful, I like children a lot. I have a godson whom I adore, and a fabulous little diva of a niece who can always warm my heart. I think kids are great, but that doesn't mean I want to have them. I also think venti soy cinnamon dolche lattes are great. That doesn't mean I want a Starbucks counter in my kitchen.

A couple of months ago, John and I watched the documentary "All Aboard! Rosie's Family Cruise". It chronicles the lives and adventures of various couples on one of Rosie O'Donnell's R Family cruise vacations. I love Rosie; her R Family Vacations is a travel service offering gay and lesbian family excursions. They look like a lot of fun and are geared toward same sex couples and their children, offering a valuable, and pretty revolutionary, option for families that society has branded "non-traditional". I applaud Rosie and her crew, and the documentary was both entertaining and educational. Eye-opening may in fact be a better word for it. My response to "All Aboard!" was the polar opposite of most viewer's reactions, and probably radically different even from the filmmakers' intent.

For ninety minutes, I watched these gay and lesbian couples, some with children, some without, go about their lives with their families. They all relayed their unique stories of how their families came to be. Some of the pairings were in the early stages of pre-parenthood, planning their future little ones, calling their in-vitro clinics, and discussing the courses their lives would take once they became proud parents. I found all of these people very brave and smart, but a realization hit me like a tidal wave as I watched.

I couldn't identify with any of them.

Never in my life have I wanted a child as much as these fine folks. Never have I even thought of parenthood that much. Never have I seen myself in any of their roles, be it mother or father or grandparent. Never have I felt the paternal/maternal urge that most people feel at some point in life. A sea had risen up between myself and the child-seeking, child-rearing, child-focused world. Actually, I don't think it suddenly rose up; I think the sea was always there, and it took watching this movie for me to recognize it for what it is.

I simply don't want to be a father. I've never wanted to be one. I've never imagined myself with children. It has never, for an instant, been a notion I've seriously pondered. I am many things. A father is not one of them.

Luckily, John and I agree on this. We've both gone through stages where the idea of parenthood has presented itself, but those stages inevitably pass when confronted with the cemented knowledge that we simply don't wish to be parents. We've made a conscious decision not to have kids. We're more than OK with that.

The suggestion that the sole reason to marry is to multiply is one asserted only by various religions, repressive governments, or societal necessity. It's not a suggestion of the heart or mind; it's a guideline set forth by external hierarchies. I would even suspect that in the time of the Cro Magnon, the purpose of a union was to produce more hunter/gatherers for the tribe. And perhaps also a great food source for the long winter months. Maybe that's where "It tastes like chicken" comes from.

Seriously though, while I've not envisioned myself with human offspring, I've always imagined I would have a family of animals. Dogs, cats, even a pig or two. It's no secret I prefer animals to people anyway, so this of course makes a lot of sense. I guess you could say that when it comes right down to it, I'd rather raise the stork than the baby.

Book Review: "90 Minutes in Heaven" by Don Piper

A more appropriate title for this blog would be "Holy Shit", but I at least have couth enough not to write an offensive title that would emblazon a curse word at the top of my web page. I can, however, write a damned offensive blog. And so I shall.

Let me begin by saying that "90 Minutes in Heaven" is not a book I would normally read. At my job, the employees have started a monthly book club, and this particular book was the pick for the inaugural meeting. I borrowed a copy from a colleague, and thank god I did. I would've been supremely pissed off had I laid down a single cent for this royal turd of a book.

Actually, even calling it a book is being generous. The word "book" implies certain standards. Books offer new ideas, new experiences, new adventures. Books make us think about the larger, more vital questions of this life. Books make us feel less lonely. Books are entertaining.

"90 Minutes in Heaven" is none of these. It's more a long-winded pamphlet of Christian cliches and ideologies, masked in the guise of a preacher's journey from a soul-saving, gospel-spreading Man of God to, well, a soul-saving, gospel-spreading Man of God.

Let me explain.

The author of this potato (let's just call it a potato, since it's clearly not a book) is a minister named Don Piper. In 1989, he was in an awful car accident, in which he was hit head-on and his vehicle was pretty much flattened. In this accident, Don Piper died. For ninety minutes, anyway.

Now this is where it gets tricky. A 205-page potato that boasts a title and a jacket declaring the author's real, one-of-a-kind visit to the real, one-of-a-kind heaven, only contains fifteen pages actually about heaven. The rest of the story consists of the details of Piper's recovery.

