Boy, interrupted
Sorry folks for not updating. I moved from Prince Edward to Sheung Wan a few weeks ago (to a complex aptly named Queen's Terrace). Unfortunately, I still do not have broadband at my new place. I feel terrible... as though I have been completely disconnected from things. I'm suffering terrible withdraw symptoms.
It'll take two more weeks before my broadband gets redirected. I've got to stay strong...
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Raising the Red Flag
Today was China's National Day and we had the fortune of having another public holiday! I love it when we get both Western and Chinese holidays.
Unfortunately, I had to go to work. Work isn't that bad. After all, I have a great view (which I can check out from time to time) from my office. The first picture is what I see on my leftside, the second is what I see on my right.
Today was China's National Day and we had the fortune of having another public holiday! I love it when we get both Western and Chinese holidays.
Unfortunately, I had to go to work. Work isn't that bad. After all, I have a great view (which I can check out from time to time) from my office. The first picture is what I see on my leftside, the second is what I see on my right.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Striking for the team
Tonight, I wasliterally dragged strongly persuaded by my department's Business Development Manager to attend one of the functions she regularly organises for the department's most valued clients. In what has become an annual tradition in the department, tonight's function was held in the bowling alley of a club on the southside of Hong Kong.
Although all the department's trainees were required to attend, the other three trainees gave convincing excuses (one actually had to work). I, on the other hand, simply couldn't say no (no slut jokes please, Vic).
I suspect she would not have normally been so eager in recruiting trainees for such an event. But considering that she needed bums on seats (or would that be feet in clown shoes?) and many of the associates in the department were too busy to even consider leaving their desks for a few hours of client-smooching, I could easily see how a impressionable and too-eager-to-please trainee would be suffice.
The clients were all legal counsel from various investment banks around town. The clients and department fee earners were divided into five teams of three. We played in a round-robin competition, which ended with my team coming dead last in games won (zilch), but second last in total score.
It wasn't my fault that we lost. I played decently (or at least I looked the part - people were commending me on my form). Besides, I was consciously restraining myself in fear of upstaging the clients or the partners! :-)
The winners were a team consisting of clients. (You always have to let them win.) They had actually won in the previous year's bowling night as well. As a reward, they were given the department's bowling trophy, which was filled with sweets.
Tonight, I was
Although all the department's trainees were required to attend, the other three trainees gave convincing excuses (one actually had to work). I, on the other hand, simply couldn't say no (no slut jokes please, Vic).
I suspect she would not have normally been so eager in recruiting trainees for such an event. But considering that she needed bums on seats (or would that be feet in clown shoes?) and many of the associates in the department were too busy to even consider leaving their desks for a few hours of client-smooching, I could easily see how a impressionable and too-eager-to-please trainee would be suffice.
The clients were all legal counsel from various investment banks around town. The clients and department fee earners were divided into five teams of three. We played in a round-robin competition, which ended with my team coming dead last in games won (zilch), but second last in total score.
It wasn't my fault that we lost. I played decently (or at least I looked the part - people were commending me on my form). Besides, I was consciously restraining myself in fear of upstaging the clients or the partners! :-)
The winners were a team consisting of clients. (You always have to let them win.) They had actually won in the previous year's bowling night as well. As a reward, they were given the department's bowling trophy, which was filled with sweets.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Junk Trip
This picture was taken onboard the firm's junk this morning as we headed off for a trainee's excursion to one of Hong Kong's outerlying islands. (I work in the little pinkish tower on the left of that giant monolith - IFC2 - in the background of the picture. To the right, the building under construction in the Four Season's hotel. The green and white boat is the Star Ferry.)
The boat is not a traditional junk - it's actually a motor boat with brown wooden panelling. Employees of the firm are entitled to take it out for free according to a rotational schedule. Every eight weeks or so, the trainees have their turn.
We boarded the junk at around 10:30 (due mostly to my tardiness, as I was buying drinks from the local supermarket) at Queen's Pier. We headed off to Lamma Island, where we feasted on seafood at the most popular restaurant there. Afterwards, we made a detour to a quiet beach before heading back to the smog and people of Central.
It was a sensational day - the weather was absolutely brilliant and the humidity was at an almost manageable level. I've got a wicked farmer's tan. I feel completely exhausted now and I still a little bit wobbly from the waves. I think I need to have a Bex and a little lie down.
This picture was taken onboard the firm's junk this morning as we headed off for a trainee's excursion to one of Hong Kong's outerlying islands. (I work in the little pinkish tower on the left of that giant monolith - IFC2 - in the background of the picture. To the right, the building under construction in the Four Season's hotel. The green and white boat is the Star Ferry.)
The boat is not a traditional junk - it's actually a motor boat with brown wooden panelling. Employees of the firm are entitled to take it out for free according to a rotational schedule. Every eight weeks or so, the trainees have their turn.
We boarded the junk at around 10:30 (due mostly to my tardiness, as I was buying drinks from the local supermarket) at Queen's Pier. We headed off to Lamma Island, where we feasted on seafood at the most popular restaurant there. Afterwards, we made a detour to a quiet beach before heading back to the smog and people of Central.
It was a sensational day - the weather was absolutely brilliant and the humidity was at an almost manageable level. I've got a wicked farmer's tan. I feel completely exhausted now and I still a little bit wobbly from the waves. I think I need to have a Bex and a little lie down.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Falling for Raoul
Monkey forwarded me the link to the new gap ad for its broken-in jean, starring Italian actor, Raoul Bova... all I can say is *phwoar*! He is definitely challenging the incumbent Gab Aubrey for the "Best Lookin' Guy" title.
He's been referred to as the "Italian Brad Pitt", but in my little opinion, Brad simply can't compare.
He's starring as Diane Lane's love interest in Under Tuscan Sun, which is coming out later this year.
Check it out here and be v. impressed!
As a side note, there are three other Fall gap ads for women's stretch pants, starring Claudia Schiffer, Jacquetta Wheeler and others. They're pretty fun to watch as well.
Monkey forwarded me the link to the new gap ad for its broken-in jean, starring Italian actor, Raoul Bova... all I can say is *phwoar*! He is definitely challenging the incumbent Gab Aubrey for the "Best Lookin' Guy" title.
He's been referred to as the "Italian Brad Pitt", but in my little opinion, Brad simply can't compare.
He's starring as Diane Lane's love interest in Under Tuscan Sun, which is coming out later this year.
Check it out here and be v. impressed!
As a side note, there are three other Fall gap ads for women's stretch pants, starring Claudia Schiffer, Jacquetta Wheeler and others. They're pretty fun to watch as well.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
More movies actually
It's that time again, when I blog about the upcoming films which I'm eagerly anticipating. Of course, I'd be one of the first in line to see LOTR: Return of the King, Matrix Revolutions and Kill Bill 1 & 2 (btw, there's a incredibly funny new trailer at Yahoo! Movies), but here are some others that seem worthy to see...
This season's most eagerly awaited film pour moi most definitely has to be Love Actually - the directorial debut of Richard Curtis (screenwriter of Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones's Diary, & Notting Hill).
The film revolves around ten charming love stories played out by a dozen characters, all culminating on Christmas Eve. The love stories portrayed aren't confined to the standard "boy-meets-girl" formula. Instead, the film covers platonic, married, unrequited, childhood, and sibling varieties as well, in a bold gesture to prove that love is indeed all around. Not every story ends happily, but it gives me warm and fuzzy feeling just thinking about it.
Members of the love-fest include Hugh Grant, Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson, Laura Linney, Colin Firth (!), Liam Neeson, Rowan Atkinson, Keira Knightley, Rodrigo Santoro (!) and Andrew Lincoln ("Egg" from This Life - above right). Apart from the stellar cast, expect to see plenty of cameos, especially in the scenes at the arrivals area or London's Heathrow Airport.
Early reviews and work-in-progress showings at the Toronto International Film Festival have been overwhelmingly positive, surpassing those of Curtis' earlier films.
It's released in the US on 14 November; Australians have to wait until Boxing Day.
(For those straight males who remain reluctant or apprehensive about watching the film under your own initiative, consider that the cast includes the girl from 24, the exchange student from American Pie, the sister from American Wedding, Denise Richards and showings of boobs. As I said, there's something for everyone.)
Just released in the US is Sophia Coppola's light comedy, Lost in Translation. Bill Murry stars as a famous Hollywood actor, who is enticed to make a commercial for Whiskey in Japan. He meets a directionless woman who followed her photographer boyfriend to Tokyo and an unusual friendship develops between them.
Mona Lisa Smile has the makings of a great chick flick. Julia Roberts plays a newly appointed faculty member of Wellesley in the 1950s. Those in her art history class include Kirsten Dunst, Julia Stiles and Maggie Gyllenhaal.
If its trailer is anything to go by, Luther should be an awesome film. Joseph Fiennes plays the "heretic, genius, liberator", Martin Luther. It opens 26 September.
Opening at the same time is Duplex with Ben Stiller and Drew Barrymore, playing newlyweds with a fabulous NYC, er, duplex, but with an incredibly annoying elderly neighbour.
The Scary Moive franchise may not be everyone's cup of tea, but the trailer for Scary Movie 3 is hilarious. Check out who is under the bedsheet in the scene that spoofs The Others... now, that is scary.
Finally, the Director's Cut of Alien will be released on Halloween. Alien on the bigscreen will definitely be worth the price of an admission ticket.
It's that time again, when I blog about the upcoming films which I'm eagerly anticipating. Of course, I'd be one of the first in line to see LOTR: Return of the King, Matrix Revolutions and Kill Bill 1 & 2 (btw, there's a incredibly funny new trailer at Yahoo! Movies), but here are some others that seem worthy to see...
This season's most eagerly awaited film pour moi most definitely has to be Love Actually - the directorial debut of Richard Curtis (screenwriter of Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones's Diary, & Notting Hill).
The film revolves around ten charming love stories played out by a dozen characters, all culminating on Christmas Eve. The love stories portrayed aren't confined to the standard "boy-meets-girl" formula. Instead, the film covers platonic, married, unrequited, childhood, and sibling varieties as well, in a bold gesture to prove that love is indeed all around. Not every story ends happily, but it gives me warm and fuzzy feeling just thinking about it.
Members of the love-fest include Hugh Grant, Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson, Laura Linney, Colin Firth (!), Liam Neeson, Rowan Atkinson, Keira Knightley, Rodrigo Santoro (!) and Andrew Lincoln ("Egg" from This Life - above right). Apart from the stellar cast, expect to see plenty of cameos, especially in the scenes at the arrivals area or London's Heathrow Airport.
Early reviews and work-in-progress showings at the Toronto International Film Festival have been overwhelmingly positive, surpassing those of Curtis' earlier films.
It's released in the US on 14 November; Australians have to wait until Boxing Day.
(For those straight males who remain reluctant or apprehensive about watching the film under your own initiative, consider that the cast includes the girl from 24, the exchange student from American Pie, the sister from American Wedding, Denise Richards and showings of boobs. As I said, there's something for everyone.)
Just released in the US is Sophia Coppola's light comedy, Lost in Translation. Bill Murry stars as a famous Hollywood actor, who is enticed to make a commercial for Whiskey in Japan. He meets a directionless woman who followed her photographer boyfriend to Tokyo and an unusual friendship develops between them.
Mona Lisa Smile has the makings of a great chick flick. Julia Roberts plays a newly appointed faculty member of Wellesley in the 1950s. Those in her art history class include Kirsten Dunst, Julia Stiles and Maggie Gyllenhaal.
If its trailer is anything to go by, Luther should be an awesome film. Joseph Fiennes plays the "heretic, genius, liberator", Martin Luther. It opens 26 September.
Opening at the same time is Duplex with Ben Stiller and Drew Barrymore, playing newlyweds with a fabulous NYC, er, duplex, but with an incredibly annoying elderly neighbour.
The Scary Moive franchise may not be everyone's cup of tea, but the trailer for Scary Movie 3 is hilarious. Check out who is under the bedsheet in the scene that spoofs The Others... now, that is scary.
Finally, the Director's Cut of Alien will be released on Halloween. Alien on the bigscreen will definitely be worth the price of an admission ticket.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Hello, you reached the office of Mr Queer
During the lunch break today, when most people around the department floor were out, I closed my office door and proceeded to record my voicemail message. To help things out, I read from the firm's recommended message script. That really didn't help much though... it was only after the 8th attempt that I pretty much gave up on things and left the recording be.
As I replayed each attempt, I couldn't help but cringe. It wasn't due to the loudly vocalised expletives, which seemed to come after every stutter, slur or awkward pause I made (v. unprofessional). It was my reaction to the sound of my voice! I absolutely loathed how gay I sounded! I can just imagine future listeners thinking, "Gosh, this guy sounds like such a big faggoty homo!"
It reminded me of the video S-M recorded at the end of high school. When we all saw the edited version of the tape at Will's place for the first time, I couldn't help but cringe then as now, all the way through it... at my actions, at my speech... it was all so nelly. How could everyone not know then?
No matter how far I seem to have journeyed towards a greater level of self-acceptance, it's troubling to realise that I still retain such strong residual feelings of self-loathing and homophobia. It's something that definitely has to change... how else am I gonna be able to moonlight as a phone sex operator?
During the lunch break today, when most people around the department floor were out, I closed my office door and proceeded to record my voicemail message. To help things out, I read from the firm's recommended message script. That really didn't help much though... it was only after the 8th attempt that I pretty much gave up on things and left the recording be.
As I replayed each attempt, I couldn't help but cringe. It wasn't due to the loudly vocalised expletives, which seemed to come after every stutter, slur or awkward pause I made (v. unprofessional). It was my reaction to the sound of my voice! I absolutely loathed how gay I sounded! I can just imagine future listeners thinking, "Gosh, this guy sounds like such a big faggoty homo!"
It reminded me of the video S-M recorded at the end of high school. When we all saw the edited version of the tape at Will's place for the first time, I couldn't help but cringe then as now, all the way through it... at my actions, at my speech... it was all so nelly. How could everyone not know then?
No matter how far I seem to have journeyed towards a greater level of self-acceptance, it's troubling to realise that I still retain such strong residual feelings of self-loathing and homophobia. It's something that definitely has to change... how else am I gonna be able to moonlight as a phone sex operator?
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Monday, September 08, 2003
Day One
As I was walked through the Central MTR station this morning, trying my best to dodge the throngs of people heading off to work, I couldn't resist singing in my head Carly Simon's awesome song, Let the River Run. I absolutely adore the opening sequence to Working Girl. In many ways, the director, Mike Nichols, portrayed the mundane daily journey to work as a completely exciting and inspirational event. Even though I may not be Melanie Griffith (I have way better legs), nor did I just pop off the Staten Island Ferry, I was completely thrilled with the prospect of going to work and starting a new chapter in my life.
Our first induction day began, with eleven new trainees and four trainees seconded from London, meeting up at the firm's spanking new reception area. We were then herded into a training room whereby we were given volumes of firm literature. The day ended early at 6, but I was absolutely exhausted from the sheer amount of information that was bombarded towards us. To think, all this related to office administration!
I'm amazed that induction stretches three days. Work may start on Thursday, but we've got a public long weekend starting on Friday.
I share an office with my trainer. It's suprisingly spacious, and there's an awesome view East towards the Exhibition Centre in Wanchai.
Training at the firm consists of four rotational seats over two years. If things run smoothly, I'll be fully qualified as a solicitor at the end of the period. I have my first seat in International Capital Markets (ICM). Two other new trainees have been posted there as well, and none of us really knows what sort of work we will be doing... there will definitely be a steep learning curve. I'm excited that my last seat will be in London.
I've got a lot of reading to do tonight, but I'm not complaining (yet). I'm buzzed. Now, all I have to do is find a crazy, big-haired side-kick like Joan Cusack...
As I was walked through the Central MTR station this morning, trying my best to dodge the throngs of people heading off to work, I couldn't resist singing in my head Carly Simon's awesome song, Let the River Run. I absolutely adore the opening sequence to Working Girl. In many ways, the director, Mike Nichols, portrayed the mundane daily journey to work as a completely exciting and inspirational event. Even though I may not be Melanie Griffith (I have way better legs), nor did I just pop off the Staten Island Ferry, I was completely thrilled with the prospect of going to work and starting a new chapter in my life.
Our first induction day began, with eleven new trainees and four trainees seconded from London, meeting up at the firm's spanking new reception area. We were then herded into a training room whereby we were given volumes of firm literature. The day ended early at 6, but I was absolutely exhausted from the sheer amount of information that was bombarded towards us. To think, all this related to office administration!
I'm amazed that induction stretches three days. Work may start on Thursday, but we've got a public long weekend starting on Friday.
I share an office with my trainer. It's suprisingly spacious, and there's an awesome view East towards the Exhibition Centre in Wanchai.
Training at the firm consists of four rotational seats over two years. If things run smoothly, I'll be fully qualified as a solicitor at the end of the period. I have my first seat in International Capital Markets (ICM). Two other new trainees have been posted there as well, and none of us really knows what sort of work we will be doing... there will definitely be a steep learning curve. I'm excited that my last seat will be in London.
I've got a lot of reading to do tonight, but I'm not complaining (yet). I'm buzzed. Now, all I have to do is find a crazy, big-haired side-kick like Joan Cusack...
The Start of Something New
I'm terribly anxious about starting work tomorrow... it is my first permanent full-time job! I'm as excited as a bookish schoolgirl on the eve of her first day of high school.
I spent the last three days walking around the shopping centres of HK in search of shirts and a new suit. It has been an absolutely exhausting mission. I must have tried on at least a dozen suits, most were absolutely not to my liking. I finally settled for a black one this afternoon. By then, I was completely fed up with searching anymore. I may love clothes, but the process - shopping - is almost always a complete drag. I'm hoping I can pass off with wearing only two suits (my other one is a 4 year old dark navy Calibre, which I love to death) until I make another trip to Sydney. Then, I could finally get one (or more) suits from my absolute favourite store, Calibre.
I got the name and address of Vic's shirt tailor and went over to Central to get some measured up for me as well. I went into the store, and one of the first questions he asked me was "Are you a lawyer?".
The tailor had his store in a discrete shopping centre in Central. I expected it would be half empty, considering most people would be shopping elsewhere. However, I didn't realise that most of the stores there catered to HK's Filippina maid community. The place was like a maze, with with floor after floor of narrow corridors, dim lighting and low ceilings. Add in the massive crowds and the pumping dance music that congregates here every given Sunday, you could definitely imagine that the centre could be HK's only regular weekly "tea party".
Btw, tailored shirts are pretty affordable here. I made an order for 7 and it cost less than HK$2,000. That's around A$50 a shirt, made-to-measure. I get to try my first shirt on Tuesday. I get the rest on Wednesday.
I'm terribly anxious about starting work tomorrow... it is my first permanent full-time job! I'm as excited as a bookish schoolgirl on the eve of her first day of high school.
