Net Fix

I'd originally intended this post as a hate letter to Blockbuster, but in the spirit of positive mental attitude decided on a tribute to Netflix instead. Now that's not to say I won't bother with a passing mention of my absolute detestation of the former. After all, that big blue and yellow box merrily swallowed binfuls of my money during my early 20s - a time when I considered spending $20 on a 99cent store shopping spree a treat. Miss one day and you'd be charged the price of the rental in the first place. Miss two or more days and you could have bought copies of the movies for you and a friend to hold and cherish at your leisure forever. Had you been so smart in the first place that is.

But my hatred for Blockbuster extends beyond the late fees. It's about all the times I desperately wanted to rent the already taken single copy of Citizen Kane while 47 copies of a New Release starring Jennifer Lopez cried out for me from the shelves (in a tortured and strained cat-like howl, no less). This coupled with the fact that every time I visited a store as a single person I had to endure all of the sickeningly happy couples, all comfy-cozy in their sweats, making wretchedly wet sounding noises as they kissed and touched each other inappropriately. I tell you it was almost enough to turn me off to rentals forever.

So forgive me if it gives me great pleasure to see so many strip malls reduced to ghost towns, the once-bustling Blockbuster stores now hollowed out, with fading yellow walls and spray-painted obscenities.

But I'm here to exhault Netflix, aren't I? Ahh...Netflix. The name even sounds poetic to me now, like the whispy sound of a butterfly easily escaping the swooping net of an obnoxious child.

Yes it's true, there are never, ever any late fees. And the once-a-month fee can be as low as you want it to be. You shop for movies anytime you want in the comfort of your own sweats at home, your little Cheeto-stained fingers sticking to the keyboard. You add to your queue with carefree abandon, clicking any movie you have ever wanted and could ever possibly want to watch. You can even continuously change the priority of your picks, depending on what mood you're in. And your movie takes about two days to arrive, just long enough to forget about it and be pleasantly surprised with the mail, but not long enough to piss you off.

And when you're finished you just pop it back in the mail, postage-included and excitedly await the next one on your list. In the meantime, you can rate the movie, check out what your decidedly intelligent Netflix friends have been watching, and even browse through the wonderfully recommended "Movies You'll Love" section. And later on, you can scroll through your History, laughing and cooing with fondest memories at all of the movies you'd forgotten you enjoyed.

It's pure genious, really.

And so Netflix has become my cure-all for many an emotional night and my love of renting movies has been restored. And best of all? They're always in stock with any movie you can imagine from foreign films to documentaries. So you never have to resort to a watching a "Blockbuster" movie again.

The Importance of Being

LA is one of those cities where there is always a friend of a friend who is displaying their art or playing at a local coffee house. You are sometimes forced to go depending on the level of obligation you feel, which is usually determined by the nth degree of separation between you and artist. I always try to go with an open mind, but more often than not find myself bored, baffled or on rare occasion, horrified.

In one weekend, I had two such obligations which ultimately lead to a great change in my perception and attitude to local creative sampling. The first was a musician playing folk songs with his guitar on a small latte-stained stage in West LA. The music was gentle, which to my hyperstimulated mind made it seem slow. I thought to myself, "no wonder he plays in a place where caffeine is available for immediate consumption." What's worse, he continuously apologized for his music saying things like, "I don't want to put you guys to sleep." Now I'm in the business of advertising, and in my mind this was no way to sell his music.

Still, there he was - in the raw. Proffering his creativity for my entertainment. And gradually I found myself relenting, moved by the music. For his last song, he truly let loose. His guitar became the devil's instrument, his fingers working up and down the strings with preternatural speed. His eyes rolled back, his boots beat wildly on the floor. And by the time he finished, I was the one who was breathless. But one thing struck me hard: had I not already opened my mind earlier, I would likely never have appreciated his work to the degree that it deserved.

The next night, I attended an art show. Ready to appreciate with newly opened eyes, I found one artist in particular who's work caught me. Fascinated by materials, he worked with wood, metal and stone. I loved them all...and was hungry to hear his thoughts, his inspirations behind each. But to my dismay, he could offer me nothing. For him, the inspiration came from within and was no result of a premeditated idea or statement. I was shocked! Didn't one need a muse? Doesn't art need a reason to exist? Ever the inquisitor, I asked him what I thought would be an easier question to answer: which material did he like to work with best? But still he could not answer. He simply shrugged and said that each has it's own beauty.