At this point in my reading, I was still more than willing to give it a chance. My husband John was also in a terrible car accident many years ago, and his recovery process was long and arduous (and in some ways, still continues to this day). I thought Piper's experience, while not giving me the secrets of heaven as promised, would hopefully give me some insight into what John went through.

But ah, ain't wishful thinking grand? Because while it is true that the author goes into detail about the physical ramifications of the collision, he really says very little about the emotional or spiritual ones. And there is good reason for this: Don Piper is not a writer. He's simply not, there's no kind way to put it. Yet I gotta give Don a little credit, because he had sense enough to hire a co-author, Cecil Murphey, to write his story. I'm assuming he dictated his tale and put it on paper with Murphey's collaboration and guidance. Maybe I'm wrong, but isn't this what a co-author is supposed to do?

Maybe Mr. Murphey called in sick on the day Piper decided to write the potato. Not only does it feel like it was written in a day, but there seems to have been no editing process involved whatsoever. The story lacks any real depth or discovery, which is truly tragic since this horrible experience could've served as a catalyst for some mighty, benevolent change in Don Piper's world. And possibly even the worlds of other car crash survivors.

Let's visit those few pages that actually take place in heaven. First of all, the entire description of Piper's heaven can be summed up in two words: "It's indescribable." He makes it a point to say this, repeatedly and ad nauseam, throughout the two chapters devoted to the celestial resting place in the sky. Everything, from the sights to the emotions to the music, is just not describable. This bothered me a lot. Piper clearly shouldn't have written a book/root vegetable if he couldn't put words to an experience. Because that's what a book is.

The few bones he does toss us are positively trite. Pearly gates, streets paved with gold, choirs of angels. My first thought when I read these things was Damn, heaven sounds boring as hell.

As I mentioned, the remaining 190 pages chronicle Piper's recovery after he was inexplicably brought back to life by another minister, who just happened to be driving by. This second minister squeezed into the mangled car and prayed all over Piper till he woke. These pages are as equally uninteresting and uninspiring as the few that take place in heaven. In writing his story, Piper has managed to do something that is indeed miraculous: he has left out the story itself. There are no dramatic arcs, there's no coherent plot, and this hero we are rooting for undergoes no important spiritual or emotional changes.

The hero's journey can be broken down like this:
1. Car accident. Bad.
2. Dies for ninety minutes. Goes to heaven. Indescribable.
3. Brought back to life; undergoes torturous recovery. Bad.
4. Continues with the same job, same life, same beliefs, same views held pre-accident. Good.

The other players in this drama, namely Piper's wife, kids, and colleagues, play virtually no role in this retelling of events. In fact, I was a little offended by the author's portrayal of his wife. Not only is she almost nonexistent, but what little he does say about her paints her as an irrelevant and incompetent "Christian helpmate". He even goes so far as to point out her inability to handle those manly things like finances, writing checks, and paying bills. This poor woman suffered just as much as he did with this accident, and she deserves better.

There was, though, one character and one instance that I found truly touching. After Piper has returned home to convalesce, his mother comes to take care of him when his wife steps away for a breather at Bible camp. He is embarrassed by his bed-ridden state and the fact that he has to use a bedpan. But his mother is unfazed: she falls into her role with delicate ease and nurses her son with no judgment and no discomfort. It's really a beautiful scene, and I wish it hadn't been relegated to a couple of paragraphs. This story -- the man who has spent his life saving and caring for others is forced to be saved and cared for as an adult by the only person who really can: his mother -- should have been the focus of the book. It would've made a far better story.

In the last chapter of the book, Piper does something I found profoundly distasteful and a furthering of the stereotypes that all Christians are out to save our souls and preach that their way is the only way. The author dismisses claims of other people's near-death experiences. He doesn't mention any names, but he points out some other folks who had NDEs and wrote books about their experiences. And then proceeds to blow them off with an arrogant attitude of, in so many words, "MY experience is the only REAL experience".

Now that you've heard me tear this book a new one, I'm tempted to tell you to go read it. It's like that old SNL skit where one guy smells the sour milk, immediately winces, and says, "Oh that smells awful! Here, SMELL IT!" --and thrusts the carton at the other guy. It can be fun to see just how bad bad writing can be. I kinda want you to experience just how awful this book really is.

It's...indescribable.

Primary Colors: Ramblings On Super Tuesday From These Once-United States

Something strange happened to me this morning.

