The Best Was Yet Last Night

In reviewing Tuesday night's NBC special "Tony Bennett: An American Classic," The Hollywood Reporter quipped: "Bottom Line: The best thing of its sort that you will ever see." And I have to agree. The birthday salute to the 80-year-old "grand old man of pop" was an hour of breeze, on-the-spot and dead-right orchestrations, cool dancing... and an hour too short. My favorite parts: the sixties television studio variety show re-creation (for the song "The Best Is Yet To Come"), and the duet "Just In Time." It was all perfect - and totally devoid of pretension. Just how perfect it was became immensely clear during the Target commercials, which were exceedingly ugly - black and white plus glaring red, featuring all of the singers in the special as if they were photographed by bad pararazzi. Hopefully, NBC will show this again, soon.

Living in DC
I was in Cosi recently, around 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon. I don't frequent the place much, since I take my lunch to work, but I do know they get the customers in and out quickly...if you happen to get there at noon. I had just gotten my Turkey Light with Carrots instead of Chips and went to pay for it. I stood there, in front of the cash register, while four employees behind the counter not only ignored me, they looked at me a couple of times AND THEN went on to ignore me some more. It was like I was traveling at light speed, and the employees were standing still.

A woman walked up beside me, holding a salad, ready to pay. Now there were two of us in the holding pattern.
"This must mean our food is free," said the woman to me.
"I was just thinking the same thing," I said.

Since I had just come from the gym and was hungry and cranky, I took it upon myself to get some service.

I said, in my loudest, reach-to-the-back-of-the-theater voice (trained through singing, radio announcing, and being generally obnoxious):

"HEY, IS THE FOOD HERE FREE THIS AFTERNOON OR DO WE HAVE TO PAY FOR IT?"

My words echoed off the hard tile surfaces.
An employee looked at me.
"I'm sorry sir, but she's counting out the register and leaving and I'm just now coming on."
"So does that mean," I asked, "we have to pay for the food?"
"I said I'm sorry sir, but she's counting out and I'm coming on."
"But does that mean we have to pay?"
Finally, another employee advanced to the cash register.
"May I help you?" he asked.
The woman with the salad looked at me.
"Thank you for doing that," she said.

Whoville
About his high school days, a DC-based blogger wrote:

I remember sitting at a lunch table with the "cool" people one day. One of the "cool" guys leans over to me and says, "Why are you here? No one wants you here." I didn't say anything back. No one else said a word.

I think that concisely describes what many of us in DC still feel, although now we term it "attitude" and somewhat proudly proclaim that DC is filled with it. But how to combat this fear that continues on from our earliest days?

"The Nametag Guy" has an interesting method, and a whole web site on "how maximize personal and professional approachability." Now, I don't intend to start wearing a name tag everywhere. But after last Saturday night's experience at Blowoff, I feel I need to get back on the horse, and I've been online for ideas on bolstering confidence. I've started listing "101 Goals" for 2007, a strategy on The Nametag Guy's site. I've only got 26 so far, and they all seem to be about spending money and... spending money.

Another blogger wrote something about "often, the most interesting person in the room is not the one with the big name," in a post that summarized that we should treat a person as a "who" and not a "what." I wanted to include the actual quote here, but I can't find the page it's on.

More on all of this later, maybe after dinner...

Is It Too Early or Too Late To Be Talking About This?
Is it just me, or is there anyone else out there who has been less-than-satisfied with the DC Gay Pride Parade over the past few years? The June 2006 parade was, for me, a definite case-in-point. A number of gay/lesbian etc etc organizations, strolling down 17th street in loose bunches, some throwing candy, others handing out stickers. A couple of floats. Long stretches of dead street. Those floats, especially, were a big problem for me. How is it that gay men, famous the world over for style, created floats that were not only half-thought, but falling apart as they travelled down the street? And where were the symbols of what there is to be "prideful" about? Maybe we've gone past the time in which merely showing up in public made a powerful political statement. Some may say that the sheer pedestrian-ness of this year's parade shows how far we've come - that we're so mainstream we're boring. I think it's time to re-imagine this whole pride day thing, starting with the parade, and begin thinking about exactly what message we want to send with the event. There's certainly room for a whole spectrum of participant styles. One thing I do know: Dykes on Bykes is just not doing it for me anymore.

PBK Recap
After almost a year of personal training, I've concluded:
1. I have made gains, although they are modest.
2. I would like to continue, but unless I get a better paying job, I'll have to work out on my own starting in 2007.
3. I don't fall in love with every trainer assigned to me.
4. 50-rep squats (no, not all the way) are the most painful exercise ever.
5. Unless I reconfigure my dna, develop a taste for steroids, and work out a stupid number of hours, I'm probably never going to look like JC.

Content Is King
That's what I keep thinking, as I daily avoid writing anything for this blog. But then I consider it like getting up in the morning, and I plug on.

It's Saturday night. This work week has been rough. But I now know what the problem is, after speaking with my co-workers. The problem in noise. Everybody's let their own problems and prejudices grow to deafening decibels. While we each have honest and fair gripes, we all need to realize we are the ones who are going to make it work.