Disgruntled, I moved on to look at the work of other artists in the show. But eventually I worked my way back to one of sculpture in particular of his. I stood before it without demands. My eyes roamed the curves, embraced the imperfections and caressed light and shadows. Until I woke with halt. It wasn't about the meaning behind it or even what the artist might have intended its purpose to be. It was about me. My reation to it. The changes it stirred within me. All art wants is the freedom to be.

In the novel, The Golden Spruce, John Vaillant writes of storytelling, “each version of a story is highly dependent on a given teller’s memory, integrity, agenda, and intended audience...but it also depends on the current needs of the teller, the listeners, and the times.” Maybe the process of creativity does not end with a fit of passion. Maybe the process actually extends long after the artist has laid down their brush or clicked off their amp. It lives on in the impressions it inspires. Creativity is a continuous process that no one individual can own. Because as soon as it is told to a listener, it is now the property of that listener and thus vulnerable too his subjectification. He now has the right to use it as a paint or a note to create something new out of, even if only for himself.

I am no longer quick to roll my eyes before unestablished musicians or question an unknown sculpture's existence before it's begun to change me. Now, I simply breath in with patience...and wait for the beauty to overwhelm me in its own way.

Geisha Got Her Groove Back

I've always loved dressing up for Halloween. Digging through closets and rummaging through drawers to find various odds & ends - anything that might help piece together some inventive costume. And then the thrill of rushing out into the darkened streets, hunting under the moonlight. It always felt so wild and deliciously wicked. Putting on a mask or a costume is like putting on another persona - a you that rarely gets to come out. You feel a sense of abandon and freedom to be someone you're not - or perhaps more truly what the deepest part of you is.

I have prided myself on the fact that every Halloween since birth I have dressed up in costume - save for one year. The Halloween that I was 13 I thought I was too kool for skool. I stayed in and talked on the phone all night with friends, thinking I was too old for make-up and funny clothes. It wasn't until Midnight, when I heard the last of the mischievous cries of "Trick or Treat," that I realized that I'd missed out on a custom I truly loved. So I made a vow to dress up every year since then. And I kept it effortlessly...until this year.

I was enjoying the more low-key customs of Halloween - hitting the pumpkin patch, carving my Jack-o-lantern, boiling peanuts and watching scary movies. But I wasn't planning on dressing up. For some reason, it just seemed like too much work. For the first time since my 13th year, I felt too old for the tradition again. And I had given in to this concession, ready to settle for the little comforts.

But as I mentioned my plan to longtime friends, they're reactions shocked me. "But you ALWAYS dress up!" "You love Halloween!" It struck me hard and I felt a pang of disappointment in myself. But still I pushed it aside, thinking I'd simply entered a new, more settled phase of life. I was resigned...but the truly frightening part was that I was actually fine with that resignation.

Finally the night of Hallow's Eve came. I sat on my couch eating pasta, cuddled up for a warm night in. Flipping through the channels, I saw a TV special on vampires - the one fabled creature that has always held a special place in my heart. Something to do with the combination of hedonistic spirit and decadent eccentricity. I immediately thought of Anne Rice's Vampire Lestat. "What antics would he be up to this evening?", my imagination wondered. And that's precisely the moment that the spirit stirred within me. Faster and faster it spiraled up and outward, tingling my skin. And all those exclamations from my friends returned ringing loudly in my ears like echoed hauntings. Suddenly it wasn't enough to stay home. I needed to be...ALIVE!

And then I was mad. Rushing to the garage to fetch my costume box. Flinging paints and wigs and fabrics in every direction. I guzzled vodka with plastic spiders in the glass. I cranked up Michael Jackson's, "Thriller," and did a little jig. I tell you I was possessed! So much so that I made not one but two last minute, makeshift costumes that night. A secret, private one for me which never made it out of the house. And a more simple, fun one for the madness of the Boulevard.