I spent the last three days walking around the shopping centres of HK in search of shirts and a new suit. It has been an absolutely exhausting mission. I must have tried on at least a dozen suits, most were absolutely not to my liking. I finally settled for a black one this afternoon. By then, I was completely fed up with searching anymore. I may love clothes, but the process - shopping - is almost always a complete drag. I'm hoping I can pass off with wearing only two suits (my other one is a 4 year old dark navy Calibre, which I love to death) until I make another trip to Sydney. Then, I could finally get one (or more) suits from my absolute favourite store, Calibre.
I got the name and address of Vic's shirt tailor and went over to Central to get some measured up for me as well. I went into the store, and one of the first questions he asked me was "Are you a lawyer?".
The tailor had his store in a discrete shopping centre in Central. I expected it would be half empty, considering most people would be shopping elsewhere. However, I didn't realise that most of the stores there catered to HK's Filippina maid community. The place was like a maze, with with floor after floor of narrow corridors, dim lighting and low ceilings. Add in the massive crowds and the pumping dance music that congregates here every given Sunday, you could definitely imagine that the centre could be HK's only regular weekly "tea party".
Btw, tailored shirts are pretty affordable here. I made an order for 7 and it cost less than HK$2,000. That's around A$50 a shirt, made-to-measure. I get to try my first shirt on Tuesday. I get the rest on Wednesday.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Words
At Changi Airport. Again.
Since I told my parents about the good news, they haven't stopped providing little notes of advice to me. Most of what they had to say was general common sense - things every parent tells their child about - how to manage finances, eating well, staying healthy, etc. However, as we were driving to the airport, my mum mentioned something that we had never really discussed before - me finding a (male) life partner. She had hoped that I would find someone to share my life with... a life partner, akin to that of a husband or a wife.
My parents opinion on my sexuality has changed dramatically over recent years. I remain astonished at how quickly they have come to accept things... in many ways, it is me who is the one who is uncomfortable with the situation.
When they finally realised that I was "gay-for-life" (prior to that, it was merely a "phase"), both of them cried. My mum, a devout Catholic, would go to church several times a week, to pray for my soul. My dad, although not religious, made his opinion clear to me, saying that homosexuality was abhorrent and the only thing that would disgust him more would be if one of his children were a drug-user.
I wonder how they would feel in the future, however unlikely it may be that I do find a guy I want to spend my life with, whether or not they would be willing to go all the way and consider celebrating such a relationship with a big Chinese wedding banquet?
At Changi Airport. Again.
Since I told my parents about the good news, they haven't stopped providing little notes of advice to me. Most of what they had to say was general common sense - things every parent tells their child about - how to manage finances, eating well, staying healthy, etc. However, as we were driving to the airport, my mum mentioned something that we had never really discussed before - me finding a (male) life partner. She had hoped that I would find someone to share my life with... a life partner, akin to that of a husband or a wife.
My parents opinion on my sexuality has changed dramatically over recent years. I remain astonished at how quickly they have come to accept things... in many ways, it is me who is the one who is uncomfortable with the situation.
When they finally realised that I was "gay-for-life" (prior to that, it was merely a "phase"), both of them cried. My mum, a devout Catholic, would go to church several times a week, to pray for my soul. My dad, although not religious, made his opinion clear to me, saying that homosexuality was abhorrent and the only thing that would disgust him more would be if one of his children were a drug-user.
I wonder how they would feel in the future, however unlikely it may be that I do find a guy I want to spend my life with, whether or not they would be willing to go all the way and consider celebrating such a relationship with a big Chinese wedding banquet?
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Final hour
I PASSED!
I am so incredibly relieved. Immediately after I read the email from the Dean this evening, I ran into the kitchen and told my parents. Then, to prevent complete embarassment, I ran back into my bedroom, said a prayer of thanks and burst into tears. I am not the type to cry, but I was completely overwhelmed with emotions.
These past two months have been the toughest in my life. I've had a near-death experience a few years ago, but that really cannot compare to the rollar-coaster ride of emotions I have experienced this year.
For the past few days, I've been on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I haven't been able to sleep. I had sent numerous emails to various instructors at the university, but I had not received any reply. As the days slowly passed, it looked as though the chances for receiving word of my results became increasingly slim. I almost lost all hope of starting work next week or at all. I even began planning on what I would do, if I had to return to Sydney, just to pass the time.
Then, I received word from the university an hour ago. It was as though the Governor had given his reprieve one minute to midnight, before the prisoner was submitted to a lethal injection.
I have to thank from the bottom of my heart, all those who supported me during this difficult time. All those who encouraged me with their words; who tried to cheer me up when I felt bummed; who were willing to hear me bitch on and on - you have been great friends and I thank you all. I should stop before this sounds like a corny Oscars speech...
Now, I have so much to do to prepare for work on Monday. I didn't even consider buying clothes for work. I haven't had a haircut in 7 weeks, and I look pretty haggard. I'm not complaining though. I'm just so ecstatic.
Off the topic... take a gander into this month's Australian Cosmopolitan magazine. Liz was photographed in it in a 80's-inspired ensemble a la Punky Brewster!
I PASSED!
I am so incredibly relieved. Immediately after I read the email from the Dean this evening, I ran into the kitchen and told my parents. Then, to prevent complete embarassment, I ran back into my bedroom, said a prayer of thanks and burst into tears. I am not the type to cry, but I was completely overwhelmed with emotions.
These past two months have been the toughest in my life. I've had a near-death experience a few years ago, but that really cannot compare to the rollar-coaster ride of emotions I have experienced this year.
For the past few days, I've been on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I haven't been able to sleep. I had sent numerous emails to various instructors at the university, but I had not received any reply. As the days slowly passed, it looked as though the chances for receiving word of my results became increasingly slim. I almost lost all hope of starting work next week or at all. I even began planning on what I would do, if I had to return to Sydney, just to pass the time.
Then, I received word from the university an hour ago. It was as though the Governor had given his reprieve one minute to midnight, before the prisoner was submitted to a lethal injection.
I have to thank from the bottom of my heart, all those who supported me during this difficult time. All those who encouraged me with their words; who tried to cheer me up when I felt bummed; who were willing to hear me bitch on and on - you have been great friends and I thank you all. I should stop before this sounds like a corny Oscars speech...
Now, I have so much to do to prepare for work on Monday. I didn't even consider buying clothes for work. I haven't had a haircut in 7 weeks, and I look pretty haggard. I'm not complaining though. I'm just so ecstatic.
Off the topic... take a gander into this month's Australian Cosmopolitan magazine. Liz was photographed in it in a 80's-inspired ensemble a la Punky Brewster!
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Arnie says Oui
When evidence surfaced this week at TheSmokingGun.com of the frisky antics of his youth, Arnold Schwarzenegger calmly proclaimed that he hadn't lived his life to be a politician. However, by the responses in the interview he conducted with Oui (the adult mag which Paker Posey's Connie, the "friendly skies" stewardess passes on to Laura Linney's Mary-Ann in Tales Of The City) in 1977, it’s clear his drug and sexual history would make any Kennedy proud.
The interview is quite the read, with Arnie discussing such topics as his recreational use of marijuana, sex before competition, penis size, being “exploited” by women purely because they are interested in his physique, and gym gang bangs (as one does in the gym in between work outs). As for his response to the question, "Do you get freaked out by being in such close contact with men in the gym?" Schwarzenegger replied:
"Not at all. When I was playing soccer at the age of 14, the first thing we'd do before going out onto the field would be to climb up on one another's thighs and massage the legs; it was a regular thing. None of us had a thought of being gay, absolutely not, and it's the same with bodybuilders. Men shouldn't feel like fags just because they want to have nice-looking bodies. Another thing: Recently I posed for a gay magazine, which caused much comment. But it doesn't bother me. Gay people are fighting the same kind of stereotyping that bodybuilders are: People have certain misconceptions about them just as they do about us. Well, I have absolutely no hang-ups about the fag business; though it may bother some bodybuilders, it doesn't affect me at all."
He commented Wednesday that he is against gay (or should that be fag) marriage, but favours domestic partnerships, as marriage is meant to be between a Mahn unt Vuu-mahn.
When evidence surfaced this week at TheSmokingGun.com of the frisky antics of his youth, Arnold Schwarzenegger calmly proclaimed that he hadn't lived his life to be a politician. However, by the responses in the interview he conducted with Oui (the adult mag which Paker Posey's Connie, the "friendly skies" stewardess passes on to Laura Linney's Mary-Ann in Tales Of The City) in 1977, it’s clear his drug and sexual history would make any Kennedy proud.
The interview is quite the read, with Arnie discussing such topics as his recreational use of marijuana, sex before competition, penis size, being “exploited” by women purely because they are interested in his physique, and gym gang bangs (as one does in the gym in between work outs). As for his response to the question, "Do you get freaked out by being in such close contact with men in the gym?" Schwarzenegger replied:
"Not at all. When I was playing soccer at the age of 14, the first thing we'd do before going out onto the field would be to climb up on one another's thighs and massage the legs; it was a regular thing. None of us had a thought of being gay, absolutely not, and it's the same with bodybuilders. Men shouldn't feel like fags just because they want to have nice-looking bodies. Another thing: Recently I posed for a gay magazine, which caused much comment. But it doesn't bother me. Gay people are fighting the same kind of stereotyping that bodybuilders are: People have certain misconceptions about them just as they do about us. Well, I have absolutely no hang-ups about the fag business; though it may bother some bodybuilders, it doesn't affect me at all."
He commented Wednesday that he is against gay (or should that be fag) marriage, but favours domestic partnerships, as marriage is meant to be between a Mahn unt Vuu-mahn.
Publicity whores
By now, I presume everyone has seen, read or heard about the outrageous opening number performed by Madonna, Britney and Christina at the MTV Video Awards? (Channel Ten repeated footage of it at least 5 times during its hour-long news broadcast.)
For those who haven’t, this is what happened…
Britney emerged from an enormous white wedding cake in a wedding dress and veil. After Britney sang several verses from "Like a Virgin," Christina came out and picked up the vocals. Madonna then descended from the cake, dressed in black (as the groom, I presume) and singing "Hollywood". The whole performance culminated with Britney kissing Mads, who then turned and delivered one to Christina. Missy Elliot was in the girl-mix as well, but she was all but forgotten by the upstaging antics of the other three.
As MTV put it:
Anyone who's ever questioned Britney or Madonna's acting abilities should reconsider. Not only did the ladies show off some blood-pressure-raising moves, their kisses were nothing like the infamous mouth mush between Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley and far more like something from late-night Cinemax.
For a blow-by-blow account of the opening number and the rest of the awards show, MTV has its own synopsis.
To download the performance, go to this Britney fansite.
In news surrounding the performance, LA's KTLA-TV reported that Britney allegedly rinsed with Listerine following the performance, likening the "open mouth, no tongue" to "kissing the NBA." *ouch*
Christina returned later in the show to perform a medley of "Dirrty" and "Fighter" from Stripped. Afterwards, host Chris Rock quipped, "You'll be hearing those songs at strip clubs for years to come". *miao*
Later, at the Maverick VMA After Party, which was attended by Britney, Christina wore a button on her jacket that said "I fucked Britney Spears".
Britney had strong reservations about the pash during rehearsals, which led Access Hollywood asking Christina later if she thought Britney needed to loosen up. Christina retorted, "Yeah but I think she needs to loosen up in general". *hiss*
Justin *sigh*, more diplomatically, said he was not shocked by the performance and that he liked it. He said, “it was sexy” and he “won’t take that away from anyone up there” (whatever that means). Justin also said the cameras were right there and as soon as Madonna and Britney kissed they just went in his face and that is the reason why he had a weird facial expression. Y'know, I even believe that.
I’m making an official statement. I love Christina.
By now, I presume everyone has seen, read or heard about the outrageous opening number performed by Madonna, Britney and Christina at the MTV Video Awards? (Channel Ten repeated footage of it at least 5 times during its hour-long news broadcast.)
For those who haven’t, this is what happened…
Britney emerged from an enormous white wedding cake in a wedding dress and veil. After Britney sang several verses from "Like a Virgin," Christina came out and picked up the vocals. Madonna then descended from the cake, dressed in black (as the groom, I presume) and singing "Hollywood". The whole performance culminated with Britney kissing Mads, who then turned and delivered one to Christina. Missy Elliot was in the girl-mix as well, but she was all but forgotten by the upstaging antics of the other three.
As MTV put it:
Anyone who's ever questioned Britney or Madonna's acting abilities should reconsider. Not only did the ladies show off some blood-pressure-raising moves, their kisses were nothing like the infamous mouth mush between Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley and far more like something from late-night Cinemax.
For a blow-by-blow account of the opening number and the rest of the awards show, MTV has its own synopsis.
To download the performance, go to this Britney fansite.
In news surrounding the performance, LA's KTLA-TV reported that Britney allegedly rinsed with Listerine following the performance, likening the "open mouth, no tongue" to "kissing the NBA." *ouch*
Christina returned later in the show to perform a medley of "Dirrty" and "Fighter" from Stripped. Afterwards, host Chris Rock quipped, "You'll be hearing those songs at strip clubs for years to come". *miao*
Later, at the Maverick VMA After Party, which was attended by Britney, Christina wore a button on her jacket that said "I fucked Britney Spears".
Britney had strong reservations about the pash during rehearsals, which led Access Hollywood asking Christina later if she thought Britney needed to loosen up. Christina retorted, "Yeah but I think she needs to loosen up in general". *hiss*
Justin *sigh*, more diplomatically, said he was not shocked by the performance and that he liked it. He said, “it was sexy” and he “won’t take that away from anyone up there” (whatever that means). Justin also said the cameras were right there and as soon as Madonna and Britney kissed they just went in his face and that is the reason why he had a weird facial expression. Y'know, I even believe that.
I’m making an official statement. I love Christina.
Obladi Oblada
I must give a round of applause and super big thanks to Adrian. Yay! He did an awesome job with his daily postings (including linking a pornsite to the blog for the first time). I thoroughly enjoyed reading his entries and I, like many others, can’t wait to start reading about the Monkey’s daily spankings in the near future. He really showed dedication and talent to this medium, which I have always lacked. Anyway, with that said, I’m back with my (semi) regular writings, so I’m warning all of you now.
I’ve really enjoyed my last 2 weeks in Sydney. It’s been a bit hard to relax and unwind, but I’ve tried - you can give me an A for that. I’ve vegged out, watched a whole load of television (I had a marathon viewing of The Block, which my sister taped for me) and saw plenty of films (from ones I would recommend, like Identity and The Italian Job, to the celluloid abomination that is From Justin, To Kelly).
There’s no word still of when the exam result will come out. I’m praying that it will come this week – work is suppose to start on Monday week and it's conditional upon me passing by then. Good results or bad, I leave Sydney on Thursday morning.
Again, thanks for the work, Adrian. I'll let folks know when your blog swings into action.
I must give a round of applause and super big thanks to Adrian. Yay! He did an awesome job with his daily postings (including linking a pornsite to the blog for the first time). I thoroughly enjoyed reading his entries and I, like many others, can’t wait to start reading about the Monkey’s daily spankings in the near future. He really showed dedication and talent to this medium, which I have always lacked. Anyway, with that said, I’m back with my (semi) regular writings, so I’m warning all of you now.
I’ve really enjoyed my last 2 weeks in Sydney. It’s been a bit hard to relax and unwind, but I’ve tried - you can give me an A for that. I’ve vegged out, watched a whole load of television (I had a marathon viewing of The Block, which my sister taped for me) and saw plenty of films (from ones I would recommend, like Identity and The Italian Job, to the celluloid abomination that is From Justin, To Kelly).
There’s no word still of when the exam result will come out. I’m praying that it will come this week – work is suppose to start on Monday week and it's conditional upon me passing by then. Good results or bad, I leave Sydney on Thursday morning.
Again, thanks for the work, Adrian. I'll let folks know when your blog swings into action.
Friday, August 29, 2003
Bye-bye!
Bye-bye!
Well, I think we're reaching the end. August is almost over, so it's about time to hand over the reins back to Keith and say goodbye to this blog and "all you wonderful people out there in the dark".
I must say, my respect for bloggers has increased a hundredfold. It's time-consuming, isn't it? And the ability to think in short form is a real skill. Thank you to those who offered insights on gay models, Arnie, Alexander the Great, dramatic representations of Hitler, sexuality and religion, and Pauline Hanson, and who offered kind advice and notes on issues such as online dating, hat-wearing, facials, and funerals.
I've had so much fun that I'm thinking of commencing my own blog. I still haven't figured out the title -- there are a few ideas floating around, and Keith has given me some ideas, too. We'll see.
Hmm, it would be appropriate to break off with some resounding witty one-liner, or a conclusive aphorism, or even a musical or Hollywood-style finish. Sunday in the Park with George? White, a blank page or canvas. His favourite. So many possibilities...no, no one will know what I'm talking about... We sail to history! No, no, that won't do. I'll be back! *groan* And now Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up...? Ooh, or how about Captain Kirk's final words in that magnum opus, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, just after Spock has sacrificed himself for the good of the crew and the Genesis Planet has come into existence. You'll have to imagine me delivering this line with excruciating pauses in between the words, and general overacting:
"Young...I feel...young!"
cheesy James Horner music swells as the scene shifts to the vast expanse of space, with all its possibilities
Well, I think we're reaching the end. August is almost over, so it's about time to hand over the reins back to Keith and say goodbye to this blog and "all you wonderful people out there in the dark".
I must say, my respect for bloggers has increased a hundredfold. It's time-consuming, isn't it? And the ability to think in short form is a real skill. Thank you to those who offered insights on gay models, Arnie, Alexander the Great, dramatic representations of Hitler, sexuality and religion, and Pauline Hanson, and who offered kind advice and notes on issues such as online dating, hat-wearing, facials, and funerals.
I've had so much fun that I'm thinking of commencing my own blog. I still haven't figured out the title -- there are a few ideas floating around, and Keith has given me some ideas, too. We'll see.
Hmm, it would be appropriate to break off with some resounding witty one-liner, or a conclusive aphorism, or even a musical or Hollywood-style finish. Sunday in the Park with George? White, a blank page or canvas. His favourite. So many possibilities...no, no one will know what I'm talking about... We sail to history! No, no, that won't do. I'll be back! *groan* And now Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up...? Ooh, or how about Captain Kirk's final words in that magnum opus, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, just after Spock has sacrificed himself for the good of the crew and the Genesis Planet has come into existence. You'll have to imagine me delivering this line with excruciating pauses in between the words, and general overacting:
"Young...I feel...young!"
cheesy James Horner music swells as the scene shifts to the vast expanse of space, with all its possibilities
Thursday, August 28, 2003
The Colombian
The Colombian
Last night was fun. I had dinner with Keith, my friend Joe, and Joe's best friend at an Indian restaurant in Surry Hills. Joe impressed us all with his fluency in Hindi. Afterwards, Keith and I went to the Colombian, a bar on Oxford St., where as it happens a talent contest was taking place at the time. We saw a lady sing 'Cabaret', an oiled-up guy dance to a Britney Spears song, a mock fashion parade featuring two women with whips and dodgy German accents and two (presumably straight) guys dressed in frilly pink pyjamas, and finally another singer doing a fun rendition of 'Route 66'. Bar-hopping of any kind is unusual for both Keith and me, so this was a bit of an eye-opener for us.