My own difficulties spring from the realization this week that I spend more time having to figure out ways of getting people to give me what I ask for, want and need, which leaves me with zero energy to actually do something concrete (that is, if I have the necessary ingredients to start with, which I don't.)

Enough of that "talking pretty" as Dr. Shrink says. I've told myself that I would go out tonite instead of sitting at home, watching "Little People Big World" and justifying my hermetic existence as genuinely relaxing. I have an event and a location picked out, but it takes a cab to reach and starts very late. Last week I had two, count them, two parties to attend, which were both very fun and filled with people I like. Tonite's location and event is a crapshoot.

I went to Halo last night, and after the second pinappletini did not tell myself that a third would be a good idea. I was alone for half of the first drink, and I thought to myself "DC is no longer working for me" as I waited for the alcohol to produce transcending numbness. Then someone took the enormous chance of talking to me, and I was engaged in conversation with him and a host of others for the rest of the evening.

Living in DC
I go to take my prescription medication two nights ago (hours after picking it up from my health plan's pharmacy) and I notice: the tablets that are normally LARGE and ORANGE are tiny and blue. Last night, after work, I go back to the pharmacy and show them what they gave me. The woman behind the counter shakes her head and gives me a sideways grin that says "boy do we have some winners working here." Probably the wrong image they want to portrary. She goes back into the stacks of drugs and two minutes later returns with the head pharmacist. He hands me a bottle of the correct medication, then asks "you have receipt?"
"No."
"I want to give you something for your trouble. Look. You take Tylenol?"
"Huh?"
"You take Tylenol?"
I look down at his hand, and he's holding out a bottle filled with some type of analgesic. He's showing it to me like a drug dealer shows a kilo*.
"No, I don't want Tylenol."
"Then how about lotion?"
He reaches behind and pulls a tube off the shelf.
"Maybe some hand cream?" he asks, with the same drug-dealer confidence.
"No. I don't want anything. I just want to go home."
"I want to give you something."
"Just tell your people back there to pay attention to what their doing!"
What I want to know is, can I sue them? And, if I can, and I collect, can I then retire?

*Not that I have practical knowledge regarding those sorts of transactions.

The Bland Health People

I hate the Bland Health People. You know who I'm talking about. The people frolicking in prescription drug commercials and bouncing around the pages of your medical plan's quarterly magazine. They're all ages and all races and all sexes (well maybe not ALL sexes) and all so very very... bland. They wear sweaters and ride bikes in their golden years through the perfect autumn woods, they cavort in perfectly turquoise pools, they throw daisies about and sit down to healthy and uncontroversial dinners. You never see any of them actually USING the medications they're representing - they're never standing in their boxers, in the kitchen, rinsing out a glass and measuring out the one or two horse pills they have to swallow. They never throw up, or sneeze, or bleed, or roll around in agony after being thrown from a horse. They never sit uncomfortably on the edge of the examination table, shifting their weight on the crinkly paper, trying to relieve the cramping in their knees as they wait for the physician's assistant or nurse practitioner. And they're never, EVER in the hospital. Not like the real people you see on House or E.R.

Sport, that wrinkled care derides...
So this HHS, employee knocks on my door - she's canvassing the neighborhood for a survey on drug and alcohol use the Feds are doing, which will decide how much muh-nay will be spent around these parts on abuse and prevention programs. She just had a couple of questions for me, and entered the answers into a Blackberry that would instantly let her know if I would be selected for the actual survey (which would also net me $30.)

When she got to the question “How old are you?” I answered “49.”
She stopped.
“No,” she said. “You’re lying.”
I laughed. “I’m really 49.”
“You so look like you’re 35.”
“Thanks.”
“And I hate you.”

I get that often. Not the “I hate you” (which I probably get, just not out loud.) The age thing. I’ll turn 50 halfway through 2007. Hopefully that passage will be easier than 49. There don’t seem to be a whole lot of resources out there for the Aging Gay Man – at least, resources that are easily identifiable. I did a quick Google search on the phrase “gay men aging” and came up with some articles, but a quick scan of their contents threw me into a panic and I stopped reading. Too much to deal with. Especially if you’re single.

“Looks like the survey program kicked you out,” said the HHS woman. "Probably because you're not Hispanic."
Or maybe I'm just too old.
No $30 for me.

Final DC Five
My last five ideas for DC:

16. Fire GSI as the downtown tourist food and souvenir vendor and hire Disney to make it over and provide better customer service.

17. Televise the 17th Street "Drag" Race on Bravo.

18. Take big chunks out of the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials to make them more like ruins.

19. Knock down any public monument or sculpture that A) does not commemorate and immediately recognizable event or person; B) is the same size or smaller than the temperance fountain; and C) is, or has in it, a horse.

20. Do not market the 3 minute and 17 second Cherry Blossom Festival to anyone but locals.

New York, Paris, Rome, and... Washington?
Some more ideas to kick DC's butt in gear:

11. Have architecture graduate students from across the country redesign every street vendor van in the city using recycled materials. Allow only three to sell Georgetown University sweatshirts. Then have the students go to work re-facing K Street.