That night, as I walked the crowded, howling, bleeding streets. I laughed to myself and gave a little wink to the moon. For I realized that my childish heart had prevailed yet again.

Nuts Don't Fall Far...

We all have those little quirks, talents and bad habits we pick up from our family. Never were mine so apparent to me than at my youngest brother's recent wedding.

My brothers and I are spitting images of my dad. Okay, maybe more like full on hawked-up lugi images. We are all truly Masters of Pomp & Ceremony. You see my youngest brother, Brian's wedding was to be the first in our immediate family's. So naturally, all the men felt it was imperative to give a speech, honoring Brian. But secretly, we all knew it was a chance to outshine each other as well. Competition among family can be the most gruesomely fun sport of all - because no one is more important to impress than your family.

My Dad wrote his speech early on, months before the wedding. I practiced mine the week of. And Brad, the middle brother (aka Jan), decided to wing his on the spur of the moment. But a funny thing happened just before we were all to give our toasts...we all became incredibly nervous! For the first time, food before us was left untouched. And not for the first time, alcohol was drained clean from our glasses.

My Dad, the "Godfather," went first. It was short, but truest of all and filled with more emotion than most of us probably give him credit for having. Brad was next, swaggering up to the microphone, ready for the joker's role. He made it through with laughter, ending on an "aw." Then it was my turn. I collected a quote from our childhood favorite, The Wizard of Oz, and pushed it forward with all the finesse of Bob Barker. But as the toasts ended, a calm washed over all of us. We looked to Brian with bright smiles and suddenly it didn't matter who won so much (although my grandmother says I had the best speech, hands-down).

We also have a bit of trickster blood in my family. My aunt Windy is a "good witch," but a crafty one. In early childhood, she convinced me that whenever I had a cough all I had to do was raise my hands high in the air. She explained that the stretching motion causes your diaphragm to rise, thus easing the coughing fit. Who would argue with such logical reasoning? After all I had nothing to lose, right? So not only did I continue this exercise throughout my life, but I dutifully passed the tip on to others.

It wasn't until years later during the wedding that I realized just how gullible I had been. You see, the ceremony was at sunset on the beach and, while beautiful, the wedding party and its onlookers were swarmed with sand gnats. Oh we held our grace as well as we could, swatting our faces and scratching our heads as nonchalantly as possible. But as soon as the ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed and my aunt acted at the speed of lightening. She spread the world, oh so subtly, that all you had to do was raise your arms high in the air. The gnats, attracted by the heat of the exposed flesh, would swarm around your fingers, leaving your face and neck in blissful relief. And one by one, my entire family raised their arms faithfully in the air. We looked like we were praising the Lord on high.

Windy would've gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for one sneaky chuckle to escape her lips. And that's when I called her on it. Why, this was no cure for a cough, no insect repellent! It was all a ruse, just to see exactly how many idiots would fall for the little trick. What's sad is I fell for it twice. God bless her, but I will get her back.

Finally, I have to explain the dancing. Now, for years I thought I was the only dancer. I took cotillion lessons in middle school and was in ballroom performance briefly in college. I've even won a couple of freestyle dance competitions in clubs. But at this wedding, I found the rhythmic roots of my happy feet. The gift had been in my genes all along.

Before my eyes, my Mom became one of the Supremes, shifting her arms and swaying in all the glory of Motown. My Dad suddenly channeled Elvis, pointing, turning and hip jabbing frantically. And then my Grandmama glided across the floor and took my hand. We hustled with ease as she spun under my arms, landing feline-like back on her heels. Naturally, it wasn't long until the rest of the family joined in.

Whether it's nature, nuture or a combination of both, we are nothing if not a culmination of everything that makes up our families. And that's precisely what makes your family so special and so irreplaceable. By seeing yourself so clearly revealed in them, you come to understand that you never have to be alone.

Oh, Auntie Windy...there's no place like home!

SuperGay

What is it with the gays and their superheroes? I've always been vaguely aware of some intrinsic connection between the culture and the fiction, but what is it about exactly? Does it go beyond those colorful capes and contoured phallus pouches?

In the beginning, there were our original Marvel & DC Comics heroes. I mean, how many Ambiguously Gay Duo jokes can one endure? Sure Batman resembles the stereotypical older, well-off gentleman mentoring the eager, young chick, Robin...ohhhhh. Okay fine, I see your point.