I like the Colombian. It has a nice atmosphere, and the people are regular and down-to-earth. That includes the drag queens, who were out in force last night.
Last night was fun. I had dinner with Keith, my friend Joe, and Joe's best friend at an Indian restaurant in Surry Hills. Joe impressed us all with his fluency in Hindi. Afterwards, Keith and I went to the Colombian, a bar on Oxford St., where as it happens a talent contest was taking place at the time. We saw a lady sing 'Cabaret', an oiled-up guy dance to a Britney Spears song, a mock fashion parade featuring two women with whips and dodgy German accents and two (presumably straight) guys dressed in frilly pink pyjamas, and finally another singer doing a fun rendition of 'Route 66'. Bar-hopping of any kind is unusual for both Keith and me, so this was a bit of an eye-opener for us.
I like the Colombian. It has a nice atmosphere, and the people are regular and down-to-earth. That includes the drag queens, who were out in force last night.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Online Dating
Online Dating
I am on a dating profile website.
Well, ok, technically speaking, the website isn't restricted to dating. It's designed to encourage both gays and lesbians to communicate and forge friendships from the privacy of their homes. The site has a chat function, updates its news service every few days, and offers a regular medical-advice column. So it ain't exactly matchmaker.com.au. To keep things fun (with the possibility open for cattiness), profiled people are able to rate each other on a scale from 1 to 10.
The thing is, I worry incessantly now about my rating, whether my profile is grammatically correct, and how easy it is for people to identify me from the photo I put up (the less obvious the better). Even worse, there's a guy who's been e-mailing me, on and off, for the past 3 months...in spite of the fact that I've only contacted him twice during that time, and on both occasions have deliberately kept things impersonal. I'm not interested, but he persists with his advances. He's perfectly polite, but his behaviour seems vaguely stalkerish to me. What's disconcerting is that he lists "Asian men and boys" as his interests, and I'm not sure which category I'm supposed to fit into. He's also a good deal older than I am. I'm not sure what troubles me more: his online stalking or his potential infantilization of me. He lives in Sydney, and I am often in the area. As a friend pointed out, he may well be sending these e-mails to several people. Maybe it's just that I've seen plenty of those internet action and horror movies, like Sandra Bullock's The Net or the German schlockfest, Fatal Online Attraction. Has anyone else had this experience? What should I do?
I am on a dating profile website.
Well, ok, technically speaking, the website isn't restricted to dating. It's designed to encourage both gays and lesbians to communicate and forge friendships from the privacy of their homes. The site has a chat function, updates its news service every few days, and offers a regular medical-advice column. So it ain't exactly matchmaker.com.au. To keep things fun (with the possibility open for cattiness), profiled people are able to rate each other on a scale from 1 to 10.
The thing is, I worry incessantly now about my rating, whether my profile is grammatically correct, and how easy it is for people to identify me from the photo I put up (the less obvious the better). Even worse, there's a guy who's been e-mailing me, on and off, for the past 3 months...in spite of the fact that I've only contacted him twice during that time, and on both occasions have deliberately kept things impersonal. I'm not interested, but he persists with his advances. He's perfectly polite, but his behaviour seems vaguely stalkerish to me. What's disconcerting is that he lists "Asian men and boys" as his interests, and I'm not sure which category I'm supposed to fit into. He's also a good deal older than I am. I'm not sure what troubles me more: his online stalking or his potential infantilization of me. He lives in Sydney, and I am often in the area. As a friend pointed out, he may well be sending these e-mails to several people. Maybe it's just that I've seen plenty of those internet action and horror movies, like Sandra Bullock's The Net or the German schlockfest, Fatal Online Attraction. Has anyone else had this experience? What should I do?
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
The World of Suzie Wong
The World of Suzie Wong
In my overzealous rant at the latest surge of Hansonism, I neglected to mention a very important event that took place on the weekend: my baby nephew's Christening.
As my nephew's godfather, I was advised that I would be playing an important part in the ceremony. This worried me a little. My nephew was being christened a Catholic, and I have only a meagre knowledge of the Catholic traditions regarding baptism. What if I made a mistake, ruined my nephew's special day, and embarrassed myself in front of the entire congregation?
I needn't have worried. Eight babies were being christened during the same hour, including one set of twins. One large Philippino family had nine godparents (presumably, there was one for each day, and another two in reserve). The event was boisterous and unsystematic -- more like community service than a religious service. I have seen more babies than I care to ever again. Screaming, kicking, dribbling, gurgling. And that's just a description of the parents. I must say, though, that my nephew was the very model of restraint. He's really cute, too.
Yesterday, Keith and I had lunch and visited the new David Jones Food Hall, and for some reason we started to talk about tai tais, how they never do anything, and what they do to amuse themselves during a lifetime of spending their husbands' money. And then it dawned on us. Shopping, baby talk, facials. Am I turning into a tai tai? As Keith pointed out, I have to yet to find a husband/ benefactor -- or as I prefer to call it, "a patron of the arts" -- but in all other respects I fit the bill with alarming accuracy. I've always thought I was Carrie Bradshaw, but am I really just a latterday Suzie Wong?
In my overzealous rant at the latest surge of Hansonism, I neglected to mention a very important event that took place on the weekend: my baby nephew's Christening.
As my nephew's godfather, I was advised that I would be playing an important part in the ceremony. This worried me a little. My nephew was being christened a Catholic, and I have only a meagre knowledge of the Catholic traditions regarding baptism. What if I made a mistake, ruined my nephew's special day, and embarrassed myself in front of the entire congregation?
I needn't have worried. Eight babies were being christened during the same hour, including one set of twins. One large Philippino family had nine godparents (presumably, there was one for each day, and another two in reserve). The event was boisterous and unsystematic -- more like community service than a religious service. I have seen more babies than I care to ever again. Screaming, kicking, dribbling, gurgling. And that's just a description of the parents. I must say, though, that my nephew was the very model of restraint. He's really cute, too.
Yesterday, Keith and I had lunch and visited the new David Jones Food Hall, and for some reason we started to talk about tai tais, how they never do anything, and what they do to amuse themselves during a lifetime of spending their husbands' money. And then it dawned on us. Shopping, baby talk, facials. Am I turning into a tai tai? As Keith pointed out, I have to yet to find a husband/ benefactor -- or as I prefer to call it, "a patron of the arts" -- but in all other respects I fit the bill with alarming accuracy. I've always thought I was Carrie Bradshaw, but am I really just a latterday Suzie Wong?
Monday, August 25, 2003
Political Rant
Political Rant
Pauline Hanson has gone to prison. The public furore surrounding her case has been breathtaking. Within the past few days, she has ostensibly achieved a level of martyrdom akin to that of Socrates, Jesus, or Joan of Arc, a feat all the more remarkable because she's never been dead and, indeed, is still sufficiently alive to raise objections about her circumstances. There are people comparing her to Nelson Mandela (though no one has yet compared Nelson Mandela to her). Prison life is harsh, we're told. While innocents like Hanson are sentenced to three years, rich men like Rene Rivkin and Alan Bond spend only minimal time in prison for crimes from which they directly profited. Like a blocked prison toilet bowl, radio switchboards have been jammed with calls from outraged listeners demanding that Pauline's sentence be reduced. In an exclusive interview with Hanson's daughter last week, Ray Martin wondered whether Our Lady of Ipswich was at that moment watching them on tv. Gone are the days when prisons were Benthamite panopticons, when prisoners were kept in jail for the express purpose of being monitored; apparently now prisoners are meant to watch us.
As a politician, Hanson always relied more on the aura of her personality than on actual policies. (And what she called policies were generally fantasies, extravagant dream-wishes, rather than plans for an improved state. Remember her zero-tax policy?) Now that she's in prison, her supporters are able to envisage what they had hitherto denied. The image of her in prison has made manifest what abstract statistics had failed to make clear to them: that prison isn't a very nice place to live in at all. But in ongoing testament to Hanson's ability to make people focus on her persona rather than on her actual abilities as a politician, the media has taken up and run with the suggestion that she's a hapless innocent who has fallen prey to a malign, draconian institution. Note how journalists have this week insistently compared Hanson to specific individuals rather than relate her situation to common occurrence. The Mandelas, the Rivkins, the Bonds: it's a veritable coterie of lively figures, in the best tradition of a Charles Dickens novel. Journalists, moreover, have focused on bold, stark images of Hanson in prison. The Australian even printed a photo of her toenails.
While no one questions that Hanson has breached the law, several commentators have paradoxically suggested that the crime is of negligible importance, and that therefore no sentence, whether to prison or to community service, is necessary. And it's on this basis that Hanson's supporters argue her innocence. Significantly, little has been said by way of compassion for the many other men and women who are currently in prison, or to the possibility that, if Hanson has received an excessively harsh sentence, so might many others.
Of course prisons are terrible places. And of course prison life is tough. Why the surprise? If Hanson's sentence is excessive, then let it go to appeal and see what happens. The judicial system is working, and it's a measure of our civic state's functioning democracy that Hanson has been given a fair trial. Sadly, that doesn't always happen for everyone.
Pauline Hanson has gone to prison. The public furore surrounding her case has been breathtaking. Within the past few days, she has ostensibly achieved a level of martyrdom akin to that of Socrates, Jesus, or Joan of Arc, a feat all the more remarkable because she's never been dead and, indeed, is still sufficiently alive to raise objections about her circumstances. There are people comparing her to Nelson Mandela (though no one has yet compared Nelson Mandela to her). Prison life is harsh, we're told. While innocents like Hanson are sentenced to three years, rich men like Rene Rivkin and Alan Bond spend only minimal time in prison for crimes from which they directly profited. Like a blocked prison toilet bowl, radio switchboards have been jammed with calls from outraged listeners demanding that Pauline's sentence be reduced. In an exclusive interview with Hanson's daughter last week, Ray Martin wondered whether Our Lady of Ipswich was at that moment watching them on tv. Gone are the days when prisons were Benthamite panopticons, when prisoners were kept in jail for the express purpose of being monitored; apparently now prisoners are meant to watch us.
As a politician, Hanson always relied more on the aura of her personality than on actual policies. (And what she called policies were generally fantasies, extravagant dream-wishes, rather than plans for an improved state. Remember her zero-tax policy?) Now that she's in prison, her supporters are able to envisage what they had hitherto denied. The image of her in prison has made manifest what abstract statistics had failed to make clear to them: that prison isn't a very nice place to live in at all. But in ongoing testament to Hanson's ability to make people focus on her persona rather than on her actual abilities as a politician, the media has taken up and run with the suggestion that she's a hapless innocent who has fallen prey to a malign, draconian institution. Note how journalists have this week insistently compared Hanson to specific individuals rather than relate her situation to common occurrence. The Mandelas, the Rivkins, the Bonds: it's a veritable coterie of lively figures, in the best tradition of a Charles Dickens novel. Journalists, moreover, have focused on bold, stark images of Hanson in prison. The Australian even printed a photo of her toenails.
While no one questions that Hanson has breached the law, several commentators have paradoxically suggested that the crime is of negligible importance, and that therefore no sentence, whether to prison or to community service, is necessary. And it's on this basis that Hanson's supporters argue her innocence. Significantly, little has been said by way of compassion for the many other men and women who are currently in prison, or to the possibility that, if Hanson has received an excessively harsh sentence, so might many others.
Of course prisons are terrible places. And of course prison life is tough. Why the surprise? If Hanson's sentence is excessive, then let it go to appeal and see what happens. The judicial system is working, and it's a measure of our civic state's functioning democracy that Hanson has been given a fair trial. Sadly, that doesn't always happen for everyone.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
You're so vain...
You're so vain...
I had my first ever facial yesterday.
Let no one ever tell you that facials are an indulgence, or that those who get facials are pampered. Make no mistake: during the hour-long treatment, the client is steamed, pricked, bled, pinched, and pumped. Age-old toxins embedded in the deep layers of your skin are induced to the surface; it's as though some ancient curse of the kind Borges might depict in one his short stories, has risen to take its toll on the present. Like the meat rack Rocky Balboa famously pummelled in preparation for his fight against Apollo Creed, I was submitted to an endless battering. Lying on the table with damp tissues covering my face, I began to compare myself to the Joker, whose face required reparative surgery after being scarred by acid. My face swelled into a red, bloodied, pulped mass -- more like the awkward result of a senior citizens papier mache class than of an hour of luxury. In addition to having your skin excoriated, the protective layers surrounding your self-esteem are successively stripped away by the little gamine whose job it is to criticize every aspect of your face. "I love popping blackheads," she told me, as she gleefully pounced with a pin on my raw epithelium.
I loved every minute of it, and plan to go back for the second phase of my treatment in two weeks.
I had my first ever facial yesterday.
Let no one ever tell you that facials are an indulgence, or that those who get facials are pampered. Make no mistake: during the hour-long treatment, the client is steamed, pricked, bled, pinched, and pumped. Age-old toxins embedded in the deep layers of your skin are induced to the surface; it's as though some ancient curse of the kind Borges might depict in one his short stories, has risen to take its toll on the present. Like the meat rack Rocky Balboa famously pummelled in preparation for his fight against Apollo Creed, I was submitted to an endless battering. Lying on the table with damp tissues covering my face, I began to compare myself to the Joker, whose face required reparative surgery after being scarred by acid. My face swelled into a red, bloodied, pulped mass -- more like the awkward result of a senior citizens papier mache class than of an hour of luxury. In addition to having your skin excoriated, the protective layers surrounding your self-esteem are successively stripped away by the little gamine whose job it is to criticize every aspect of your face. "I love popping blackheads," she told me, as she gleefully pounced with a pin on my raw epithelium.
I loved every minute of it, and plan to go back for the second phase of my treatment in two weeks.
Friday, August 22, 2003
The Road Home
The Road Home
Thanks for the comments, notes, and e-mails you've all been sending. And Fei Mou, I'm sorry to hear about your recent loss.
The funeral was yesterday. When we arrived at the chapel, my brother and I looked at all the red-eyed, swollen faces and were convinced that the service was going to be a really awful experience. But remarkably, everyone stayed in control -- my mum got through her eulogy, the babies in the congregation never bawled, the immediate family sniffed and sobbed, but there were no breakdowns, which I'd worried there would be. Perhaps most amazingly of all, my aunt's daughter remained rock-solid throughout; in the morning, she and her brother visited their mum and placed a red blanket (to keep her warm in the afterlife) on her. After the service, the cortege proceeded, as per Chinese tradition, from the chapel to my aunt's home (so that her spirit can return there one last time) and then to the cemetery, where we tossed flowers onto the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. It was a straightforward, unelaborate affair, in keeping with my aunt's general dislike of fuss. The congregation then went to Chatswood, where we had yum cha and toasted my aunt.
Some random points:
- the Chatswood wake included several cousins who barely knew my aunt, and who rarely turn up to any family events, but who always make time for free food.
- - my baby nephews are superstars. Whenever cousins and uncles and aunts have nothing to say to each other, they can always rely on the babies to gurgle and goo and smile, which is to say, to relieve the tension.
- questions I'd rather not be asked again: "Hi! How are you?" [er, this is a funeral...] "Have you gotten yourself a girlfriend yet?" "Where are you working now?" "So you're still at university?"
- conversations I'd rather not overhear: "So who do you think in the family is next to go?"
- I'm amazed by how many potential gays and lesbians there are in family. And they're so cool. One cousin, the spitting butch image of Lea DeLaria, turned up to the service dressed in a man's cream-coloured tux. Squat and stocky, and bearing a short-cropped hairdo, she walked up to me and punched my shoulder before plonking herself down on a pew, elbows leaning on her legs. Another cousin -- a naturopath-cum-muso -- brought her 'flatmate'. Whenever they were together, they looked like radiant and Willowesque. During the wake, I thought I could see my closeted lesbian aunt looking vaguely bitter that the younger generation seems to be having an easier time of things than she did (as a teen, she took off from Sydney and moved interstate, where she's been living with her partner for over forty years). But then that aunt always looks bitter, so it's hard to tell what exactly she was thinking at a particular point in time.
- my family isn't getting any younger. My brother and I were talking last night about the possibility of arranging a get-together with our cousins. Some of our cousins dislike my family because we went to a private school, and two of my siblings are doctors. The misconception that we're all a bunch of snobs isn't helped by the fact that my siblings who are doctors are, well, snobs. But I think people have finally begun to notice that my brother and I have been attending family events for several years now, and that we're interested in connecting up with the rest of our cousins. Who knows? When they work out that most of them make a lot more money than my brother and I ever will, maybe they'll even like us...
Thanks for the comments, notes, and e-mails you've all been sending. And Fei Mou, I'm sorry to hear about your recent loss.
The funeral was yesterday. When we arrived at the chapel, my brother and I looked at all the red-eyed, swollen faces and were convinced that the service was going to be a really awful experience. But remarkably, everyone stayed in control -- my mum got through her eulogy, the babies in the congregation never bawled, the immediate family sniffed and sobbed, but there were no breakdowns, which I'd worried there would be. Perhaps most amazingly of all, my aunt's daughter remained rock-solid throughout; in the morning, she and her brother visited their mum and placed a red blanket (to keep her warm in the afterlife) on her. After the service, the cortege proceeded, as per Chinese tradition, from the chapel to my aunt's home (so that her spirit can return there one last time) and then to the cemetery, where we tossed flowers onto the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. It was a straightforward, unelaborate affair, in keeping with my aunt's general dislike of fuss. The congregation then went to Chatswood, where we had yum cha and toasted my aunt.
Some random points:
- the Chatswood wake included several cousins who barely knew my aunt, and who rarely turn up to any family events, but who always make time for free food.
- - my baby nephews are superstars. Whenever cousins and uncles and aunts have nothing to say to each other, they can always rely on the babies to gurgle and goo and smile, which is to say, to relieve the tension.
- questions I'd rather not be asked again: "Hi! How are you?" [er, this is a funeral...] "Have you gotten yourself a girlfriend yet?" "Where are you working now?" "So you're still at university?"
- conversations I'd rather not overhear: "So who do you think in the family is next to go?"
- I'm amazed by how many potential gays and lesbians there are in family. And they're so cool. One cousin, the spitting butch image of Lea DeLaria, turned up to the service dressed in a man's cream-coloured tux. Squat and stocky, and bearing a short-cropped hairdo, she walked up to me and punched my shoulder before plonking herself down on a pew, elbows leaning on her legs. Another cousin -- a naturopath-cum-muso -- brought her 'flatmate'. Whenever they were together, they looked like radiant and Willowesque. During the wake, I thought I could see my closeted lesbian aunt looking vaguely bitter that the younger generation seems to be having an easier time of things than she did (as a teen, she took off from Sydney and moved interstate, where she's been living with her partner for over forty years). But then that aunt always looks bitter, so it's hard to tell what exactly she was thinking at a particular point in time.