I got a nasty sunburn in Mexico that hurts more than Britney Spears's new CD. As a result, I haven't been sleeping well lately. Since I was up early, I decided to hit my polling place before work and vote in the primary. After throwing on some loose baggy clothes that wouldn't chafe my lobstered skin like sandpaper, I walked the few blocks in the pouring rain to get my tally on the ballot.

I knew I had arrived early because the Bostonians working the polls were downright cheerful. It always throws me when I encounter cheerful Bostonians. I also knew I was early because the volunteer sitting by the door was devouring a cinnamon roll the size of a human head. He sputtered a frosting-lipped "Good Morning" as I entered the elementary school meeting room.

Soon I had my ballot and was snugly ensconced in the voting booth, a red, white, and blue striped curtain tucking me in securely. I glanced at the ballot and scanned down the names. It was clear that the ballots were outdated, as they contained the names of several candidates who have already dropped out of the race. I got a little sad when I saw my man Kucinich's name. Dennis Kucinich was my first choice, but he bowed out of the running on January 24.

And then it struck me:

I had no idea who to vote for. With my first and second choices (Kucinich and John Edwards, respectively) out of the picture, I was left to choose between my tied-for-third-place selections, Hillary and Obama. A panic set in immediately. Who the hell was I going to vote for?

Luckily, I'm not a total political dunce, so I had done my homework on these two. I like both of them immensely, and I dislike both of them with equal immensity. Confusing? You bet it is, and more than a little nerve-wracking when you're standing in the voting booth, black felt-tipped pen in hand, on the poise of choosing our country's next leader.

I quickly went through everything I like and don't like about Hillary and Obama:

Hillary - Pros

• She's a woman. And we are long overdue for a female president. Even countries that harbor the most misogynistic views of women have had women leaders. It is a testament to our latent (or not-so-latent) sexism that we've never had a woman in the White House. Personally, I am more comfortable with women than I am with men, so Hills gets huge props from a strictly selfish point of view. Also, women do think differently than men. Women can bring to the table an entirely different (and in my experience, oftentimes more compassionate) set of ideas than we've ever seen in the realm of Commander-in-Chief. And I'm all for that.
• She's a mother. And our country needs mothering right now. In a desperate way.
• She's a friend of the gay community. She always has been. Regardless of whether or not she's waffled on other viewpoints, she's never waffled on this one. She's always been willing to stand up for us. Even though she may not support gay marriage (she's a civil union advocate), it's still a step in the right direction. You can't move big redneck mountains overnight.
• Her health care plan. Hillary's health care proposal makes the most sense to me and could well put us on the way toward universal health care.
  
• She's pro-choice and pro-woman. She has always championed a woman's right to choose and has been a staunch supporter of expanding access to family planning services. She is unapologetically independent, powerful, and assertive.
  
• She's pro-gun control. Hillary realizes that the old adage is an utter lie. Guns do kill people.
• She wants us out of Iraq. The Iraq War is Bush's War, not ours. Hillary gets this. She's more compassionate and peaceful, I suspect, than any of us will ever know.
• She has something very important to me: Hillary Clinton has class. We as a country have been witness to many of her degradations and embarrassments, and she's handled them all with a level of class and dignity that is inspiring. "Whatever happened to class?" I've posited lately. Well...she's right there.

Hillary - Cons

• Hillary IS Corporate America. And Corporate America is physically and psychically revolting to me.
• While she supports civil unions and granting the same rights to gay couples as straight couples, she isn't willing to call it "marriage". It's the same thing, trust me on this. We have just as much right to use the word "marriage" as any other group of people. The government cannot claim ownership of a word: it belongs to everyone.
• If Hillary is elected, it will mean that this country will have been governed by the same two families for 24 consecutive years. This unsettles me greatly. It's time for new blood. As Mos Def said, "They're passing around the presidency like it's a party joint."

Obama - Pros

• He's a person of color. We need diversity and a more accurate reflection of the American people in our positions of power. Enough of the 300-year old white men that have held this country hostage for far too long. A change will do us good.
• He's young. New blood in the White House is great, but young blood is even better. It's time to throw off the diapers of the elderly presidency and reinvigorate Washington with the full blush of youth. Okay, he's not that young. But he isn't a 300-year old white man, so he might as well be a preteen. I often hear Obama criticized as not having enough experience, but this isn't a huge concern for me. In fact, I see it as more of an advantage than a hindrance.
• He and Hillary are pretty much agreed on all the topics that interest me most: the Iraq War, peace, gay marriage, gun control, reproductive rights, the death penalty. With both candidates agreeing on these topics, it makes it very difficult to choose, as could be witnessed this morning by my shaking and charred hands poised over the ballot.