Well, maybe it's just a connection with gay male heroes. No lesbians allowed? Hmmm....think again. Wonderwoman, is one of the first dyke icons, crossing femininity (her long hair and gigantic breasts) with more masculine traits (her Amazon's frame, cold metallic forearm plates and, of course, her cowboy's lasso).

But it doesn't stop with that original brood. They've actually evolved into even stronger stereotypes. Today we have Xena, the modern day warrior princess, beloved poster woman of many lesbians. We also have the X-men lead by Wolverine, a hairy, well-muscled leather daddy-bear if ever I've seen one. Why, he even comes equipped with S&M devices in the "form of!" blade-like claws that shoot out through his fingers.

It's not just the characters themselves that are gay-like. It's the gays who simply adore them too. Enough to daydream well beyond adolescence that some mysterious benefactor will one day fly them away to some secret cave where a special power will be revealed to them.

But what's really underneath that torso-clinging spandex? Who's the man behind the mask?

As a gay man, I understand what it's like to grow up different. You feel like no one else can understand you. There's no one else like you in the world and you must endure it all alone. You have to hide your secret identity at all costs, for fear that others will shout, "Freak! Unnatural!" So you cower in your cave or hide behind your flawless facade, until one day you don your black leather boots, your tight shirts and your utility belt to unmask yourself to the world. It's about the need to believe that you have been dealt this fate for a reason. You're not an outcast...you're "the one!" You come to believe that you've been given a gift and that it is up to you to use it for good...or perhaps in some cases, for evil.

But was I the only one, or were there others like me after all? After some light research, I found Gay League - a community specifically for gay comic readers and creators. In the site, they list the entire of collection of out superheroes, including those of "uncertain orientation" and even transgendered heroes. And these aren't characters created by small, independent comic companies...they're developed by the two who've been doing it all along, Marvel & DC. In 1992, Marvel revealed that, after years of implication, their hero Northstar was indeed homosexual. Northstar was the first openly gay superhero to have a permanent presence in a continuing series. And more recently, a few characters were revealed gay in two Marvel titles: the Ultimate Incarnation of Colossus in Ultimate X-Men as well as Wiccan and Hulkling of the Young Avengers. Meanwhile, the new Batwoman has been unveiled as a lipstick lesbian. So whether it's the secret identities are simply those buckled boots, there's no denying that the comic book genre is definitely SuperGay.

Sailing Sick-up

I grew up on the water. My grandmother had a lakehouse before I was a baby (she threw my bottle, aka "ba-ba," to the fishes when she thought I was too old for it) and my parents got one later on. We went through several boats, from pontoons, to speed boats, to mini yachts to house boats to sail boats. And let me tell you, there is nothing like sleeping on a boat. You fall asleep on a gently rocking blanket of waves, the small splashes on the bottom of the boat second only to the soft hum of cicadas in the summer. It makes for the most amazing dreams.

So I've always appreciated boating - I never really had a choice. But I often forget that not everyone feels the same way I do.

A group of us went sailing in the Pacific recently. It was my first time on a boat in the Pacific and I was excited beyond belief. We had wine and cheese, good company, and a captain rivaling Chief Brody in Jaws. We shoved off from the port in Marina del Rey full of the wind in our hair (yes, I can still feel the wind in what little hair I now have left). Immediately, however, we realized we were probably in for more than we bargained for.

It was a rocky start. The boat lurched left, then right, the sails pitching from side to side. You had to duck frequently in order to avoid getting clocked on the head by the. Once out in the ocean, however, it was smooth sailing, as they say. Though the boat leaned practically on its side the whole time, most of us were enjoying the spectacular coastal views and the electric zing of life through our spirits.

It was on the way back from Malibu that the action happened. One of the seat cushions fell overboard and our fearless captain swung the boat around after it. Our motley crew made several attempts at nabbing it, all the time the boat flipping back and forth along the coastline as our captain stood over the edge with his harpoon. And we were almost about to catch that cushion too...when it happened.