- my family isn't getting any younger. My brother and I were talking last night about the possibility of arranging a get-together with our cousins. Some of our cousins dislike my family because we went to a private school, and two of my siblings are doctors. The misconception that we're all a bunch of snobs isn't helped by the fact that my siblings who are doctors are, well, snobs. But I think people have finally begun to notice that my brother and I have been attending family events for several years now, and that we're interested in connecting up with the rest of our cousins. Who knows? When they work out that most of them make a lot more money than my brother and I ever will, maybe they'll even like us...
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Addressing all Potentials
Addressing all Potentials
Hello all. Keith and I had dinner yesterday, and it was fun catching up with each other after the crazy past month. While we were in Gloria Jean's on Oxford St, wallowing in our respective troubles, we spotted a group of young twinks that had apparently just come from Fun & Esteem -- a free course designed to introduce young gay men to each other and let them talk about basic issues of acceptance, identity, dating, safe-sex, and so on. Since our old school is fairly close to Oxford St, Keith and I began to wonder about all the students there who remain closeted, who are either unable to out themselves or unaware of their sexuality. No doubt they're frightened by homophobes on the one hand, and radical gay social constructivists ('monogamy is a heterosexual norm, my sexuality is performative and fluid and therefore not not easily labelled, I can basically have sex with anyone I want') on the other.
These young men are potentials, possessing the basic instincts (gaydar, fashion sense, general sensitivity) of the Slayer (Keith/ Faith, Adrian/ Buffy). Following this revelation, the dramatis personae of the Buffyverse tumbled forth. Our high school is the Hellmouth. Its crest is the Seal of Danthalzar. My thesis supervisor is a Watcher. Colin Farrell can be Angel. I'd rather not have a Riley or Spike. Sea of Ug Ugh is Xander. (Gay up, Sea! Let's gay!) Our former high school teacher, Ms Smyrnis, is Glory. Peter Jensen is Caleb. Judy Garland is the First Slayer. There are plenty of bears at Taylor Square vying for the part of Oz, the werewolf. Patrolling Oxford St -- where 70 year olds have fake tans and look permanently young and undead -- is just another term for cruising. And on Oxford St, there are plenty of solariums that might be called 'The Bronze'. Armed only with our Mr. Pointys, Keith and I will banish untrendy people everywhere and rescue the potentials from their life of exclusion. We will all be Chosen Ones. To those potentials awaiting activation, I say this: "If you might be gay, you will be gay... Make your choice. Will you be strong?"
I'm sure you can see how this sort of time-wasting makes Keith and me feel immeasurably better about everything.
Hello all. Keith and I had dinner yesterday, and it was fun catching up with each other after the crazy past month. While we were in Gloria Jean's on Oxford St, wallowing in our respective troubles, we spotted a group of young twinks that had apparently just come from Fun & Esteem -- a free course designed to introduce young gay men to each other and let them talk about basic issues of acceptance, identity, dating, safe-sex, and so on. Since our old school is fairly close to Oxford St, Keith and I began to wonder about all the students there who remain closeted, who are either unable to out themselves or unaware of their sexuality. No doubt they're frightened by homophobes on the one hand, and radical gay social constructivists ('monogamy is a heterosexual norm, my sexuality is performative and fluid and therefore not not easily labelled, I can basically have sex with anyone I want') on the other.
These young men are potentials, possessing the basic instincts (gaydar, fashion sense, general sensitivity) of the Slayer (Keith/ Faith, Adrian/ Buffy). Following this revelation, the dramatis personae of the Buffyverse tumbled forth. Our high school is the Hellmouth. Its crest is the Seal of Danthalzar. My thesis supervisor is a Watcher. Colin Farrell can be Angel. I'd rather not have a Riley or Spike. Sea of Ug Ugh is Xander. (Gay up, Sea! Let's gay!) Our former high school teacher, Ms Smyrnis, is Glory. Peter Jensen is Caleb. Judy Garland is the First Slayer. There are plenty of bears at Taylor Square vying for the part of Oz, the werewolf. Patrolling Oxford St -- where 70 year olds have fake tans and look permanently young and undead -- is just another term for cruising. And on Oxford St, there are plenty of solariums that might be called 'The Bronze'. Armed only with our Mr. Pointys, Keith and I will banish untrendy people everywhere and rescue the potentials from their life of exclusion. We will all be Chosen Ones. To those potentials awaiting activation, I say this: "If you might be gay, you will be gay... Make your choice. Will you be strong?"
I'm sure you can see how this sort of time-wasting makes Keith and me feel immeasurably better about everything.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Two clicks of my ruby slippers
Good evening, folks. It's Keith here. As Adrian has mentioned, I am returning home for a couple of weeks (or maybe more). Currently, I'm at an internet terminal at Changi Airport in Singapore... it's funny how this place has become such a regular location for me to write my entries.
To say that my last month was bad is an understatement - it was terrible. I'm hoping to forget all about the exams, which has pretty much occupied all my mind all summer. I know Sydney would be the best place to do that, next to undergoing a full-scale lobotomy. I don't think I can tolerate spending the next couple of weeks in HK (even though I am a massive masochist)... the waiting for the results would be unbearable.
It's sad to hear of Adrian's loss. My thoughts are with him and his family.
Good evening, folks. It's Keith here. As Adrian has mentioned, I am returning home for a couple of weeks (or maybe more). Currently, I'm at an internet terminal at Changi Airport in Singapore... it's funny how this place has become such a regular location for me to write my entries.
To say that my last month was bad is an understatement - it was terrible. I'm hoping to forget all about the exams, which has pretty much occupied all my mind all summer. I know Sydney would be the best place to do that, next to undergoing a full-scale lobotomy. I don't think I can tolerate spending the next couple of weeks in HK (even though I am a massive masochist)... the waiting for the results would be unbearable.
It's sad to hear of Adrian's loss. My thoughts are with him and his family.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Postscript
Postscript
My aunt passed away last night. While it wasn't exactly a surprise, we were all taken aback by the suddenness of her death. Only the day before, she'd been talking about going to eat in Chinatown when she got better.
It will be very strange not having her around. She used to call my mother every few days. My mother isn't saying very much, but I can imagine what she's going through right now. Every time the phone rings, she'll be thinking that it's her sister.
I may take a couple of days off from blogging while I see whether I can help my family with the arranging the funeral. It's not really the time to be making jokes, of course, but I would like to point out that I have some expertise in this area. When my other aunt died a few years ago, it was left to me to work out several crucial things, since my remaining aunts and uncles were in no state to do anything. Can I say that there's nothing more surreal than having to peruse funeral parlour brochures ("The white model is flashy, but I think the dark redwood US-8X is more in keeping with her character."). And then there's the matter of talking to morticians. They enjoy their job far too much.
Talking about death with others -- particularly those who've never dealt with the death of loved ones -- can be difficult, because it remains such a taboo. It was unfortunate that the book we were reading in class the week of my aunt's funeral was Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One, a grimly acute satire of the American death industry. The bubbly cosmeticist who was working on my aunt was frighteningly similar to the character in Waugh's novel named Aimee. "I've been working [at this funeral parlour] ever since I left college. I love it," the cosmeticist told me. "I never cop any flack from clients." In a very strange way, talking to her was more cathartic than any of the conversations I had with any of my family or friends.
My aunt passed away last night. While it wasn't exactly a surprise, we were all taken aback by the suddenness of her death. Only the day before, she'd been talking about going to eat in Chinatown when she got better.
It will be very strange not having her around. She used to call my mother every few days. My mother isn't saying very much, but I can imagine what she's going through right now. Every time the phone rings, she'll be thinking that it's her sister.
I may take a couple of days off from blogging while I see whether I can help my family with the arranging the funeral. It's not really the time to be making jokes, of course, but I would like to point out that I have some expertise in this area. When my other aunt died a few years ago, it was left to me to work out several crucial things, since my remaining aunts and uncles were in no state to do anything. Can I say that there's nothing more surreal than having to peruse funeral parlour brochures ("The white model is flashy, but I think the dark redwood US-8X is more in keeping with her character."). And then there's the matter of talking to morticians. They enjoy their job far too much.
Talking about death with others -- particularly those who've never dealt with the death of loved ones -- can be difficult, because it remains such a taboo. It was unfortunate that the book we were reading in class the week of my aunt's funeral was Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One, a grimly acute satire of the American death industry. The bubbly cosmeticist who was working on my aunt was frighteningly similar to the character in Waugh's novel named Aimee. "I've been working [at this funeral parlour] ever since I left college. I love it," the cosmeticist told me. "I never cop any flack from clients." In a very strange way, talking to her was more cathartic than any of the conversations I had with any of my family or friends.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Family, friends, etc
Family, friends, etc
It's been a weird day. My aunt went into hospital to have some tests done after she woke up feeling giddy and found that all of her speech was slurred. She had a heart attack a few weeks ago, and had only recently returned home. Now in her early 80's, she's not very strong, and I think everyone in the family is quietly wondering whether she'll be able to recover from this latest setback. I'm very attached to this aunt; she's feisty but gentle, has a wicked sense of humour, and has perhaps the healthiest outlook on life of anybody I know. She's not very well off, but she always makes sure that her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews get little red packets (containing $1) on Chinese New Year. What really shocked the family about her recent hospitalization was that it occurred on the 3rd anniversary of another of my aunt's -- which is to say, her sister's -- death.
In other, better news: Keith has finished his exams, and is flying back to Sydney next week for a quick visit. If he's lucky, he may even get nice weather. Sydney's trying its damnedest to look its best at the moment -- blue skies, sunshine, a little warmth. Very un-wintry.
It's been a weird day. My aunt went into hospital to have some tests done after she woke up feeling giddy and found that all of her speech was slurred. She had a heart attack a few weeks ago, and had only recently returned home. Now in her early 80's, she's not very strong, and I think everyone in the family is quietly wondering whether she'll be able to recover from this latest setback. I'm very attached to this aunt; she's feisty but gentle, has a wicked sense of humour, and has perhaps the healthiest outlook on life of anybody I know. She's not very well off, but she always makes sure that her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews get little red packets (containing $1) on Chinese New Year. What really shocked the family about her recent hospitalization was that it occurred on the 3rd anniversary of another of my aunt's -- which is to say, her sister's -- death.
In other, better news: Keith has finished his exams, and is flying back to Sydney next week for a quick visit. If he's lucky, he may even get nice weather. Sydney's trying its damnedest to look its best at the moment -- blue skies, sunshine, a little warmth. Very un-wintry.
Friday, August 15, 2003
Bend and Snap: the Musical
Bend and Snap: the Musical
Yes, kids, it's true. That quintessential art-form of Hollywood's yesteryear, the MGM musical, is back, but this time, it's taking place on stage, not screen. Legally Blonde is being made into a musical. To paraphrase Reese Witherspoon's character, Elle, it'll be just like the movie, only funner. Interestingly, the movie was originally supposed to contain a musical sequence, taking place during the famous 'bend and snap' scene. No doubt this sequence will be accorded full chorusgirl glamour in the stage production.
Musicals based on movies have a dubious history. Remember the musical adaptation of Big? I thought not. What about Singin' in the Rain, complete with glorious indoor rain flooding the stage during the titular song sequence? And then there's the infamous 80's horror-show, Carrie, based on Stephen King's novel and also the Cissy Spacek movie, in which a repressed adolescent schoolgirl unleashes her telekinetic powers against her bullies. Readers and viewers will remember the moment when schoolboys play a cruel prank on Carrie, dumping loads of dead pig's blood on her. In the musical, which has not been produced since its illfated Broadway premiere, the boys' pigshooting becomes the subject of a ballet.
Yes, kids, it's true. That quintessential art-form of Hollywood's yesteryear, the MGM musical, is back, but this time, it's taking place on stage, not screen. Legally Blonde is being made into a musical. To paraphrase Reese Witherspoon's character, Elle, it'll be just like the movie, only funner. Interestingly, the movie was originally supposed to contain a musical sequence, taking place during the famous 'bend and snap' scene. No doubt this sequence will be accorded full chorusgirl glamour in the stage production.
Musicals based on movies have a dubious history. Remember the musical adaptation of Big? I thought not. What about Singin' in the Rain, complete with glorious indoor rain flooding the stage during the titular song sequence? And then there's the infamous 80's horror-show, Carrie, based on Stephen King's novel and also the Cissy Spacek movie, in which a repressed adolescent schoolgirl unleashes her telekinetic powers against her bullies. Readers and viewers will remember the moment when schoolboys play a cruel prank on Carrie, dumping loads of dead pig's blood on her. In the musical, which has not been produced since its illfated Broadway premiere, the boys' pigshooting becomes the subject of a ballet.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Gay Karate Dating
Gay Karate Dating
Are you a martial artist? Are you interested in dating? Are you gay? If you said yes to all three questions, then this is the site for you: Gay Karate Dating. And y'all thought we only liked to wrestle.
As a long-time fan of kung fu movies and also a full-time homosexual, I await the day when gay kung fu flicks pass from my imagination into reality. I can picture it now: Enter the Dragon's Boyfriend. The Gay of Death. Big Trouble Up Little China. Crouching Top, Hidden Bottom. The Sodomatrix. It's a veritable cornucopia of kickass-fuckass!
Are you a martial artist? Are you interested in dating? Are you gay? If you said yes to all three questions, then this is the site for you: Gay Karate Dating. And y'all thought we only liked to wrestle.
As a long-time fan of kung fu movies and also a full-time homosexual, I await the day when gay kung fu flicks pass from my imagination into reality. I can picture it now: Enter the Dragon's Boyfriend. The Gay of Death. Big Trouble Up Little China. Crouching Top, Hidden Bottom. The Sodomatrix. It's a veritable cornucopia of kickass-fuckass!
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Asian in da House
Asian in da House
A Chinese Rapper? Check this out. Jin is Asian-American, but he entered the Black Entertainment Television's "Freestyle Friday" Hall of Fame for going undefeated seven weeks in a row in the network's "106 & Park:Top Ten Live" rap battles. After graduating from a school in Florida, he moved to New York, not to seek his independence but rather to follow his parents. And now he has an album coming out.
Last night, my friend played for me Christina Aguilera's send-up of Eminem, a riposte to his continual jibes at her overhyped commercialism. Predictably, she poked fun at his overhyped commercialism, but 'Will the Real Slim Shady Please Shut Up?' contained some funny lyrics, including a comparison of 'Slim Shady' to 'Peter Brady'. Putcha bad self, Christina.
A Chinese Rapper? Check this out. Jin is Asian-American, but he entered the Black Entertainment Television's "Freestyle Friday" Hall of Fame for going undefeated seven weeks in a row in the network's "106 & Park:Top Ten Live" rap battles. After graduating from a school in Florida, he moved to New York, not to seek his independence but rather to follow his parents. And now he has an album coming out.
Last night, my friend played for me Christina Aguilera's send-up of Eminem, a riposte to his continual jibes at her overhyped commercialism. Predictably, she poked fun at his overhyped commercialism, but 'Will the Real Slim Shady Please Shut Up?' contained some funny lyrics, including a comparison of 'Slim Shady' to 'Peter Brady'. Putcha bad self, Christina.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Post-Apocalypse
Post-Apocalypse
How did I do with my Buffy predictions? Spike died, the amulet saved the day, Willow performed magic on a major scale ("That was nifty!"), Faith and Principal Wood were being set up for a new series (and actually got more screentime together than, say, Anya and Xander), and Anya died saving Andrew. The original gang didn't end up facing off against the First's legion of ubervamps together, but there was a delightful scene in which the four main characters shared a moment in the corridors of Sunnydale High. If I'm not mistaken, Giles was quoting the series' very first episode. The others got to wisecrack about shopping after the apocalypse. Tee hee! (Don't know if anyone noticed, but during that scene, you can see the shadow of a prop guy moving across the hallway behind Xander.)
All in all, it was a bloody good ending. Joss Whedon can be pretentious at times (especially on his Buffy DVD commentaries), but one thing you have to say for him is that he knows how to write character arcs. His characters don't remain on the series unless they have a purpose to fulfil. And in the finale, he tied up everything that needed to be, while still finding time to peddle his cheesy yet affecting message, that anyone who might be a slayer, will be a slayer. Which is to say, girls rock, man.
How did I do with my Buffy predictions? Spike died, the amulet saved the day, Willow performed magic on a major scale ("That was nifty!"), Faith and Principal Wood were being set up for a new series (and actually got more screentime together than, say, Anya and Xander), and Anya died saving Andrew. The original gang didn't end up facing off against the First's legion of ubervamps together, but there was a delightful scene in which the four main characters shared a moment in the corridors of Sunnydale High. If I'm not mistaken, Giles was quoting the series' very first episode. The others got to wisecrack about shopping after the apocalypse. Tee hee! (Don't know if anyone noticed, but during that scene, you can see the shadow of a prop guy moving across the hallway behind Xander.)
All in all, it was a bloody good ending. Joss Whedon can be pretentious at times (especially on his Buffy DVD commentaries), but one thing you have to say for him is that he knows how to write character arcs. His characters don't remain on the series unless they have a purpose to fulfil. And in the finale, he tied up everything that needed to be, while still finding time to peddle his cheesy yet affecting message, that anyone who might be a slayer, will be a slayer. Which is to say, girls rock, man.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Ah, humanity!
Ah, humanity!
Australian Idol: two, maybe three of the performers last night were decent. The pig farmer who's never formally taken singing lessons has the best vocal instrument of the lot, exhibiting a mature control over his vibrato and demonstrating pretty good range. Note how the better-looking performers -- the cutesy twinks, the former football players, and pop princesses -- were the least effective singers, pushing their voices beyond their capabilities. As for the judges: it's sad to see that the trio has now fallen into -- I should say, succumbed to -- the roles given them. Mark Holden either says, "That was good" or "That didn't do anything for me." Marcia says, "Thanks honey. You have a great voice" to everyone. Dicko says, "Loved it" or "You belong in cabaret" and "You're now completely out of your depth". Boring.
Final episode of Buffy tonight. Based on the past few episodes, and having rewatched the penultimate episode a couple of times, I'm now convinced that:
* Angel won't hang around in the episode for long. He was the deus ex machina of the last episode, so he'll scoot out quickly after giving Buffy a quick kiss.
* Spike will die, thus demonstrating his 'platonic love' (yeah, right) for Buffy in a redemptive act of self-sacrifice.
* Faith and Principal Wood are being set up to join together in a Faithcentric spin-off series.
* Anya will die, protecting Andrew from harm's way (we know this because Anya said last week that she's finally begun to love humanity, while Andrew is resigned to likely death).
* Oz probably won't return, since Willow already has (1) a partner she's lossed and misses -- Tara; and (2) has a present snuggle bunny -- Kennedy.
