Thursday, March 24

MUSIC BURGER (Mmm, tasy!)

OK, so from time to time, people will ask me what I'm "listening to," or, what's in "heavy rotation" in my musical life. Most of the time, I'm pretty guarded about it.

I'll tell you why. (Not that anyone asked.)

Music, like the food we like to eat (or worse, who we like to eat), is a matter of an incredibly personal nature. There's no accounting for what we like -- it's a combination of conscious and unconscious. Much like dining out to eat, just as I wouldn't shame a friend by saying, "Eww... you're going to eat THAT?" I also wouldn't scold someone just because they like, say... Celine Dion. (Although that is an almost unforgivable sin. Almost... but that's another story.) I've seen people dip their salty French fries in their frosty cold chocolate shake, and I've personally enjoyed odd dishes like Brie and mango quesadillas, and Ethiopian food. (No jokes, please. That's so '80s, a la Space Shuttle Challenger disaster jokes!) So who am I to judge?

Like any other art form, the genres I claim to dislike are actually the ones I know the least about. Beyond Dolly Parton, the Dixie Chicks (whom I adore mostly on principle) and Reba McIntyre, I must confess ignorance when it comes to country music. But I'm continually wowed when I'm exposed to it. I'm not saying I actually LIKE it, just that it's full of surprises. Country (or Country-Western) has a deep-rooted history full of tradition and a time-honored focus on actual talent. Nashville is one of those towns where you're actually expected to PLAY AN INSTRUMENT! (The horror!) While the twang of most country singers makes my short'n'curlies fall out, I think singers in this genre have the most natural (and/or finely trained) vocalists of any field out there. I still won't listen to it for more than 5 minutes, but my respect for it grows with each time I'm exposed to it.

[NOTE: I love, love, love me some SheNayNay Twain, but let's face it: She's NOT really country. When the Osmonds sang, "I'm a little bit country," even THAT was more believable than Shania being labeled a Country-Western Star. Still, those are some pipes she's got.]

So here, now that I've rambled on and on, boring you to death, are my current play lists, as of 3.24.05:

SINGLES (in no particular order)
1. "Since You Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson
2. "Breathe" by Erasure
3. "Goodies" by Ciara
4. "Nasty Girl" by Inaya Day
5. "What R U Waiting For" Gwen Stefani
6. "Breed" by Humate
7. "I Like It" by Decibel feat. LaVeetra
8. "Cities In Dust" by Siouxsie & Banshees
9. "Precious Box" by George Michael
10. "Shake It (Like a White Girl)" by Jesse Jaymes

REMIXES (in no particular order)
1. "Easy As Life" [Offer Nissim Mix] Deborah Cox
2. "Mother and Father" [Peter's ReInvention Mix] Madonna
3. "Yeah vs Toxic" [White Label] Britney Spears vs Usher feat. Ludacris, Lil' John
4. "Since You Been Gone" [Jason Nevins Mixshow] Kelly Clarkson
5. "Left Outside Alone" [Jason Nevins Club Mix] Anastacia
6. "Do I Look Like a Slut?" [Peter's Dirty Ho Mix] Avenue D
7. "Whatchulookinat?" [Peter Rauhofer Unreleased Mix] Whitney Houston
8. "Anything" [Club Mix] Offer Nissim feat. Mya
9. "Nasty Girl" [Rauhofer's Sleaze Mix] Inaya Day
10. "The World Is Mine" [Deep Dish Remix] David Guetta

ALBUMS (in no particular order; but only 5 at the moment)
1. "Poetica" by iiO
2. "Live@Roxy4" (2 discs) mixed by Peter Rauhofer
3. "Divas To the Dancefloor, Vol. 2" by Various Artists
4. "This Is Not a Test" by Missy Elliot
5. "Songs" by Luther Vandross

THE SONG I LISTEN TO, BUT WOULDN'T WANT PEOPLE TO KNOW I DO:
"The Music That Makes Me Dance" from the B'way Soundtrack to FUNNY GIRL

PARTING THOUGHT:
"Sing like you know the words...
Love like your heart has never been broken...and
Dance like it matters!"

OH YEAH... THAT

Lost. Lousy. Lusty. Loved?

Hmm. The current state of my mind: FRIED. Like an onion blossom, or bucket of French fries. I've sponged-up all the greasy, no-good-for-you oil I can hold, and I've turned into a big, oily mess.

OK, yuck. That's a nasty analogy, but I think what I mean is really clear.

Is it me? Could it be? I've been in worse jams, and had better results, so no... it's not ALL me. I just don't see other people in my life doing anything other than pointing fingers cause it feels good not to focus on their own hurt... which sucks, cause ALL I'm doing right now is focusing on my own recovery.

Recovery from being in the hospital for a month with pneumonia. Recovery from the last three years of my life, where it seemed like everything imploded, just because IT COULD.