A guy I'd just met all of the sudden flung his head overboard and commenced yacking full throttle. As others turned away in disgust, trying their best to pretend they didn't notice him, I stared directly at him. I couldn't help but crack a smile, glad that all those years around boats had made me sea worthy. I turned to another girl to comment, but her face looked green. And I'm not kidding...it was GREEN. She managed to mumble out, "I'm not feeling well" before going below for a bit of reprieve. At this point, I heard a soft chuckle escape from my mouth. Horrified, I forced a serious face to match the concern of the others. And that was when I turned around to see a girl on the other side of the boat, blowing chunks all along the starboard side.

It started as a feather in my gut. A light flutter that bubbled up, gaining strength on its way up my throat. And before I could even think to attempt to shove it back down, it came: great bellows of laughter erupting from my mouth. And there was no stopping it! I knew it would be one of those laughing fits that you are powerless to control. The kind that make others smile for awhile, but eventually become annoyed with you.

I rolled around the boat, my face in my arms. Red-faced, tears streaming, I looked to the others for or at least sympathy, but found none. I was on my own and it wasn't funny. But I just couldn't help it! It seemed like every time I turned around, someone else was puking! Every time I started to settle back down, the image of the back of someone's head would pop into my mind and I was done for again. Oh, the humanity of it all!

The fit finally petered out as the boat motored in to dock. We never did get that damn cushion back...but if you ask me, it's a small price to pay for a good giggle.

Inn Ocence Lost

There's nothing like hotel living. Don't get me wrong, I'm a bigtime homebody. I love the familiar comforts of home and, no matter how social I can be, nesting is a specialty of mine. But there's just something primal about invading a space and claiming it as your own.

First of all, it's exciting to be in a strange, new place. The first thing I do when I check into a room, is go exploring. I sniff around in all the drawers and snoop in all the closets, fully aware that I won't find anything all that interesting. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in the act. As if I were suddenly transformed into a wide-eyed cat, testing my claws on every surface, doing everything but spraying the curtains to mark my territory.

Secondly, I love the sheer abundance of it all! The place is yours to use and abuse. After all, a magical maid will slip in when you're not looking sometime the next day. She'll set everything perfect again with just the wrinkle of her nose. So, without a care in the world, you can go through several shampoo bottles during your stay. Brand new full ones will appear before you've used even an eight of the first one...and there'll be one leftover for you to take home for your troubles. You can leave trash lying on the floor just outside the wastebaskets. Who cares? Your whole room is your wastebasket now!

Then you can down baby bottles of booze from the mini bar, oblivious to any credit card damage they incur. Once you're nice and buzzed, you can order room service, feasting on hamburgers and cheesecake in bed. And you don't even have to bother to brush away any crumbs...why, you can even use the comforter as a napkin! And towels? Those are my favorite! As soon as you've dried off your satiated body, you can simply toss that nice, fluffy white towel on the floor. Maybe you'll even make the effort to kick it behind the toilet. You know, to make sure the maid understands that you are no longer in need of its service.

During a recent hotel stay, something happened to deprive me of all these wonderful joys. As I made my way into the bedroom, I noticed a card on the plush pillow of the neatly made bed. I leaned down to read it and it all but screamed back at me: "Help protect our environment! Conserve your towels, sheets and toiletries!"

At first I felt a softening in my soul, followed by a small pang of guilt for how much I had planned to reek havoc in this sweet, unsuspecting suite. But eventually, the guttural, gluttonous part of me won out and I found myself drowned again in all of my usual habits.

But on the final day, I stepped out of the tub and turned to the vanity in sudden shock. There, in the reflected fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror, was the horror of what I had become. A creature with bloated, paled skin. Pimples as large and as colorful as M&Ms covered my face. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest sunken. But most frightening of all was the look of pure greed that had been quickly etched into my face over those few days.

Slowly, I picked up a dirty, damp towel from the floor and dried myself off. I returned the shampoo bottles from my suitcase to their rightful spot beside the faucet and cleaned away all of the crumpled paper and rotting food. I resolved that next time I would remember the lesson that "complimentary" doesn't mean "take anything that isn't bolted down". I'd do it not just for the maid or the environment, but for myself.

And I'd also remember to bring a few candles to bathe by. Those fluorescent lights really are hell in a hotel.