* Willow will perform magic on a big scale.
* Faith and the Principal will be fighting with the Potentials against the ubervamps.
* the original gang, plus Dawn (perhaps -- unless she's fighting with Anya and Andrew, or at home with them, preparing to tend to the wounded when they return) will face off against the First, armed with amulets and other assorted magic instruments.
* did I mention that Joss likes to use lots of magic instruments to help his characters save the day? It's the equivalent of technobabble on Star Trek and nifty gadgets on James Bond.
Ok, no one who's seen the episode already say a word about the finale! Let's say how I do with my predictions.
Australian Idol: two, maybe three of the performers last night were decent. The pig farmer who's never formally taken singing lessons has the best vocal instrument of the lot, exhibiting a mature control over his vibrato and demonstrating pretty good range. Note how the better-looking performers -- the cutesy twinks, the former football players, and pop princesses -- were the least effective singers, pushing their voices beyond their capabilities. As for the judges: it's sad to see that the trio has now fallen into -- I should say, succumbed to -- the roles given them. Mark Holden either says, "That was good" or "That didn't do anything for me." Marcia says, "Thanks honey. You have a great voice" to everyone. Dicko says, "Loved it" or "You belong in cabaret" and "You're now completely out of your depth". Boring.
Final episode of Buffy tonight. Based on the past few episodes, and having rewatched the penultimate episode a couple of times, I'm now convinced that:
* Angel won't hang around in the episode for long. He was the deus ex machina of the last episode, so he'll scoot out quickly after giving Buffy a quick kiss.
* Spike will die, thus demonstrating his 'platonic love' (yeah, right) for Buffy in a redemptive act of self-sacrifice.
* Faith and Principal Wood are being set up to join together in a Faithcentric spin-off series.
* Anya will die, protecting Andrew from harm's way (we know this because Anya said last week that she's finally begun to love humanity, while Andrew is resigned to likely death).
* Oz probably won't return, since Willow already has (1) a partner she's lossed and misses -- Tara; and (2) has a present snuggle bunny -- Kennedy.
* Willow will perform magic on a big scale.
* Faith and the Principal will be fighting with the Potentials against the ubervamps.
* the original gang, plus Dawn (perhaps -- unless she's fighting with Anya and Andrew, or at home with them, preparing to tend to the wounded when they return) will face off against the First, armed with amulets and other assorted magic instruments.
* did I mention that Joss likes to use lots of magic instruments to help his characters save the day? It's the equivalent of technobabble on Star Trek and nifty gadgets on James Bond.
Ok, no one who's seen the episode already say a word about the finale! Let's say how I do with my predictions.
Saturday, August 09, 2003
A Beautiful Mind
A Beautiful Mind
A recent survey in America has found that a consideration of aesthetic appeal is an important influence on how students rate the merits of their university professors' academic and teaching skills. On average, lecturers considered "handsome" or "beautiful" scored a full point higher on course surveys than those lecturers who were described as "homely".
This is not exactly a surprise; I just wish there were more beautiful or handsome academics at my university -- academics like, say, Brad Gooch. Gooch is over 50 years old, but he looks like he's just hit his 30's. He's a former model, having appeared in the ad campaign for Chanel's Allure. He's also a former porn film reviewer for a New York gay magazine. Shortly after he completed his graduate degree in English at Columbia University, he worked for a time as locker room boy in a gym. Now a tenured professor at a university in New Jersey, he's written several books, including two novels and one tell-all biography of New York poet Frank O'Hara. Recently, he's worked on two gaycentric self-help books, provocatively titled Finding the Boyfriend Within ("Oh there you are, Boyfriend! What are you doing in there?") and Dating the Greek Gods.
A few years ago, I was sitting in a seminar, listening to my lecturer talk about Brad Gooch's book on Frank O'Hara. I'm certain I wasn't imagining the lustful gleam in the academic's eyes as he uttered the author's name, with a prolonged emphasis on the 'oo' in Gooch. I didn't know who Brad Gooch was at the time, but having now seen the pictures of him, I completely understand both the gleam and the emphasis.
A recent survey in America has found that a consideration of aesthetic appeal is an important influence on how students rate the merits of their university professors' academic and teaching skills. On average, lecturers considered "handsome" or "beautiful" scored a full point higher on course surveys than those lecturers who were described as "homely".
This is not exactly a surprise; I just wish there were more beautiful or handsome academics at my university -- academics like, say, Brad Gooch. Gooch is over 50 years old, but he looks like he's just hit his 30's. He's a former model, having appeared in the ad campaign for Chanel's Allure. He's also a former porn film reviewer for a New York gay magazine. Shortly after he completed his graduate degree in English at Columbia University, he worked for a time as locker room boy in a gym. Now a tenured professor at a university in New Jersey, he's written several books, including two novels and one tell-all biography of New York poet Frank O'Hara. Recently, he's worked on two gaycentric self-help books, provocatively titled Finding the Boyfriend Within ("Oh there you are, Boyfriend! What are you doing in there?") and Dating the Greek Gods.
A few years ago, I was sitting in a seminar, listening to my lecturer talk about Brad Gooch's book on Frank O'Hara. I'm certain I wasn't imagining the lustful gleam in the academic's eyes as he uttered the author's name, with a prolonged emphasis on the 'oo' in Gooch. I didn't know who Brad Gooch was at the time, but having now seen the pictures of him, I completely understand both the gleam and the emphasis.
Friday, August 08, 2003
On the Origins of the Species
On the Origins of the Species
Prime Minister John Howard has argued that marriage's traditional function is to ensure "the survival of the species".
Now it's certainly true that you need couples -- or the sperm and egg of couples -- to procreate, and that, for Christians, marriage is the traditional means by which two people come together in holy matrimony. But, as numerous people have pointed out in the national and state newspapers over the past two days, there are plenty of married couples who can't procreate, or at least, who require artificial means to procreate, including, most controversially, IVF and other medical treatments, but also adoption. And there are many more couples who never intended to have children when they got married, and indeed who never do. As long as the state refrains from revoking the marriage licences of these people, it seems to me that neither the political nor the judicial system has any formal capacity -- by which I mean not only the right but also the grounds -- to restrict marriage to the function of procreation.
But what if, as I think, the PM's claim is underwritten not by a specific concern about civic function at all, but rather by a religious belief? For, despite his pseudo-Darwinian language, I suspect the PM's notion of the species' survival has more to do with the divine charge "to go forth and multiply" than anything else. To avoid accusations that he's yoking the state to his personal religious beliefs, the PM is shrouding those beliefs in quasi-scientific language.
Even here the grounds for his claim are dubious. For the preservation of the species has never been the core 'function' of Christian marriage at all. On the contrary, marriage signals the spiritual consummation of two Christians, who will henceforth grow in their faith together; it's this spiritual consummation that traditionally legitimates the subsequent sexual consummation.
The issue of gay marriage is forcing people to rethink the bases of their religious as well as societal beliefs. And that's why why, for all the attempts for some to dismiss this it as a controversy caused by a fringe group -- the narcissistic warcry of radicals on the periphery, of barbarians at the gate -- the issue raises questions that are central to how we view society as a whole.
Prime Minister John Howard has argued that marriage's traditional function is to ensure "the survival of the species".
Now it's certainly true that you need couples -- or the sperm and egg of couples -- to procreate, and that, for Christians, marriage is the traditional means by which two people come together in holy matrimony. But, as numerous people have pointed out in the national and state newspapers over the past two days, there are plenty of married couples who can't procreate, or at least, who require artificial means to procreate, including, most controversially, IVF and other medical treatments, but also adoption. And there are many more couples who never intended to have children when they got married, and indeed who never do. As long as the state refrains from revoking the marriage licences of these people, it seems to me that neither the political nor the judicial system has any formal capacity -- by which I mean not only the right but also the grounds -- to restrict marriage to the function of procreation.
But what if, as I think, the PM's claim is underwritten not by a specific concern about civic function at all, but rather by a religious belief? For, despite his pseudo-Darwinian language, I suspect the PM's notion of the species' survival has more to do with the divine charge "to go forth and multiply" than anything else. To avoid accusations that he's yoking the state to his personal religious beliefs, the PM is shrouding those beliefs in quasi-scientific language.
Even here the grounds for his claim are dubious. For the preservation of the species has never been the core 'function' of Christian marriage at all. On the contrary, marriage signals the spiritual consummation of two Christians, who will henceforth grow in their faith together; it's this spiritual consummation that traditionally legitimates the subsequent sexual consummation.
The issue of gay marriage is forcing people to rethink the bases of their religious as well as societal beliefs. And that's why why, for all the attempts for some to dismiss this it as a controversy caused by a fringe group -- the narcissistic warcry of radicals on the periphery, of barbarians at the gate -- the issue raises questions that are central to how we view society as a whole.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Arnie Versus Chad: Hercules Goes to California
Arnie Versus Chad: Hercules Goes to California
Arnold Schwarzenegger announced this evening on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno that he will run in California's gubernatorial recall election. All week, his advisers have suggested that Arnie was leaning against the idea of becoming a candidate. With great skill, they had successfully created the kind of suspense more worthy of a Hollywood movie trailer.
I can't really comment on the merits of Arnie's candidacy. But to his credit, the guy's involved himself in politics for several years now, and was integral to the creation of a recent education bill. For the most part, he's avoided invoking his silver screen celebrity in relation to his political campaign. As the late historian, Michael Rogin, observed, former US president Ronald Reagan shamelessly reworked lines from his own movies, without acknowledging that they were quotations, into what were ostensibly his most spontaneous moments in the political arena. (Asked to respond to Rogin's claim, then-White House speechwriter Anthony Dolan declared, "What he's really saying is that all of us are deeply affected by a uniquely American art form: the movies." Uh-huh.) But Arnie would have little luck trying to exploit his screen image -- which is traditionally characterized by silent heroic violence -- into his political persona. And that's because politics necessarily involves, well, talking. Note Arnie's decidedly un-Terminator-like prolixity in his interview with Jay Leno: ""The politicians are fiddling, fumbling and failing... The man that is failing the people more than anyone is Gray Davis. He is failing them terribly, and this is why he needs to be recalled and this is why I am going to run for governor." Arnie may not be the most articulate person in the world, but he is nonetheless a talker.
So everyone, brace yourself for bad Arnie jokes to saturate the world's newspapers and news segments. Arnie, the Governator? Californian Election 2, Rise of the Publicity Machine? Conan the Politician? Gray Davis and Arnie: are they Twins? Is it the end of Gray, or End of Grays, or Judgement Gray? To be sure, Arnie is the Last Action Hero on matters pertaining to energy. Is this election a Total Recall? (On the environment: "De peepul need dair air!") Moreover, when it comes to imports from foreign countries, he'll be Mr. Freeze. And where education and crime are concerned, he'll always be the Kindergarten Cop. Yes, I think that'll do for now.
Arnold Schwarzenegger announced this evening on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno that he will run in California's gubernatorial recall election. All week, his advisers have suggested that Arnie was leaning against the idea of becoming a candidate. With great skill, they had successfully created the kind of suspense more worthy of a Hollywood movie trailer.
I can't really comment on the merits of Arnie's candidacy. But to his credit, the guy's involved himself in politics for several years now, and was integral to the creation of a recent education bill. For the most part, he's avoided invoking his silver screen celebrity in relation to his political campaign. As the late historian, Michael Rogin, observed, former US president Ronald Reagan shamelessly reworked lines from his own movies, without acknowledging that they were quotations, into what were ostensibly his most spontaneous moments in the political arena. (Asked to respond to Rogin's claim, then-White House speechwriter Anthony Dolan declared, "What he's really saying is that all of us are deeply affected by a uniquely American art form: the movies." Uh-huh.) But Arnie would have little luck trying to exploit his screen image -- which is traditionally characterized by silent heroic violence -- into his political persona. And that's because politics necessarily involves, well, talking. Note Arnie's decidedly un-Terminator-like prolixity in his interview with Jay Leno: ""The politicians are fiddling, fumbling and failing... The man that is failing the people more than anyone is Gray Davis. He is failing them terribly, and this is why he needs to be recalled and this is why I am going to run for governor." Arnie may not be the most articulate person in the world, but he is nonetheless a talker.
So everyone, brace yourself for bad Arnie jokes to saturate the world's newspapers and news segments. Arnie, the Governator? Californian Election 2, Rise of the Publicity Machine? Conan the Politician? Gray Davis and Arnie: are they Twins? Is it the end of Gray, or End of Grays, or Judgement Gray? To be sure, Arnie is the Last Action Hero on matters pertaining to energy. Is this election a Total Recall? (On the environment: "De peepul need dair air!") Moreover, when it comes to imports from foreign countries, he'll be Mr. Freeze. And where education and crime are concerned, he'll always be the Kindergarten Cop. Yes, I think that'll do for now.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Some Initial Thoughts on Religion and Sexuality
Some Initial Thoughts on Religion and Sexuality
What does it mean to be Christian and gay, or to be part of any religion for which one's sexuality is contentious? I can't disavow my sexuality any more than I can reject my faith. To disbelieve my attraction to men would be no more possible than for me to disbelieve in Christ. I partake of my sexuality -- live it, embody it -- as comprehensively as I do my faith. Both are inextricable from my identity, and in many ways also from each other.
We often hear of people converting to a faith. The implication of the word 'conversion' is that a faith is simply something that one turns to, like a new shelf of clothes in a store. To convert is merely to shift one's view from one set of contents to another. But those of you who have faith will know that the concept of conversion as it's commonly described is far removed from the actual experience of possessing a conviction. Faith requires total immersion. To convert to a faith is to accept the central beliefs -- such as belief in Christ -- completely, and to possess them absolutely.
On similar grounds, I strongly object to the way religious and social commentators describe their attempts to make gays and lesbians disavow their sexualities as conversions in which men and women would simply be turning away from something that isn't intrinsically a part of themselves, or as 'cures', as though gays and lesbians would merely be ridding themselves of a malignant excrescence, a disposable surface. That's not the case at all -- like my faith, my sexuality isn't something I can deny or treat in order to make it go away; it's a fundamental part of my being. More on this later.
What does it mean to be Christian and gay, or to be part of any religion for which one's sexuality is contentious? I can't disavow my sexuality any more than I can reject my faith. To disbelieve my attraction to men would be no more possible than for me to disbelieve in Christ. I partake of my sexuality -- live it, embody it -- as comprehensively as I do my faith. Both are inextricable from my identity, and in many ways also from each other.
We often hear of people converting to a faith. The implication of the word 'conversion' is that a faith is simply something that one turns to, like a new shelf of clothes in a store. To convert is merely to shift one's view from one set of contents to another. But those of you who have faith will know that the concept of conversion as it's commonly described is far removed from the actual experience of possessing a conviction. Faith requires total immersion. To convert to a faith is to accept the central beliefs -- such as belief in Christ -- completely, and to possess them absolutely.
On similar grounds, I strongly object to the way religious and social commentators describe their attempts to make gays and lesbians disavow their sexualities as conversions in which men and women would simply be turning away from something that isn't intrinsically a part of themselves, or as 'cures', as though gays and lesbians would merely be ridding themselves of a malignant excrescence, a disposable surface. That's not the case at all -- like my faith, my sexuality isn't something I can deny or treat in order to make it go away; it's a fundamental part of my being. More on this later.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
On Gay Marriage
On Gay Marriage
I've been feeling increasingly depressed over the past few weeks. It's not the kind of depression that's interminable, or which, say, completely incapacitates my sense of humour. But when it sets in, I find it difficult to break out of.
One reason why I've been feeling a little down recently is the conservative backlash against gay rights that has sprung from the US Supreme Court's recent decision in the Lawrence vs Texas case. If the American courts have finally acknowledged both the illogicality and inhumaneness of Texas' and other states' attempts to incarcerate gays on the basis of their sexuality, the American people has shown a far more hypocritical attitude towards the treatment of its own citizens. For the past decade, opinion polls have generally indicated an increased willingness on the part of the American people to tolerate and accept gays. This, it would seem, is the natural progression from the decriminalization of homosexuality in several states and also the recognition that gays and lesbians cannot be justifiably pathologized, as though their sexualities were simply a disease requiring to be cured. But the positivistic assumption that the quest to ratify gay rights in America law, once in motion, can never go backwards, has been proven wrong. For while Americans are prepared to recognize that gays aren't a class of criminals, and that they have every right to conduct consensual sex in the privacy of their own homes, they refuse to recognize that gay, like straight couples, are capable of maintaining loving, monogamous relationships. The refusal to recognize the legality of gay marriages is at its core a refusal to accept that gays are anything but an underclass in society, not privy to the civic status and distinction that the term 'marriage' affords couples.
Conservatives opposed to gay marriage like to cite the putative promiscuity of all gays -- a promiscuity which, apparently, is a congenital by-product of their sexuality -- as reason to deny gay couples formal recognition of their union. Conservative bloggers such as Clayton Cramer argued with overwrought ideological fervour that gays, apparently, are unable to conduct monogamous relationships. There are several problems here. Firstly, the fact that many gay men are promiscuous isn't sufficient reason to deny all gays the right to marriage. Secondly, there's little creditable evidence to suggest that gay men are especially more promiscuous than straight men -- just ask Colin Farrell. Given the high incidence of divorce in Western societies nowadays, it would appear that promiscuity (which admittedly is only one of many factors in the increasing divorce rates in Western countries) is, if anything, a social problem, common to all sexualities and genders. Thirdly and most importantly, monogamous gay unions are already evident all around the world. I think of two couples I know in Sacramento, California -- including one pair to whom I'm very close -- who have been together for over 6 and 12 years, respectively, or of another couple I know in Sydney who've been together for just over a decade. And there's the couple who live a few blocks away from me, and who have been together for over 25 years. These are the sort of people that the loud and brash conservative movement -- we might think of them as radical conservatives -- never acknowledges, for fear that it would topple their campaign to recriminalize, repathologize, and to eradicate homosexuality forever. These couples inspire me, and they set an example of monogamy and fidelity for subsequent generations of straights and gays.
A popular conservative canard is that marriage in our society is typically defined as the union of two individuals for the purpose of reproduction. But there are plenty of couples who don't have children, and they're still allowed to marry. Moreover, there are plenty of de facto and divorced couples who do have children, regardless of the fact that they're not legally married.
The sad truth is that opponents of gay marriage aren't really trying to uphold societal traditions so much as justify their longstanding prejudice against gays. Unfortunately, many of these people would characterize themselves as tolerant and accepting of homosexuality; now they're forced to question to what extent they are truly accepting of it at all.
More on this later, in relation to a special front in what Justice Scalia rather cryptically called "the culture wars" (I thought those wars only concerned Shakespeare and great books!): the relationship between religion and homosexuality.
I've been feeling increasingly depressed over the past few weeks. It's not the kind of depression that's interminable, or which, say, completely incapacitates my sense of humour. But when it sets in, I find it difficult to break out of.