/sigh/

Saturday, March 19

THE TINKERBELL SYNDROME

from "Cultural Musings, Misfits and Mistakes" (Unpublished)


“I think I he suffers from the Peter Pan Syndrome—he just won’t grow up.”
“Yeah? I think I’ve got a case of the Tinkerbell Syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“I think that if people don’t clap for me, I’ll die.”
-overheard on North Campus, UCLA (1996)


No, really. That’s really how the exchange went. OK, so the conversation took place between two theater majors I knew, but it still revealed a major insight into the modern mind. Approval: It’s important, but how important? And what do we use to measure the applause? I firmly believe our inner critic, however it is developed, plays a bigger role than we realize. But again, the question as to where this weight, this importance placed on approval looms large.

Take, for example, the young man in the conversation—the one who self-identifies with the character of Tinkerbell. Setting aside his homosexuality (which is difficult, considering he flames like a charcoal briquette), the reference is fascinating. It isn’t a nod to the over-commercialized, branded on every imaginable item of clothing a sweat shot could turn out version poor old Uncle Walt pimped out. No, this is a direct reflection of the original stage play, where the audience is asked to clap if they believe in magic, which will restore Tinkerbell’s life force. (OK, to add the homosexuality a woman, in most, if not all, stage versions, the title roll of Peter usually performs back in - you connect the dots.) In Laughing Wild, a wonderfully wicked stage play, there’s a recounting of a childhood trauma, more specifically, a production of “Pan” that goes awry. In it, the audience has been so shocked by the play’s poor quality (Wendy seems to be getting fatter in each scene, the alligator crawls offstage and eats a child in the first row—you know, the usual), and they’re too scared to clap. Of course, Peter screams at the audience that they killed Tinkerbell, which only adds to the trauma.

Aside from wanting to plug an incredible, dark comedic romp, I bring this up because it bears direct resemblance to what a Tinkerbell Syndrome might look like. (On a side note, I find it odd a theory developed explaining male immaturity, but no corollary ever emerged explaining female irrationality and/or moodiness, but I digress.) Blame, guilt and displaced negative emotions all factor in to the equation, most likely in an inverse manner. That is to say, if a youngster is berated and belittled all his life (whether he deserved it or not) the result is an adult specifically tuned into modes of approval that directly counter-act the negative imprint of his childhood.
Sounds simple enough, right? No, you say? Specifics would help, that’s for sure. Let’s go back to the young man from the UCLA scenario. His father, quite overweight, put an enormous amount of pressure on his son to be thin and (presumably) more athletic that his talents allowed. There wasn’t any apparent shame in his moving into the performing arts, but the now-skinny young man (a “husky” child by his own account), thrived on the physical feedback that matched his father’s patterns of approval:
“You look so thin.”
“What a thin figure you have.”
“You’re a great dancer—you make it look so athletic.”
“If you were straight, girls would be all over you!”

OK, so I threw that last one in to be a bitch, but if you knew this guy’s obsession with passing for heterosexual, you’d take the dig too. While the first three all seem generic enough, a little more personal insight betrays the deeper, darker power at work here. This particular young man and I were socially acquainted, so I was privy to some of his “inner” thoughts and private moments. (I put quote marks around ‘inner’ because these moments, like everything else in his life, were played out publicly for applause/approval.)

[NOTE: For the purposes of this essay, applause and approval are interchangeable.]

He constantly obsessed about his weight, the weight (and cock size) of the guys he dated, making everything a less-than private competition. “See? I’m skinnier than N. Look At his pants compared to mine,” he would rant, going through the other guy’s closet when they weren’t looking. Never mind that they guy in one case was a raver, and wore jeans at least four to five times larger than his actual waist size. No, this was a competition—a war declared on the world, when it was his father he was angry at.

Psychobabble? Perhaps. Mud-slinging? Mary, keep yo’ mouth shut! Scary insight into why this one individual has yet to come to peace with his inner-turmoil, find true love or lasting success in his career of choice? Only time will tell.

JG [REVISED, JANUARY 2005]

Sunday, March 13

FAMOUS BOYS I LOVE/KNOW, Part One

THE NIGHT CHRIS GORHAM DISSED ME
from Two Gemini of Verona

“Look!”
“Chris, I need help with my tux,” I mumbled back.
“You’re not looking!”
“Chris…” I moaned, turning around. There, in the middle of our dressing room, was Chris, wearing nothing but a dance belt and a look of total dismay. Correction: a pink dance belt.