Obama - Cons

• There is just something about Obama that doesn't ring entirely authentic to me. This is a challenge to convey in a blog. His big smile strikes me as contrived, and I have a hard time believing his sincerity.
• He's an awe-inspiring speaker, but something of a bumbler when it comes to unscripted and off-the-cuff remarks. A lack of refinement or ill-preparedness, perhaps.
  
• Obama is with Hillary on the word "marriage" and feels it's strictly a hetero term. When I watched him on the Logo network's panel on gay marriage, I almost sensed a slight discomfort in his poise and his answers. This caused me to question his alliance with the gay community. Being authentic, being sincere, are important qualities to me, and I had to struggle to find them during that particular forum. But I do desperately want to believe that his warm bright smile is entirely true. Maybe in time I will.

Now, in a perfect world, a world where I have 100 puppies and write poetry for a living and frolic gaily in a field of wildflowers each morning, Hillary and Obama would join forces and run together. That would be ideal. If these two powerful entities united, there is no doubt in my mind that we would be restored to the status of Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.

But, alas, this would require a great setting-aside of egos, and I honestly don't know if this can happen. I hope, for all our sakes', that it does.

Standing in the voting booth, the rain tap-tapping the metal roof of the elementary school, I uncapped my marker and filled in the oval beside the candidate of my choice.

Hillary Clinton.

And so, when it came right down to it, I chose the one with boobies. Everyone knows I've always been a boob man.

Further Scenes From the Class Struggle in America (Or, Homeland Insecurity)

In Which the Author More Deeply Probes the Eternal Question: "Whatever Happened to Class?"


In my previous post, I explored the loss of class in our society, and how the world seems to be making a ruthless attempt at living as classlessly and uncivilly as is humanly possible. The gravity of this issue was magnified for me this weekend, when John and I took a rather impromptu trip to Mexico. I've already mentioned the degree of classlessness with which TSA employees tackle their jobs. But these folks have nothing on the boorish officers of the United States Homeland Security Department (DHS).

Before I go any further, let me say that I realize my husband has very little patience for airports in general, and even less patience for Customs processes. I need to state this because it will help you gain a more balanced perspective on the topic I wish to expound upon here: the gross ineptitude and downright rudeness of those assigned to take care of and protect us.

We are a nation ruled by fear. When the populace is petrified and made to fear even the most harmless things, the citizenry is easier to control. All dictatorships have functioned under this principle. If you scare the hell out of 'em, they're putty in your hands, or, as is probably more appropriate in this circumstance, jello under your feet.

With absolute power -- no matter how ill-achieved or false it may be -- comes a crack in the wall of democracy: instill fear and you will have control. And at the root of instilling fear is establishing a sturdy soil of rudeness. Without bad manners, fear of those in positions of authority would not have the opportunity to flourish.

There's a line in the song I quoted in my previous entry that goes, "Oh, there ain't no gentlemen that's fit for any use." After encountering our DHS at work this weekend, I'm convinced that this line must appear on their recruitment notices. "Think you're unfit for any use at all? Let us prove it to you! Become a Department of Homeland Security Officer today!"

These people are, in a few short words, without even a modicum of class.

On the plane back from Mexico, we were given Customs forms to fill out. You know, your name and address and birthdate, as well as five or six questions about the purpose of your foreign adventure. They ask if you're bringing in live animals or plants, or if you've spent time on a ranch, or if you have more than $10K in U.S. dollars on you. This is routine, and I have no problem answering these questions.

Once we landed, we were ushered through to the first step in reentry to American soil: passport check. These people make MBTA and TSA employees look like Peace Corps volunteers. They sit behind their glass booths, in fully-uniformed regalia, as another officer stands at the head of the line and tells you which aisle to go in. John and I did this with no problem. However, we made a fatal error when going to Glass Booth Number 10:

We didn't stand behind the yellow line.

Dear God, call the Feds! These two sunburned gays with a ratty old suitcase did not stand behind the all-powerful Line. Notice how I capitalize the L in Line. That's how important it is.

The fact that we didn't do this was scandalous to the DHS officer in Glass Booth Number 10, and he barked at us to get behind the line!