One reason why I've been feeling a little down recently is the conservative backlash against gay rights that has sprung from the US Supreme Court's recent decision in the Lawrence vs Texas case. If the American courts have finally acknowledged both the illogicality and inhumaneness of Texas' and other states' attempts to incarcerate gays on the basis of their sexuality, the American people has shown a far more hypocritical attitude towards the treatment of its own citizens. For the past decade, opinion polls have generally indicated an increased willingness on the part of the American people to tolerate and accept gays. This, it would seem, is the natural progression from the decriminalization of homosexuality in several states and also the recognition that gays and lesbians cannot be justifiably pathologized, as though their sexualities were simply a disease requiring to be cured. But the positivistic assumption that the quest to ratify gay rights in America law, once in motion, can never go backwards, has been proven wrong. For while Americans are prepared to recognize that gays aren't a class of criminals, and that they have every right to conduct consensual sex in the privacy of their own homes, they refuse to recognize that gay, like straight couples, are capable of maintaining loving, monogamous relationships. The refusal to recognize the legality of gay marriages is at its core a refusal to accept that gays are anything but an underclass in society, not privy to the civic status and distinction that the term 'marriage' affords couples.
Conservatives opposed to gay marriage like to cite the putative promiscuity of all gays -- a promiscuity which, apparently, is a congenital by-product of their sexuality -- as reason to deny gay couples formal recognition of their union. Conservative bloggers such as Clayton Cramer argued with overwrought ideological fervour that gays, apparently, are unable to conduct monogamous relationships. There are several problems here. Firstly, the fact that many gay men are promiscuous isn't sufficient reason to deny all gays the right to marriage. Secondly, there's little creditable evidence to suggest that gay men are especially more promiscuous than straight men -- just ask Colin Farrell. Given the high incidence of divorce in Western societies nowadays, it would appear that promiscuity (which admittedly is only one of many factors in the increasing divorce rates in Western countries) is, if anything, a social problem, common to all sexualities and genders. Thirdly and most importantly, monogamous gay unions are already evident all around the world. I think of two couples I know in Sacramento, California -- including one pair to whom I'm very close -- who have been together for over 6 and 12 years, respectively, or of another couple I know in Sydney who've been together for just over a decade. And there's the couple who live a few blocks away from me, and who have been together for over 25 years. These are the sort of people that the loud and brash conservative movement -- we might think of them as radical conservatives -- never acknowledges, for fear that it would topple their campaign to recriminalize, repathologize, and to eradicate homosexuality forever. These couples inspire me, and they set an example of monogamy and fidelity for subsequent generations of straights and gays.
A popular conservative canard is that marriage in our society is typically defined as the union of two individuals for the purpose of reproduction. But there are plenty of couples who don't have children, and they're still allowed to marry. Moreover, there are plenty of de facto and divorced couples who do have children, regardless of the fact that they're not legally married.
The sad truth is that opponents of gay marriage aren't really trying to uphold societal traditions so much as justify their longstanding prejudice against gays. Unfortunately, many of these people would characterize themselves as tolerant and accepting of homosexuality; now they're forced to question to what extent they are truly accepting of it at all.
More on this later, in relation to a special front in what Justice Scalia rather cryptically called "the culture wars" (I thought those wars only concerned Shakespeare and great books!): the relationship between religion and homosexuality.
Monday, August 04, 2003
Sweet Transvestites
Sweet Transvestites
The second episode of Australian Idol aired last night, and already it's clear that only a handful of contestants can sing. Others strut, wail, or gyrate in order to hide the fact that, vocally, they're simply not up to scratch. Bereft of decent performances to focus on, the tv presenters concentrated instead on the personalities of the singers. There was the Somalian refugee who had trouble mastering the words to songs in English; the bitchy loner who refused to play back-up for the other members of the trio she was assigned to; the demure wallflower whose confidence builds with each performance she gives; the large, unemployed guy who wanted to make his generally unsympathetic dad proud of him; the young starlet who dedicated her performance to her dad, who'd died a few years earlier; the young feral who had just become a dad; and the cutesy pie who wanted to make one of the judges her sugardaddy. My favourite contestant is the sweet transvestite who was originally rejected as a boy, only to be accepted in drag the day after. Two of the judges didn't even recognize who she was.
On that point: if the performers have discovered remarkably quickly how to market themselves on camera, the judges are slowly beginning to settle into their proscribed roles, too. Ian Dickson still lacks the requisite callous detachment of a Simon Cowell, and in the outright-wanker stakes he's often upstaged by ex-pop-star Mark Holden, for whom melodramatic outbursts seem par for the course. Maybe Holden's a little bitter that none of the adolescent-to-young adult contestants actually know who he is? Marcia Hines has eased into the role assigned to her the best. There was less tough love on her part last night, and more of the comforting, if slightly condescending mother-figure who eagerly wants her children to be successful. At times she appears to be channelling Susan Sarandon. They both have the same matronizing, New-Age vibe. Now if Mark Holden could just work on his Barry Bostowick, straight-jawed good-guy persona, and Ian Dickson tried to impersonate Tim Curry rather than Simon Cowell, we might just have a show -- a Rocky Horror Show.
The second episode of Australian Idol aired last night, and already it's clear that only a handful of contestants can sing. Others strut, wail, or gyrate in order to hide the fact that, vocally, they're simply not up to scratch. Bereft of decent performances to focus on, the tv presenters concentrated instead on the personalities of the singers. There was the Somalian refugee who had trouble mastering the words to songs in English; the bitchy loner who refused to play back-up for the other members of the trio she was assigned to; the demure wallflower whose confidence builds with each performance she gives; the large, unemployed guy who wanted to make his generally unsympathetic dad proud of him; the young starlet who dedicated her performance to her dad, who'd died a few years earlier; the young feral who had just become a dad; and the cutesy pie who wanted to make one of the judges her sugardaddy. My favourite contestant is the sweet transvestite who was originally rejected as a boy, only to be accepted in drag the day after. Two of the judges didn't even recognize who she was.
On that point: if the performers have discovered remarkably quickly how to market themselves on camera, the judges are slowly beginning to settle into their proscribed roles, too. Ian Dickson still lacks the requisite callous detachment of a Simon Cowell, and in the outright-wanker stakes he's often upstaged by ex-pop-star Mark Holden, for whom melodramatic outbursts seem par for the course. Maybe Holden's a little bitter that none of the adolescent-to-young adult contestants actually know who he is? Marcia Hines has eased into the role assigned to her the best. There was less tough love on her part last night, and more of the comforting, if slightly condescending mother-figure who eagerly wants her children to be successful. At times she appears to be channelling Susan Sarandon. They both have the same matronizing, New-Age vibe. Now if Mark Holden could just work on his Barry Bostowick, straight-jawed good-guy persona, and Ian Dickson tried to impersonate Tim Curry rather than Simon Cowell, we might just have a show -- a Rocky Horror Show.
Saturday, August 02, 2003
Chasing Lesbians
Chasing Lesbians
Oh dear. The Ben Affleck-J.Lo romantic comedy, Gigli, looks set to bomb after generating unanimously awful reviews in the US. Why is Ben attracted to film projects in which his characters become attracted to lesbians? This plot first occurred in his breakout inde movie, Chasing Amy, and now it rears its ugly head again. And speaking of head, the scene in which J.Lo, lying in bed with Ben, declares "It's turkey time...gobble, gobble" has already become infamous.
Presumably, it's the women playing opposite -- or, in this case, on top of -- Affleck that compel him to sign up to these sorts of movies. The storyline itself may also hold some fascination for him. The stunning, yet unattainable woman: this is the irreducible fantasy of many men, and who better to play the lead female character in a film premised on this fantasy than J.Lo, an actress whose moniker, as some wags have pointed out, bears an unfortunate resemblance to both the word 'jello' and the term 'j/o', which is internet shorthand (so to speak) for masturbation.
Long before Gigli, J.Lo had already appeared in movies that riff on the theme of the unpossessable sex object. In Out of Sight, we see George Clooney, a criminal on the run, taking a bath, with J.Lo's police officer going down on him. At first, we're led to assume that Clooney is fantasizing about J.Lo, only to realize moments later that she's the one who's dreaming about this experience.
Unfortunately, there's no such cleverness in Gigli.
What are we meant to make of the film's title, which brings to mind not only 'J.Lo' (ooh, how sophisticatedly -- and marketably -- self-reflexive) but also 'gigalo'? Are we to conclude that Ben is successor to the original American Gigalo, Richard Gere? If that's the case, is J.Lo the Officer to Affleck's Gentleman?). A.O. Scott of The New York Times points out the title's similarity to the words 'jiggly' and 'silly'; we could also add 'jiggy' and 'jelly'. The apparently unlimited semiosis of the film's title is almost certainly more fun than the film itself.
I'm thinking of changing my name, pace J.Lo, to A.Pho, which sounds uncannily like the Vietnamese word for rice noodle, pho. Chasing A.Pho: coming soon to a theatre near you.
Oh dear. The Ben Affleck-J.Lo romantic comedy, Gigli, looks set to bomb after generating unanimously awful reviews in the US. Why is Ben attracted to film projects in which his characters become attracted to lesbians? This plot first occurred in his breakout inde movie, Chasing Amy, and now it rears its ugly head again. And speaking of head, the scene in which J.Lo, lying in bed with Ben, declares "It's turkey time...gobble, gobble" has already become infamous.
Presumably, it's the women playing opposite -- or, in this case, on top of -- Affleck that compel him to sign up to these sorts of movies. The storyline itself may also hold some fascination for him. The stunning, yet unattainable woman: this is the irreducible fantasy of many men, and who better to play the lead female character in a film premised on this fantasy than J.Lo, an actress whose moniker, as some wags have pointed out, bears an unfortunate resemblance to both the word 'jello' and the term 'j/o', which is internet shorthand (so to speak) for masturbation.
Long before Gigli, J.Lo had already appeared in movies that riff on the theme of the unpossessable sex object. In Out of Sight, we see George Clooney, a criminal on the run, taking a bath, with J.Lo's police officer going down on him. At first, we're led to assume that Clooney is fantasizing about J.Lo, only to realize moments later that she's the one who's dreaming about this experience.
Unfortunately, there's no such cleverness in Gigli.
What are we meant to make of the film's title, which brings to mind not only 'J.Lo' (ooh, how sophisticatedly -- and marketably -- self-reflexive) but also 'gigalo'? Are we to conclude that Ben is successor to the original American Gigalo, Richard Gere? If that's the case, is J.Lo the Officer to Affleck's Gentleman?). A.O. Scott of The New York Times points out the title's similarity to the words 'jiggly' and 'silly'; we could also add 'jiggy' and 'jelly'. The apparently unlimited semiosis of the film's title is almost certainly more fun than the film itself.
I'm thinking of changing my name, pace J.Lo, to A.Pho, which sounds uncannily like the Vietnamese word for rice noodle, pho. Chasing A.Pho: coming soon to a theatre near you.
Friday, August 01, 2003
Christian Monzon
Christian Monzon
I've mentioned him in passing so many times recently, that I've decided he needs a post of his own. He's done work for H&M, Dolce & Gabbana (for which he appeared in blistering photos of him in tighty whities), Sean John, Fubu, and Nautica; he can also be found in ads for Apple (yep, he's apparently a Mac user). He's a some time actor, having starred in the video clip of Pink's 'There You Go' and an episode earlier this year of Law & Order:SVU. So without further ado, behold, Christian Monzon. Ecce, homo(sexual's delight)!
(Click on the picture of Christian to see the rest of the image. With thanks to Keith for engineering this.)
I've mentioned him in passing so many times recently, that I've decided he needs a post of his own. He's done work for H&M, Dolce & Gabbana (for which he appeared in blistering photos of him in tighty whities), Sean John, Fubu, and Nautica; he can also be found in ads for Apple (yep, he's apparently a Mac user). He's a some time actor, having starred in the video clip of Pink's 'There You Go' and an episode earlier this year of Law & Order:SVU. So without further ado, behold, Christian Monzon. Ecce, homo(sexual's delight)!
(Click on the picture of Christian to see the rest of the image. With thanks to Keith for engineering this.)
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Alexander the Great Gay Hero?
Alexander the Great Gay Hero?
When Out Magazine published an article last year that described Alexander the Great as a gay hero, I was a little taken aback. (Note: In lieu of actual photos of Alexander, model, actor and all-round hot-property Christian Monzon adorned the article.) I mean, sure, this most famous of ancient generals not only maintained his father Phillip II of Macedon's empire, but also expanded it, across the Hellespont, through Asia Minor, then southwards across Egypt. But do his achievements really bear scrutiny as the marks of a hero for the modern gay movement? If the notion that Alexander could be considered as such a hero is counter-intuitive, it is nonetheless welcome, if only because it controverts the anti-gay revisionism that seems to mar so many people's understanding of the ancient world. I once had an argument -- on my graduation day, no less -- with a man who claimed that something called the "ancient Greek empire" fell as a result of being overrun by "the gays". When I tried to tell the guy that there was no such thing as an ancient Greek empire -- ancient Greece, after all, consisted of individual city-states -- he raised an eyebrow and said quite seriously, "That's what the gays want you to think!"
Alexander was a vicious, passionate, bloodthirsty, courageous, and dangerously intemperate son, lover, and leader. How could the life and times of a man such as this possibly bear any tangible connection to the life and times of gay men living today? A mosaic of Alexander in party mode, recently discovered in an Israeli seaport by a team headed by archaeologists from Berkeley, suggests a certain similarity between the Macedonian warrior-king and today's clubbers: dressed for a night on the town, Alexander, surprisingly enough, looks less like a a dashing, rugged man than an immaculately boyish twink.
Two films scheduled for production within the next year attest to the enduring interest in Alexander in our time. The first film, starring my favourite bad-boy, Colin Farrell (the man who makes 'phone booths' look sexy), will depict Alexander's bisexuality in some detail. I'm thrilled to hear that hottie Matt Keeslar (Last Days of Disco, Urbania, Dune, Red Rose) will play Colin's -- erm, I mean Alexander's -- male love interest, Hephaestion. There are even rumours of a love triangle, in which a catamite attempts to compete with Hephaestion for Alexander's love.
The second Alexander the Great film will be directed by Baz Luhrman and will star Leonardo diCaprio. Personally, I can't help but think that diCaprio would be more convincing as Alexander's catamite than as Alexander himself. But then again, Leo does look a little like Alexander as he's represented in the Israeli mosaic, so who knows? Under Luhrman's direction, the film can't possibly be boring. Frenetic, dizzying, and hyperactive, maybe, but not boring. And to be honest, I can't see how any account of Alexander's life could be dull, unless perhaps Andrew Lloyd Webber decides to do a musical about it. Alexander and his Technicolour Club Gear, anyone?
When Out Magazine published an article last year that described Alexander the Great as a gay hero, I was a little taken aback. (Note: In lieu of actual photos of Alexander, model, actor and all-round hot-property Christian Monzon adorned the article.) I mean, sure, this most famous of ancient generals not only maintained his father Phillip II of Macedon's empire, but also expanded it, across the Hellespont, through Asia Minor, then southwards across Egypt. But do his achievements really bear scrutiny as the marks of a hero for the modern gay movement? If the notion that Alexander could be considered as such a hero is counter-intuitive, it is nonetheless welcome, if only because it controverts the anti-gay revisionism that seems to mar so many people's understanding of the ancient world. I once had an argument -- on my graduation day, no less -- with a man who claimed that something called the "ancient Greek empire" fell as a result of being overrun by "the gays". When I tried to tell the guy that there was no such thing as an ancient Greek empire -- ancient Greece, after all, consisted of individual city-states -- he raised an eyebrow and said quite seriously, "That's what the gays want you to think!"
Alexander was a vicious, passionate, bloodthirsty, courageous, and dangerously intemperate son, lover, and leader. How could the life and times of a man such as this possibly bear any tangible connection to the life and times of gay men living today? A mosaic of Alexander in party mode, recently discovered in an Israeli seaport by a team headed by archaeologists from Berkeley, suggests a certain similarity between the Macedonian warrior-king and today's clubbers: dressed for a night on the town, Alexander, surprisingly enough, looks less like a a dashing, rugged man than an immaculately boyish twink.
Two films scheduled for production within the next year attest to the enduring interest in Alexander in our time. The first film, starring my favourite bad-boy, Colin Farrell (the man who makes 'phone booths' look sexy), will depict Alexander's bisexuality in some detail. I'm thrilled to hear that hottie Matt Keeslar (Last Days of Disco, Urbania, Dune, Red Rose) will play Colin's -- erm, I mean Alexander's -- male love interest, Hephaestion. There are even rumours of a love triangle, in which a catamite attempts to compete with Hephaestion for Alexander's love.
The second Alexander the Great film will be directed by Baz Luhrman and will star Leonardo diCaprio. Personally, I can't help but think that diCaprio would be more convincing as Alexander's catamite than as Alexander himself. But then again, Leo does look a little like Alexander as he's represented in the Israeli mosaic, so who knows? Under Luhrman's direction, the film can't possibly be boring. Frenetic, dizzying, and hyperactive, maybe, but not boring. And to be honest, I can't see how any account of Alexander's life could be dull, unless perhaps Andrew Lloyd Webber decides to do a musical about it. Alexander and his Technicolour Club Gear, anyone?
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Divas on the Move
Divas on the Move
David Gest has declared to the media his fear that his divorce from Liza Minelli is going "to get ugly". One wonders how anything could possibly be uglier than their marriage... In other entertainment industry news: a recent concert performance by Dannii Minogue turned into a drama when the Aussie singer spotted a man by the seaside trying to drag himself ashore after his boat had capsized. Dannii tried to draw attention to the man's plight by pointing frantically to him mid-song. But the crowd, thinking that this was some crazy new dance move, simply followed suit, pointing back at the pop starlet in time to the music. Thankfully, the man made it back to land without need of assistance. Phew! Given that Danni always follows her sister Kylie's career moves, it's kind of nice to hear an instance in which people are copying her moves for a change, no?
David Gest has declared to the media his fear that his divorce from Liza Minelli is going "to get ugly". One wonders how anything could possibly be uglier than their marriage... In other entertainment industry news: a recent concert performance by Dannii Minogue turned into a drama when the Aussie singer spotted a man by the seaside trying to drag himself ashore after his boat had capsized. Dannii tried to draw attention to the man's plight by pointing frantically to him mid-song. But the crowd, thinking that this was some crazy new dance move, simply followed suit, pointing back at the pop starlet in time to the music. Thankfully, the man made it back to land without need of assistance. Phew! Given that Danni always follows her sister Kylie's career moves, it's kind of nice to hear an instance in which people are copying her moves for a change, no?
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Hairy truths
Hairy truths
Yesterday, a conversation with a friend led to a serious discussion about chest hair. "I hate it," my friend declared, before adding, "It reminds me of wild monkies. And my dad."