OK, I should back up and set the scene a little better. It’s 1990-something, Spring Quarter at UCLA. I’m in the Theater department’s production of Two Gentleman of Verona. The musical. Yeah, you heard me: The musical. As in singing, dancing and general faggotry. It’s like someone decided performing The Bard’s least interesting play wasn’t bad enough, no, there should be singing. And a big Chinese dragon, for no particular reason.
So why did I participate? Well, that’s another story. Let’s just say I had my reasons. Anyway, so I’m cast in the chorus (I was robbed, I tell you), where I met plenty of interesting characters. Among them was the dream Christopher Gorham, from like, Fresno, or Bakersfield, or something. He was (or is, I guess) super-talented, and super-disciplined: A total pro. His stint on the WB’s Popular, some years later wasn’t a surprise to anyone who worked with him. Chris has a masterful ability to walk that wicked line between black humor and camp/drama. Delish, for sure.
Anyway, the process of rehearsing for a main stage production at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television is a rigorous one, as you might imagine. During the almost 10 weeks we slaved, learning dance routines, etc., Chris and I walked that same line he walked so well on stage. I think I annoyed the sh!t out of him. No, I’m pretty damn sure I annoyed the sh!t out of him, but he seemed to enjoy hating me. He more or less steered clear of me, unless I was making a total ass of myself, which even I must admit can be pretty entertaining.
This particular production of Two Gents was meant to be a multi-cultural celebration—the kind of show where you lower a kitchen sink on stage at the end, just for good measure. In one scene, towards the end of the second act (“Milkmaid” for you B’way geeks out there) the director had three couples singing back-up: One hetero couple, one lesbionic couple and two guys. Guess who was part of the faggotry? Yup. The end of the song has one of those cute little “button” endings, so the director had all the couples turn and kiss each other on the last note. No problem.
We’re in one of those warehouse-style rehearsal spaces in McGowan Hall, the building housing UCLA’s Theater Department. It’s very, behind-the-scenes; think of PBS’s Stage By Stage: Achingly glamorous dancer girls stretching on the bars by the mirrors, tape on the floor, black boxes for stage pieces strewn about. Very Fosse, but nowhere near as sexy. We’re running through the number for the first time, full-staging. The kiss comes and goes, and I’m off for a quick sip of water.

“Juan, have you ever kissed a guy before?” I hear from behind.
I turn around, and there’s Christopher Gorham, tormentor and tortured hottie.
“Yes,” I sneer, starting to walk away.
“Really. Cause you looked scared as hell up there… right before that kiss, s'all.”

Now, let me be clear: I had, in fact, done more than kiss another guy, just not in front of a bunch of other people. To top if off, the other guy was a smelly (but talented) straight guy. Oh, no, the topper is that my parents were coming to opening night, and bringing my dear-sainted grandmother. You know, the cute little old lady with a direct line to God, and a Bible in, oh I don’t know… every room in her apartment. But I digress.
Yes, I was terrified. Scared sh!tless. I’d kissed other guys in public, only those times, I was too drunk to care who was looking. But now, there was a roomful of people. I had spent the first two years of my sentence, er, undergraduate at UCLA building up a reputation of sorts. I was funny, fabulous and no one was going to rob me of that, least of all some twat from Fresno.
“Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno anymore.”[1]
But Chris was on to something. What the heck was so afraid of? Everyone knew I was gay. And I mean, everyone. I’ve never really dug too deep into the subject. Let’s just say that after graduation, I lost 65 pounds, and worked my inner sh!t out.
For one, brief moment, Chris’ usual attempt to amuse himself, and make me squirm in the process had failed to amuse him, and actually had impact. Nevertheless, I had the last laugh, of sorts.

So, back to that dressing room. It’s the quick-change, between Verona and Milan. A killer number, where we start in hand-dyed peasants clothes, sandals and bongos and finish the number in city-wear. For Chris, this meant some pleather-lycra outfit from hell, and rollerblades. (He was a bike messenger.) For me, the opera-diva/club-kid, it meant a tux (tails, ya’ hear?), platform disco heels and a ton of Liberace jewelry. This was the meaning of quick-change.
Oh, and on top of that, we had to stay on stage for about 90 seconds after the peasants’ exit, to make sure the set pieces were locked and pinned in place, so Milan wouldn’t go rolling all over the place once the Afro-Cuban-Ghetto-Queen dance number kicked in. (Apologies to Mr. Director, but it was pretty ghetto.)
Well, like any properly trained, disciplined actor (about to go on stage in lycra shorts), Chris wore a dance belt. Don’t know what a dance belt is? Imagine a jock strap with a big, silky padded cup in front, instead of the sexy mesh you’re used to. It served the same purpose, only in a more, theatrical way. Well, Chris provided his own dance belt, but the theatre techs insisted on doing all the laundry themselves.
Now, in their defense, it was the only way for them to get all the credits they needed to graduated, but from the outcome, I’m guessing someone wasn’t paying attention the day they talked about, oh, I don’t know, LAUNDRY. See, someone threw Christopher’s pretty, white dance belt in with those red, hand-dyed peasant shirts. And hence, the pink dance belt.
It was a sight I’ll never forget, In an instant, he was human again. My tormentor, taken down a notch: There, he stood, in pink, before that fag who he was sure had been checking out his ass in said dance belt (um, duh—and it’s a nice as you’d expect).
Like the pro he was/is, Chris got dressed, helped me go full-on Liberace, like he did every night (OK, I had to put some of the rings on myself) and we still made our respective entrances. And only I knew he was skating around the stage, singing (perfectly in tune), wearing a pink dance belt.

JG (Revised 12/05)


------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] from Airplane, bitches. Oh, go out an rent it!