We did as we were told, stifling our laughter over this display of perceived superiority, before we were once again barked at. "Go to Number 9!" the Hitler in Glass Booth Number 10 ordered. Glass Booth Number 9 had just been freed up, and even though we were going against the rules of the Head of the Line DHS agent, we followed our new orders and proceeded to the bald, mean (one the direct result of the other, I'm sure) man at number 9.

This agent looked at our passports and ran them through his little machine, which, I venture to guess, stores all sorts of information about American citizens, from our Social Security numbers to how many times we make tinkle in an average day. He then proceeded to ask us the exact same questions we had already answered on our Customs forms. How stupid do these people think we are? Do they think we suddenly remembered on the way from the plane to the glass booth that, Oh yes, I do have a live animal in my suitcase that I lifted from the Mexican jungle? I mean, come on! We've already covered these bases.

Baldy was rambling through the interrogation so fast that John missed his last question (the one about whether or not you visited a ranch of some kind on your vacation). Not hearing him, John didn't answer the question. As you can imagine, this upset Glass Booth Number 9 to no end. He narrowed his eyes in sheer disgust, sighed exaggeratedly, and said, "You have to answer all the questions!" John asked him to repeat the question, answered no, and we were ushered into further belittling after our condescending chastising from The Hairless One.

Next we went to Customs, where even more people stared blankly at our passports (this was the fourth time our passports were inspected since Mexico). I was let through, but John was "detained". Why he was, we still don't know. But he had to go through yet another line, where yet another DHS agent gazed inexplicably at his passport. By this time, John was pretty angry, and it's not easy to get John angry. The agent, of course, was as rude and uncivil as could be suspected, and, sensing John's frustration, inquired, "Do you have a problem with this?" John, diplomatically, said no, there's no problem. He knows that these guys have the power to incarcerate us for the rest of our lives without a warrant and without a lawyer (this is a fact). I daresay I may not have been so appeasing. I mean, all we really wanted to know is Why? Why was John being held for further interrogation? Just how many bloody people does it take to look at a passport and say, "Yup, he's a citizen, let him in"? Even if the DHS official could have said, "It's totally random; we double-check every third person that comes through", or something to that effect, it would've been sufficient.

But, alas, giving an explanation would've meant giving up a little bit of power. And when you give up even a little bit of power, you are releasing your grip, however tiny, on your ability to instill fear. And that's all these DHS people have: the ability to frighten us. Would it have been that difficult to get a "please" or "thank you" from one of these people? I don't think that's asking too much: we do, after all, pay their salaries with our hard-earned money.

John of course made it through the debacle, and we were once again allowed reentry into our homeland. John thinks he was detained because he has a beard. And hell, for all we know, that could indeed have been the reason.

Intrigued by this inconsiderateness of those in command of our "protection" (Who are they protecting us from? Certainly not themselves!), I did a little research on the Department of Homeland Security's employees. To say this department of our government is a mess would be an understatement.

Here are a few of the more interesting facts I came across.

From USA Today, 12/27/2004:

• The government agency responsible for protecting the nation against terrorist attack is a dysfunctional, poorly managed bureaucracy that has failed to plug serious holes in the nation's safety net, the Department of Homeland Security's former internal watchdog warns.
• Undercover investigators were able to sneak explosives and weapons past security screeners at 15 airports during tests in 2003.
• Federal air marshals, hired to provide a last line of defense against terrorists on airlines, slept on the job, tested positive for alcohol or drugs while on duty, lost their weapons and falsified information in 2002.
• The TSA spent nearly $500,000 on an awards banquet for employees in November 2003. The cost included $1,500 for three cheese displays and $3.75 for each soft drink.

According to Wikipedia, the Office of Personnel Management conducted a survey of all federal employees. The Department of Homeland Security ranked last or nearly last on every single category, including the following:

• 33rd on the talent management index
• 35th on the leadership and knowledge management index
• 36th on the job satisfaction index
• 36th on the results-oriented performance culture index

These results speak for themselves. All except that cheese platter thing. I mean, no wonder these DHS and TSA officials are so damned mean. They're all so clogged with expensive cheese that they can't take a crap if their lives depended upon it. But then again, that's probably exactly how the powers that be want it. After all, having a healthy BM is a form of release...and if we release our perceived power and incivility, then we are releasing our authority to frighten.

And they depend on that.