So this is what it's come to. Rightly celebrated in the 70's as an emblem of potent, attractive virility, chest hair is now more likely to be associated with ferals and fathers. Why is it that we recognize the strength (both physical and symbolic) of hair elsewhere on the body, yet deny its power once it's located on a chest? According to Chinese folklore, when the Monkey King ripped hairs from his chest, they would customarily transform into an invincible army of fighting monkeys. Long, flowing hair was identified with strident anti-Vietnam War activism with the musical Hair. By contrast, when the biblical Samson's hair was cut while he was sleeping, he was rendered powerless. When the fair Belinda's hair was cut against her wishes, the incident moved her to tears and Alexander Pope to write an entire mock epic about it, entitled 'The Rape of the Lock'. More recently, when Keri Russell lopped off her hair at the start of the second season of Felicity, the ratings plummeted instantly; like Russell's trademark locks, the ratings never fully recovered.
Hair is powerful, alright. But when people invoke chest hair these days, they tend to associate it not with power, but rather with corpulence, excess, lack of hygiene, and perhaps worst of all, lack of purpose. For chest hair is often portrayed as useless, an unnecessary obstacle getting in the way of the chest itself. Like the concept of clipping the perennial hairmonger Burt Reynolds, chest hair is frequently dismissed as a waste of time. We can blame this attitude on the 80's, when the idea of waxing began to grow in mainstream popularity, and chest hair began to wane as a result. To be sure, when Mr. Miyagi orders his young charge Daniel san in the 80's classic The Karate Kid to "wax on, wax off", he could just as well have been speaking to a whole generation of human wax-works waxing phobically about follicles.
Today, too many cultural commentators deliver bald pronouncements against the hairy prospect of having chest hair, asseverating, as it were, the sheer ridiculousness of the unshorn chest.
But things are beginning to change. Last year, a Sydney Morning Herald article proclaimed that the "chest rug is in vogue". And it's not uncommon now to read or hear that men like Andre Agassi, Pierce Brosnan, and -- somewhat more surprisingly -- the firefighters who worked at Ground Zero, have helped to improve the image of chest hair, by making it appear disciplined, athletic, and sexy. Moreover, people are reviving the argument that body hair, far from being dirty, is the body's natural means of keeping itself clean, working to filter out foreign particles from sensitive spots like the navel and anus. (As Hamlet might've made the case, "Angels and ministers of God defend an-us!") So chest hair is hygienic, after all. At the same time, hirsute men like Samuel de Cubber and Ryan Zane (warning: image not suitable for workplaces) make chest-hairless men like me feel downright dirty.
Though chest hair is ostensibly incidental, it can nonetheless play a vital role in the vagaries of human attraction. In this respect, it possesses the same aesthetic value as do clothes in a striptease: it tantalizes precisely because it accentuates what it obscures, inciting the imagination to wonder, as one of hairy Harrison Ford's movies has it, 'what lies beneath'. Of course it's true that another Harrison Ford character, Han Solo, once admonished his hair-saturated friend Chewbacca with a reference to Chewbacca's hair: "Laugh it up, fuzzball!" But mightn't we put this down to jealousy of the yeti-like Chewbacca, rather than a dislike of his voluminous hair?
Ok, so Chewbacca may not be the best example to have cited when I'm talking up chest hair. But let's be clear on this. Chest hair can be as exhilarating as it's hair-raising; if kept from going AWOL, it can be the very mark of naval precision. Certainly, it can often have me standing to attention.
Yesterday, a conversation with a friend led to a serious discussion about chest hair. "I hate it," my friend declared, before adding, "It reminds me of wild monkies. And my dad."
So this is what it's come to. Rightly celebrated in the 70's as an emblem of potent, attractive virility, chest hair is now more likely to be associated with ferals and fathers. Why is it that we recognize the strength (both physical and symbolic) of hair elsewhere on the body, yet deny its power once it's located on a chest? According to Chinese folklore, when the Monkey King ripped hairs from his chest, they would customarily transform into an invincible army of fighting monkeys. Long, flowing hair was identified with strident anti-Vietnam War activism with the musical Hair. By contrast, when the biblical Samson's hair was cut while he was sleeping, he was rendered powerless. When the fair Belinda's hair was cut against her wishes, the incident moved her to tears and Alexander Pope to write an entire mock epic about it, entitled 'The Rape of the Lock'. More recently, when Keri Russell lopped off her hair at the start of the second season of Felicity, the ratings plummeted instantly; like Russell's trademark locks, the ratings never fully recovered.
Hair is powerful, alright. But when people invoke chest hair these days, they tend to associate it not with power, but rather with corpulence, excess, lack of hygiene, and perhaps worst of all, lack of purpose. For chest hair is often portrayed as useless, an unnecessary obstacle getting in the way of the chest itself. Like the concept of clipping the perennial hairmonger Burt Reynolds, chest hair is frequently dismissed as a waste of time. We can blame this attitude on the 80's, when the idea of waxing began to grow in mainstream popularity, and chest hair began to wane as a result. To be sure, when Mr. Miyagi orders his young charge Daniel san in the 80's classic The Karate Kid to "wax on, wax off", he could just as well have been speaking to a whole generation of human wax-works waxing phobically about follicles.
Today, too many cultural commentators deliver bald pronouncements against the hairy prospect of having chest hair, asseverating, as it were, the sheer ridiculousness of the unshorn chest.
But things are beginning to change. Last year, a Sydney Morning Herald article proclaimed that the "chest rug is in vogue". And it's not uncommon now to read or hear that men like Andre Agassi, Pierce Brosnan, and -- somewhat more surprisingly -- the firefighters who worked at Ground Zero, have helped to improve the image of chest hair, by making it appear disciplined, athletic, and sexy. Moreover, people are reviving the argument that body hair, far from being dirty, is the body's natural means of keeping itself clean, working to filter out foreign particles from sensitive spots like the navel and anus. (As Hamlet might've made the case, "Angels and ministers of God defend an-us!") So chest hair is hygienic, after all. At the same time, hirsute men like Samuel de Cubber and Ryan Zane (warning: image not suitable for workplaces) make chest-hairless men like me feel downright dirty.
Though chest hair is ostensibly incidental, it can nonetheless play a vital role in the vagaries of human attraction. In this respect, it possesses the same aesthetic value as do clothes in a striptease: it tantalizes precisely because it accentuates what it obscures, inciting the imagination to wonder, as one of hairy Harrison Ford's movies has it, 'what lies beneath'. Of course it's true that another Harrison Ford character, Han Solo, once admonished his hair-saturated friend Chewbacca with a reference to Chewbacca's hair: "Laugh it up, fuzzball!" But mightn't we put this down to jealousy of the yeti-like Chewbacca, rather than a dislike of his voluminous hair?
Ok, so Chewbacca may not be the best example to have cited when I'm talking up chest hair. But let's be clear on this. Chest hair can be as exhilarating as it's hair-raising; if kept from going AWOL, it can be the very mark of naval precision. Certainly, it can often have me standing to attention.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Australian Idol
Australian Idol
I admit it. I'm hooked. Australian Idol has succeeded where Popstars failed -- and failed so dismally -- by drawing me in. Following the format first developed by the UK programme, Pop Idol, and subsequently adapted by American Idol, Australian Idol, which aired last night, has all the traits of riveting trash TV. But while it adopts the basic framework of the English and American series, it diverges markedly in its choice of judges. Where the American programme, for instance, plays the supportive big-sisterly Paula Abdul against the doggedly malicious Britisher, Simon Cowell, the bitchiness seems to be spread evenly among the Australian panel. Marcia Hines is ostensibly there to provide maternal sympathy; but in fact she makes a severe and exacting mother who doesn't hold back from telling contestants that how truly bad their performances are. One appalling act prompts Hines to burst into a fit of laughter. *Miao!* (I wonder if Hines raised her pop-star daughter, Deni, with this kind of tough love.) If and when I tune into the show again next week, it won't be for the performers, but for the judges. But if I had to choose someone I wanted to win, it would have to be the kid who sang 'Bat out of Hell'. Not only does he sing Meatloaf, but he looks like the guy, too. This, clearly, is a little (deluded) battler.
In other news, The Mole in Paradise also premiered last night. I didn't watch the show, but I did manage to see host Grant Bowler ask in his stridently Guy-Smilie-esque, straight-jawed manner, "So...who and where is the Mole?" When I flicked channels to SBS, I was surprised to find the Mole reading the news. Oh, wait, that's Lee Lin Chin...
I admit it. I'm hooked. Australian Idol has succeeded where Popstars failed -- and failed so dismally -- by drawing me in. Following the format first developed by the UK programme, Pop Idol, and subsequently adapted by American Idol, Australian Idol, which aired last night, has all the traits of riveting trash TV. But while it adopts the basic framework of the English and American series, it diverges markedly in its choice of judges. Where the American programme, for instance, plays the supportive big-sisterly Paula Abdul against the doggedly malicious Britisher, Simon Cowell, the bitchiness seems to be spread evenly among the Australian panel. Marcia Hines is ostensibly there to provide maternal sympathy; but in fact she makes a severe and exacting mother who doesn't hold back from telling contestants that how truly bad their performances are. One appalling act prompts Hines to burst into a fit of laughter. *Miao!* (I wonder if Hines raised her pop-star daughter, Deni, with this kind of tough love.) If and when I tune into the show again next week, it won't be for the performers, but for the judges. But if I had to choose someone I wanted to win, it would have to be the kid who sang 'Bat out of Hell'. Not only does he sing Meatloaf, but he looks like the guy, too. This, clearly, is a little (deluded) battler.
In other news, The Mole in Paradise also premiered last night. I didn't watch the show, but I did manage to see host Grant Bowler ask in his stridently Guy-Smilie-esque, straight-jawed manner, "So...who and where is the Mole?" When I flicked channels to SBS, I was surprised to find the Mole reading the news. Oh, wait, that's Lee Lin Chin...
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Gay it Forward
Gay it Forward
The Will and Grace season finale aired in Australia last week. While the series may not have been as wildly funny or bitchy as it has been in previous years, its cast continues to draw every ounce of humour from the show's one-liners.
And the list of guest stars that the series attracts continues to amaze. There was Elton John, who implied that he was working for the gay mafia -- the same mafia that prompted Will to call for a national Fitness Protection Programme; Dan Futterman (as Karen's embarrassingly geeky cousin Barry, whom Will and Jack submit to a makeover in anticipation of his coming out to the world. And this was months before Queer Eye for a Straight Guy!); Harry Connick Jnr (as Grace's suitor, then husband); Madonna (alas, the material was funnier than the performer, but wasn't it fun to watch Karen and Mads going out for a night on the town, competing against each other in their efforts to ensnare men?); Macauly Culkin (as Karen's naive young lawyer in her divorce settlement proceedings); Minnie Driver (as the buxom English prostitute and former crim sleeping with Karen's ex-husband, Stan; Minnie held her own in her scenes with Megan Mullally and Sean Hayes, which is no mean feat. She would fit in well as a regular castmember); and finally, Deborah Harry.
Yes, Deborah Harry.
Unfortunately, I can't tell you what Deborah Harry did on the show, because Channel 7, in its inimitable way, decided to edit her character out of the season finale. In fact, Channel 7 has made a habit of editing Will and Grace, regularly trimming down episodes to fit the 30-minute timeslot. This realization has made me extremely paranoid about everything I watch on the channel. I mean, what if The Powers That Be have been cutting scenes from Buffy? Or what if they screen next season's premiere of The Practice, and I miss watching the main characters leave the show? (Admittedly, I never watch The Practice, but I'm a real sucker for tv show milestones. Especially weddings and murders. Scared now? Don't be.) To paraphrase a former Channel 7 employee,Derryn Hinch: shame on you, Channel 7, shame, shame, shame.
The Will and Grace season finale aired in Australia last week. While the series may not have been as wildly funny or bitchy as it has been in previous years, its cast continues to draw every ounce of humour from the show's one-liners.
And the list of guest stars that the series attracts continues to amaze. There was Elton John, who implied that he was working for the gay mafia -- the same mafia that prompted Will to call for a national Fitness Protection Programme; Dan Futterman (as Karen's embarrassingly geeky cousin Barry, whom Will and Jack submit to a makeover in anticipation of his coming out to the world. And this was months before Queer Eye for a Straight Guy!); Harry Connick Jnr (as Grace's suitor, then husband); Madonna (alas, the material was funnier than the performer, but wasn't it fun to watch Karen and Mads going out for a night on the town, competing against each other in their efforts to ensnare men?); Macauly Culkin (as Karen's naive young lawyer in her divorce settlement proceedings); Minnie Driver (as the buxom English prostitute and former crim sleeping with Karen's ex-husband, Stan; Minnie held her own in her scenes with Megan Mullally and Sean Hayes, which is no mean feat. She would fit in well as a regular castmember); and finally, Deborah Harry.
Yes, Deborah Harry.
Unfortunately, I can't tell you what Deborah Harry did on the show, because Channel 7, in its inimitable way, decided to edit her character out of the season finale. In fact, Channel 7 has made a habit of editing Will and Grace, regularly trimming down episodes to fit the 30-minute timeslot. This realization has made me extremely paranoid about everything I watch on the channel. I mean, what if The Powers That Be have been cutting scenes from Buffy? Or what if they screen next season's premiere of The Practice, and I miss watching the main characters leave the show? (Admittedly, I never watch The Practice, but I'm a real sucker for tv show milestones. Especially weddings and murders. Scared now? Don't be.) To paraphrase a former Channel 7 employee,
Friday, July 25, 2003
Servius 4 Maximus
Servius 4 Maximus
Those of us who were exposed to the rigours of high-school Latin study will remember the short phrases and aphorisms whose memorization constituted such an important part of the first lessons: "Sextus sits in the chair", "Quintus runs to the market", "Cicero talks too much", and so on. Recently, I came across a book entitled Roman Homosexuality, which makes me wonder why we never got the chance to rote-learn such illuminating and memorable statements as the following, which were scratched -- for posterity? for posterior? -- on to the walls of Pompeii:
hic ego cum veni futui, deinde redei domi
When I came here, I fucked. Then I went back home.
Charming! And then there's this philosophical insight:
nam nihil est quisquam sceleris, quo prodeat ultra,
non si demisso se ipse voret capite.
For there is no wickedness to which he could descend further, not even if he were to lower his head and eat himself.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? And finally, there's this splendid piece of oracular wisdom:
qui lego felo; sugat qui legit.
I who reads this sucks dick; may he who reads this suck.
It goes to show that even the most private and, it seems, commonplace aspects of Roman culture can reveal the distant roots of modernity.
Those of us who were exposed to the rigours of high-school Latin study will remember the short phrases and aphorisms whose memorization constituted such an important part of the first lessons: "Sextus sits in the chair", "Quintus runs to the market", "Cicero talks too much", and so on. Recently, I came across a book entitled Roman Homosexuality, which makes me wonder why we never got the chance to rote-learn such illuminating and memorable statements as the following, which were scratched -- for posterity? for posterior? -- on to the walls of Pompeii:
hic ego cum veni futui, deinde redei domi
When I came here, I fucked. Then I went back home.
Charming! And then there's this philosophical insight:
nam nihil est quisquam sceleris, quo prodeat ultra,
non si demisso se ipse voret capite.
For there is no wickedness to which he could descend further, not even if he were to lower his head and eat himself.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? And finally, there's this splendid piece of oracular wisdom:
qui lego felo; sugat qui legit.
I who reads this sucks dick; may he who reads this suck.
It goes to show that even the most private and, it seems, commonplace aspects of Roman culture can reveal the distant roots of modernity.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Tourism and its Discontents
Tourism and its Discontents
I spoke again yesterday to my English cousin and her French husband. They're about to fly out of Sydney, and are lamenting the fact that they'll have to leave behind the weather, which, I must say, is unusually warm and sunny for this time of year. No word yet as to whether the cousins will also miss their relatives in Sydney. When I asked them what they'd been doing this week, they commented that they'd recently visited Centrepoint Tower. For those of you who haven't visited Sydney before, Centrepoint is a tall, chintzy gold-coloured building that lies in the middle of the CBD. Its revolving restaurant provides tourists with a 360-degree view of the beautiful city and its suburbs. But equally, it enables them to avoid looking at what may well be the city's most heinous eyesore -- that is, Centrepoint itself. A friend of mine once told me that his precocious 5-year old niece had drawn a picture of Sydney, but omitted Centrepoint. When he pointed this out, she remarked, "I left it out because it shouldn't be there." A similar view was expressed by the producers of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, which was filmed on location in Sydney, and which climaxes with an exciting battle wherein an oversized monster tears Centrepoint from its foundations and deploys it as a batting club.
My cousins had lunch at Centrepoint. What did they eat? Well, kangaroo and crocodile, among other things. They were more than a little perplexed that the menu at the restaurant of a national tourist landmark should contain a national symbol (the kangaroo) and a pseudo-national symbol (the crocodile, which of course rose to prominence as an ersatz cultural emblem after being championed by such internationally renowned Australian icons as Crocodile Dundee and the Crocodile Hunter). In fact, the entire experience of eating at the revolving restaurant can be disconcerting to tourists, for whom it's akin to the ultimate bad date: it entices you with its superficial, exotic glamour, gets you dizzy, and then makes you throw up.
I should add that there are plenty of interesting and fun places to visit in Sydney. Centrepoint simply isn't one of them. If anyone wants suggestions for alternate places to see, let me know.
I spoke again yesterday to my English cousin and her French husband. They're about to fly out of Sydney, and are lamenting the fact that they'll have to leave behind the weather, which, I must say, is unusually warm and sunny for this time of year. No word yet as to whether the cousins will also miss their relatives in Sydney. When I asked them what they'd been doing this week, they commented that they'd recently visited Centrepoint Tower. For those of you who haven't visited Sydney before, Centrepoint is a tall, chintzy gold-coloured building that lies in the middle of the CBD. Its revolving restaurant provides tourists with a 360-degree view of the beautiful city and its suburbs. But equally, it enables them to avoid looking at what may well be the city's most heinous eyesore -- that is, Centrepoint itself. A friend of mine once told me that his precocious 5-year old niece had drawn a picture of Sydney, but omitted Centrepoint. When he pointed this out, she remarked, "I left it out because it shouldn't be there." A similar view was expressed by the producers of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, which was filmed on location in Sydney, and which climaxes with an exciting battle wherein an oversized monster tears Centrepoint from its foundations and deploys it as a batting club.
My cousins had lunch at Centrepoint. What did they eat? Well, kangaroo and crocodile, among other things. They were more than a little perplexed that the menu at the restaurant of a national tourist landmark should contain a national symbol (the kangaroo) and a pseudo-national symbol (the crocodile, which of course rose to prominence as an ersatz cultural emblem after being championed by such internationally renowned Australian icons as Crocodile Dundee and the Crocodile Hunter). In fact, the entire experience of eating at the revolving restaurant can be disconcerting to tourists, for whom it's akin to the ultimate bad date: it entices you with its superficial, exotic glamour, gets you dizzy, and then makes you throw up.
I should add that there are plenty of interesting and fun places to visit in Sydney. Centrepoint simply isn't one of them. If anyone wants suggestions for alternate places to see, let me know.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
You Know who you are
You Know who you are
Urbannomad regularly receives traffic from a wide array of referrals. Well, ok, maybe not that regularly, and perhaps not so wide. You folks seem to like googling 'Ian Lawless' (a European favourite), 'Bradly' or 'Bradley Tomberlin' and 'Christian Monzon' (American and English favourites), and Gabriel Aubry (popular everywhere, but especially in Asia). Yet people can also stumble upon this site through more arcane and less predictable paths.
A few days ago, someone discovered the site after googlewhacking men+in+tighty+whities. I have no recollection of Keith or I ever using that term. Thinking it, perhaps, but never writing it. Is Google now linking to our brains?
UPDATE: Keith informs me that he did in fact write about tighty whities last year, and how they should be saved from extinction in the fashion world. Phew! For a minute there, I was beginning to think the internet had direct access to our innermost thoughts. By the way, it's reassuring to know that there are others in the blogosphere who feel the same way as Keith and I do about tighty-whities preservation awareness. I mean, where would Christian Monzon be without them? And where would we be without Christian Monzon?
Urbannomad regularly receives traffic from a wide array of referrals. Well, ok, maybe not that regularly, and perhaps not so wide. You folks seem to like googling 'Ian Lawless' (a European favourite), 'Bradly' or 'Bradley Tomberlin' and 'Christian Monzon' (American and English favourites), and Gabriel Aubry (popular everywhere, but especially in Asia). Yet people can also stumble upon this site through more arcane and less predictable paths.
A few days ago, someone discovered the site after googlewhacking men+in+tighty+whities. I have no recollection of Keith or I ever using that term. Thinking it, perhaps, but never writing it. Is Google now linking to our brains?
UPDATE: Keith informs me that he did in fact write about tighty whities last year, and how they should be saved from extinction in the fashion world. Phew! For a minute there, I was beginning to think the internet had direct access to our innermost thoughts. By the way, it's reassuring to know that there are others in the blogosphere who feel the same way as Keith and I do about tighty-whities preservation awareness. I mean, where would Christian Monzon be without them? And where would we be without Christian Monzon?
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Send in the Clones
Send in the Clones
Who'd have thought that movie musicals would come back in again? A few years ago, the only musicals you'd ever see were Disney feature animation films. In a bid to clone the cult popularity of Moulin Rouge and the breakout success of Chicago, Hollywood is clamouring for the film rights to some of Broadway's most beloved modern shows. Hugh Jackman in Sweeney Todd seems like a minor piece of miscasting, but if that's what it takes to bring Stephen Sondheim's grand guignol onscreen, then I won't complain. Word is that another Sondheim show, Into the Woods has also been optioned. The project originally surfaced several years ago, with Susan Sarandon tipped to play the Witch.
I love Into the Woods, but the Sondheim show I really want to see onscreen is A Little Night Music. This gorgeous musical comedy of manners has already made it to film, during the late 70's, but the result was such a mess that it bombed at the box office and has since been forgotten. My guess, however, is that lovers of period pieces -- which is to say, the demographic built up by two decades of Jane Austen adaptations and Merchant Ivory takes of 19th and early 20th-century novels -- would now flock to a remake of this show. I'd love to see who they'd cast as Mme Armfeldt, the acerbic and perennially disapproving matriarch who demurs against her daughter's relationship with a lawyer because it dilutes the pure joy of sex with the base confusions of love. Mme Armfeldt's own fortunes are based entirely on her previous life as a courtesan: "I acquired some position,/ Plus a tiny Titian", she sings of her tryst with the King of the Belgians. Or, recalling an affair with the Duke of Ferrara: "When things got rather touchy,/ He deeded me a duchy." Mme Armfeldt has plenty to say on a treasured Sondheim theme, the distinction between sex and love:
Too many people muddle sex with mere desire,
And when emotion intervenes, the net descends.
It should on no account perplex, or worse, inspire;
It's but a pleasurable means to immeasurable ends.
Why does no one comprehend?
Let us hope this lunacy is just a trend.
A non-Sondheim musical I'd love to see on the big screen is the ever-hummable Dreamgirls. It's a thinly veiled take on the careers of Diana Ross and the Supremes. In the 80's, Jennifer Holliday made the searingly masochistic showstopper, 'And I'm Telling You, I'm Not Going' a cult favourite; more recently, a couple of American Idol contestants have helped to introduce the song to a new generation. Some fans of the show would like to see Queen Latifah play the lead role; much as I love her, I don't know whether Queen Latifah is right for the part. She has the rage, but not the vocal range.
Who'd have thought that movie musicals would come back in again? A few years ago, the only musicals you'd ever see were Disney feature animation films. In a bid to clone the cult popularity of Moulin Rouge and the breakout success of Chicago, Hollywood is clamouring for the film rights to some of Broadway's most beloved modern shows. Hugh Jackman in Sweeney Todd seems like a minor piece of miscasting, but if that's what it takes to bring Stephen Sondheim's grand guignol onscreen, then I won't complain. Word is that another Sondheim show, Into the Woods has also been optioned. The project originally surfaced several years ago, with Susan Sarandon tipped to play the Witch.
I love Into the Woods, but the Sondheim show I really want to see onscreen is A Little Night Music. This gorgeous musical comedy of manners has already made it to film, during the late 70's, but the result was such a mess that it bombed at the box office and has since been forgotten. My guess, however, is that lovers of period pieces -- which is to say, the demographic built up by two decades of Jane Austen adaptations and Merchant Ivory takes of 19th and early 20th-century novels -- would now flock to a remake of this show. I'd love to see who they'd cast as Mme Armfeldt, the acerbic and perennially disapproving matriarch who demurs against her daughter's relationship with a lawyer because it dilutes the pure joy of sex with the base confusions of love. Mme Armfeldt's own fortunes are based entirely on her previous life as a courtesan: "I acquired some position,/ Plus a tiny Titian", she sings of her tryst with the King of the Belgians. Or, recalling an affair with the Duke of Ferrara: "When things got rather touchy,/ He deeded me a duchy." Mme Armfeldt has plenty to say on a treasured Sondheim theme, the distinction between sex and love:
Too many people muddle sex with mere desire,
And when emotion intervenes, the net descends.
It should on no account perplex, or worse, inspire;
It's but a pleasurable means to immeasurable ends.
Why does no one comprehend?
Let us hope this lunacy is just a trend.
A non-Sondheim musical I'd love to see on the big screen is the ever-hummable Dreamgirls. It's a thinly veiled take on the careers of Diana Ross and the Supremes. In the 80's, Jennifer Holliday made the searingly masochistic showstopper, 'And I'm Telling You, I'm Not Going' a cult favourite; more recently, a couple of American Idol contestants have helped to introduce the song to a new generation. Some fans of the show would like to see Queen Latifah play the lead role; much as I love her, I don't know whether Queen Latifah is right for the part. She has the rage, but not the vocal range.
Monday, July 21, 2003
The Last Supper
The Last Supper
On the weekend, my immediate family and I had dinner at a Thai restaurant with my cousin from England, her French husband, and the cousins they're staying with in Sydney at the moment. The night went atrociously. The food was awful, and tasted like a McDonald's version of Thai. The conversation was even worse. A mere two bottles of red into the evening and the Aussie cousin's wife was flirting with the French husband, admonishing him on his failure to pronounce "stubby" in an ocker accent, and declaring that the French for "no worries" sounded like a rip-off of the Sydney suburb of Sans Souci (pronounced 'Sanz Soozi', and obviously derived from the French). Given that the Aussie cousin's wife was dressed like a stray prop from the touring production of The Lion King, "Hakuna Matata" would've been a more appropriate translation. Throughout the evening, the Aussie cousin's wife was also busily fawning over my brother, to whom she was eager to demonstrate that she knew he was gay and that she was eager to embrace him as part of the "family" (by which she must surely mean the ya-ya sisterhood). Which was fine, except that neither my brother nor I have outed ourselves to the family.
Meanwhile, the English cousin was trying to figure out who I was; the last time she was in Australia, I was two. It was clear that she and her family had come to Sydney thinking that, by staying with cousins, they'd be saving money while also living close to the city; unfortunately, the Aussie cousins live far away from town, in an area that my brother not-so-affectionately calls "Sleepy Hollow". When my English cousin heard this, she nodded furiously in agreement. Fortunately, my Aussie cousin heard none of this; he was too busy trying to talk to his daughter, who, as the youngest person at the table by about ten years, had nothing to say and clearly resented every one of us. I didn't blame her. It was the last weekend of school holidays, and she was stuck having dinner with a group of people that could have featured on a multiethnic version of Big Brother. Actually, I tell a lie. She wasn't quite the youngest person there. The English cousin and French husband have a little boy, who ran around the restaurant squealing incomprehensibly all night, ducking regularly into the kitchen, where he menaced the cooks with some cleaning fluid that he'd found on one of the counters. (How nice, by the way, that the waitresses were forced to double as child-minders for the evening.) "Viens d'ici" and "Attends" are apparently the only castigations he ever receives. Refusing to go anywhere he was told to, he pretended not to understand French and ran off to the cash register, where he spotted a bowl of lollies and made off with the stash.
Several hours afterwards, the dinner was still going, even though the restaurant staff was clearly waiting for us, the last table, to leave. My Aussie cousin's wife was in the middle of giving important advice to my father, should he ever need it, on how to welcome newly arrived immigrants into the country; she herself is Australian-born, while my father was born in Hong Kong. By the end of the night, encumbered by a migraine that every one else at the table seemed to share, I was happy to get out of there. "We must do this again some time," someone muttered. I might've hit whoever said that, except that I was reeling from the aftereffects of good wine, bad conversation, and too much MSG.
On the weekend, my immediate family and I had dinner at a Thai restaurant with my cousin from England, her French husband, and the cousins they're staying with in Sydney at the moment. The night went atrociously. The food was awful, and tasted like a McDonald's version of Thai. The conversation was even worse. A mere two bottles of red into the evening and the Aussie cousin's wife was flirting with the French husband, admonishing him on his failure to pronounce "stubby" in an ocker accent, and declaring that the French for "no worries" sounded like a rip-off of the Sydney suburb of Sans Souci (pronounced 'Sanz Soozi', and obviously derived from the French). Given that the Aussie cousin's wife was dressed like a stray prop from the touring production of The Lion King, "Hakuna Matata" would've been a more appropriate translation. Throughout the evening, the Aussie cousin's wife was also busily fawning over my brother, to whom she was eager to demonstrate that she knew he was gay and that she was eager to embrace him as part of the "family" (by which she must surely mean the ya-ya sisterhood). Which was fine, except that neither my brother nor I have outed ourselves to the family.
Meanwhile, the English cousin was trying to figure out who I was; the last time she was in Australia, I was two. It was clear that she and her family had come to Sydney thinking that, by staying with cousins, they'd be saving money while also living close to the city; unfortunately, the Aussie cousins live far away from town, in an area that my brother not-so-affectionately calls "Sleepy Hollow". When my English cousin heard this, she nodded furiously in agreement. Fortunately, my Aussie cousin heard none of this; he was too busy trying to talk to his daughter, who, as the youngest person at the table by about ten years, had nothing to say and clearly resented every one of us. I didn't blame her. It was the last weekend of school holidays, and she was stuck having dinner with a group of people that could have featured on a multiethnic version of Big Brother. Actually, I tell a lie. She wasn't quite the youngest person there. The English cousin and French husband have a little boy, who ran around the restaurant squealing incomprehensibly all night, ducking regularly into the kitchen, where he menaced the cooks with some cleaning fluid that he'd found on one of the counters. (How nice, by the way, that the waitresses were forced to double as child-minders for the evening.) "Viens d'ici" and "Attends" are apparently the only castigations he ever receives. Refusing to go anywhere he was told to, he pretended not to understand French and ran off to the cash register, where he spotted a bowl of lollies and made off with the stash.
Several hours afterwards, the dinner was still going, even though the restaurant staff was clearly waiting for us, the last table, to leave. My Aussie cousin's wife was in the middle of giving important advice to my father, should he ever need it, on how to welcome newly arrived immigrants into the country; she herself is Australian-born, while my father was born in Hong Kong. By the end of the night, encumbered by a migraine that every one else at the table seemed to share, I was happy to get out of there. "We must do this again some time," someone muttered. I might've hit whoever said that, except that I was reeling from the aftereffects of good wine, bad conversation, and too much MSG.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
'Crazy if you love it'
'Crazy if you love it'
I'm appalled to hear that Norah Jones will be doing a cover version of the old Dolly Parton hit, 'Nine to Five'. The movie from which the song derives is one of my all-time favourites. Apparently, when I was four, it and Star Wars were all that I'd watch. The acerbic Lily Tomlin, amiable Dolly Parton and demure wallflower Jane Fonda find themselves kidnapping their sexist boss, Dabne Coleman, after they think they've accidentally poisoned him. (Lily, for the record, was always my favourite actress in this film.) Though I hardly realized it when I was four, this is a quintessential second-wave feminist movie, and the strident piano bass riff that opens the film, as Jane Fonda stumbles along the streets at peak hour on her way to work for the first time since her husband dumped her -- it's as though she's having trouble keeping up with the piano beat and not the traffic -- is a classic.
The soporific, shopping-mall friendly Norah Jones is totally inappropriate for this song. If it has to be redone, it should be performed by a trio of black divas. Not a la Moulin Rouge, where the singers performing 'Lady Marmalade' tried to outwarble each other. It has to be a group whose members are happy to sing with each other, and so preserve the message of feminist solidarity that lays at the film's core. Maybe Destiny's Child, with a rap interlude by Queen Latifah.
I've thought about this too much.
I'm appalled to hear that Norah Jones will be doing a cover version of the old Dolly Parton hit, 'Nine to Five'. The movie from which the song derives is one of my all-time favourites. Apparently, when I was four, it and Star Wars were all that I'd watch. The acerbic Lily Tomlin, amiable Dolly Parton and demure wallflower Jane Fonda find themselves kidnapping their sexist boss, Dabne Coleman, after they think they've accidentally poisoned him. (Lily, for the record, was always my favourite actress in this film.) Though I hardly realized it when I was four, this is a quintessential second-wave feminist movie, and the strident piano bass riff that opens the film, as Jane Fonda stumbles along the streets at peak hour on her way to work for the first time since her husband dumped her -- it's as though she's having trouble keeping up with the piano beat and not the traffic -- is a classic.
The soporific, shopping-mall friendly Norah Jones is totally inappropriate for this song. If it has to be redone, it should be performed by a trio of black divas. Not a la Moulin Rouge, where the singers performing 'Lady Marmalade' tried to outwarble each other. It has to be a group whose members are happy to sing with each other, and so preserve the message of feminist solidarity that lays at the film's core. Maybe Destiny's Child, with a rap interlude by Queen Latifah.
I've thought about this too much.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Springtime for Hitler
Springtime for Hitler
Did anyone watch Hitler, The Rise of Evil earlier this week? The miniseries depicted Hitler's rise to power up to 1933. In doing so, it offered an array of explanations for Hitler's adult character and actions: an overbearing father, an overindulgent mother, a latent fear of women, an early xenophobic streak brought on by his need to overcompensate, as an Austrian, for his geographical displacement from Germany. The show adopted a general catch-all policy, citing anything and everything as potential reasons for Hitler's monstrosity. This policy also extended to the choice of casting. The transatlantic cast contained the incongruous accents of Robert Carlyle (of Full Monty fame), Stockard Channing (Grease) and Liev Schreiber (most recently in a NY Central Park production of Henry V).
The miniseries has just received an Emmy nomination. I have no idea why. Never mind the suggestive title, which, for my money, is all too reminiscent of Up, Pompeii. (Or, for that matter, the Australian documentary on Russel Crowe's career, Behind The Gladiator.) The problem was the (mis)casting of Robert Carlyle. Watching the always-agreeable and congenial Carlyle bark, hiss and rant -- as though he were some stock villain on Scooby Doo -- was a little like watching me play football: simultaneously awful and hilarious.
I've come to the conclusion that it's impossible at this point in time to depict Hitler in TV, film, or stage without being -- intentionally or not -- funny. Indeed, impersonations and parodies of Hitler in things like The Goodies and Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade have been so influential in his dramatization that it's become virtually impossible to portray him and appear anything other than patently, woefully artificial -- more like an impersonation of a prior impersonation rather than of Hitler himself.
For what it's worth, the most convincing, because deliberately irreverent, portrayal of Hitler I've ever seen or heard comes from Mel Brooks' musical, The Producers. The musical climaxes, so to speak, with a sung-through travesty called 'Springtime for Hitler', in which the camp and theatrical Adolf, whose rise to the top of Reichstag is depicted as having more in common with a beauty pageant than a political coup, cheerfully describes himself as "the German Ethel Merman". Who's the impersonator now?
Did anyone watch Hitler, The Rise of Evil earlier this week? The miniseries depicted Hitler's rise to power up to 1933. In doing so, it offered an array of explanations for Hitler's adult character and actions: an overbearing father, an overindulgent mother, a latent fear of women, an early xenophobic streak brought on by his need to overcompensate, as an Austrian, for his geographical displacement from Germany. The show adopted a general catch-all policy, citing anything and everything as potential reasons for Hitler's monstrosity. This policy also extended to the choice of casting. The transatlantic cast contained the incongruous accents of Robert Carlyle (of Full Monty fame), Stockard Channing (Grease) and Liev Schreiber (most recently in a NY Central Park production of Henry V).
The miniseries has just received an Emmy nomination. I have no idea why. Never mind the suggestive title, which, for my money, is all too reminiscent of Up, Pompeii. (Or, for that matter, the Australian documentary on Russel Crowe's career, Behind The Gladiator.) The problem was the (mis)casting of Robert Carlyle. Watching the always-agreeable and congenial Carlyle bark, hiss and rant -- as though he were some stock villain on Scooby Doo -- was a little like watching me play football: simultaneously awful and hilarious.
I've come to the conclusion that it's impossible at this point in time to depict Hitler in TV, film, or stage without being -- intentionally or not -- funny. Indeed, impersonations and parodies of Hitler in things like The Goodies and Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade have been so influential in his dramatization that it's become virtually impossible to portray him and appear anything other than patently, woefully artificial -- more like an impersonation of a prior impersonation rather than of Hitler himself.
For what it's worth, the most convincing, because deliberately irreverent, portrayal of Hitler I've ever seen or heard comes from Mel Brooks' musical, The Producers. The musical climaxes, so to speak, with a sung-through travesty called 'Springtime for Hitler', in which the camp and theatrical Adolf, whose rise to the top of Reichstag is depicted as having more in common with a beauty pageant than a political coup, cheerfully describes himself as "the German Ethel Merman". Who's the impersonator now?