12. Create (or appropriate) an indigenous, unhealthy, and therefore highly admired and much-in-demand food item. Allow only two establishments to serve it. Invent a long-standing conflict between the proprietors.

13. Plan a major world's fair for Anacostia waterfront, not for the crowds, but for the buildings that it will leave behind.

14. Turn DC’s current characteristics and icons (bureaucratic red tape, political sex scandals, hot and humid summers, The Exorcist) into marketing opportunities along the lines of Las Vegas's "What Happens Here Stays Here" campaign. Use humor if possible. If not, import it.

15. Re-imagine the Washington Coliseum as a semi open air farmer's market.

DC is Brand X
More ideas of improving DC's image to the world...

6. Hire a young, vibrant, charismatic conductor for the national symphony, and have him or her re-program the Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day concerts held on the Capital lawn – and ban Barry Bostwick, Charles Durning and the Solid Gold 1940’s dancers from ever showing up at these concerts again.

7. Stop mistaking the Smithsonian Folklife Festival and the Navy and Marine band concerts for home grown cultural entertainment.

8. Resurrect the trolley car system on the weekends as an alternative to the constantly single-tracking Metro.

9. Give city residents a tax break on owning and operating Smart Cars, and create low-cost underground and/or above ground parking for the vehicles.

10. Create a city-wide campaign to help the people of this city become either more A) friendly, well-mannered, beautiful, creative, and relaxed, or B) dynamically and colorfully rude.

...stay tuned for more tomorrow...

DC, DC, a ________ of a town...
You know, as a brand, DC rots. I just does. As a native who's lived here most of my life, I've seen attempts to get this city standing with the big boys, but most of them fell flat and disappeared. Once there was a song composed extolling the city's virtues – but it went nowhere. Union Station was refurbished for the bicentennial as the National Visitors Center, but attracted mainly the homeless. The city’s constantly making excuses for its lame image – "well, the monuments are pretty;" "no, there's not that much crime, if you stay in the right neighborhood…" "it's basically safe... in northwest... during the daytime;" and "what do you expect, when nobody's from here and everybody else just stays until the administration changes?"

It's time DC had an Xtreme Makeover. For the next few days, I'll be printing some of my ideas for what DC needs to do, after it does whatever it takes to eradicate poverty, crime and the homeless within its borders, and hires a kick-ass design and marketing firm and gives them free reign to imagine the city into the next twenty years. So, the first five (and they are all in no particular order):

1. Develop a significant and Macy’s-competitive parade for one of the following: Independence Day, Labor Day, Memorial Day, or Inauguration Day.

2. Pump some money into the gay pride parade and make it bigger than New York's. Stop relying on the gays to gentrify neighborhoods.

3. Create a major outdoor festival around a significant artistic individual who lived and/or worked here in the past (John Philip Sousa, Duke Ellington, Helen Hayes, or…?) Create and finance: a National Sousa Band with a yearly national patriotic march competition (with high school, college, postgraduate, and adult composer categories), a Helen Hayes center for the dramatic arts (with a Washington-DC artists theatre festival), and a Duke Ellington conservatory (post-high school) for music and performing arts.

4. Move the presidential inauguration into another season. Hold the actual ceremony indoors if you must for security reasons, but televise it live throughout the mall. Wait until Bush is out of office to do this so he is not president for a second longer than he has to be. Augment the inaugural balls with the 3-day national mall barbecue.

5. Have the president give weekly audiences, like the Pope.

Tomorrow – 5 more…

Living in DC - A Snapshot
So there's this attractive guy who lives in my building, just a few doors down from me on the fourth floor. He's been there for about a year or so. His blond hair seems to be thinning and he speaks with traces of an English accent. He's also got two little barky dogs, which he's always taking for walks. But they're really not too noisy. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, we both get on the elevator. He pushes the button marked 4. The elevator door closes and he asks: "What floor?"

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things
I watched an episode of Jericho Wednesday night on CBS, after reading a number of reviews for Cormac Mccarthy’s recently published novel The Road, which led me to fondly remember my favorite (and not so favorite) stories of global apocalypse and societal breakdown…

La Jetee
It's short. Made in 1962. 99+44/100% of it is still pictures. All about time travel after a nuclear war. And it’s in French. It just shouldn’t work at all. I just saw it a couple of weeks ago for the first time in 30 years. And it’s much more shattering than "12 Monkeys" - the remake.

Night of the Living Dead
Simple, basic, frightening. When the eating starts, even the background music is destroyed.

On the Beach
In Australia, Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred Astaire, and Anthony Perkins wait out the last days of humanity after a nuclear war. That’s right, Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred… oh, never mind.

Testament
Sounds like rapture claptrap - NOT! Simple tale of a small California town dying off after a nuclear war. Do we see a pattern here? Jane Alexander’s presence makes it all too… artsy and political. But it’s got Kevin Costner, years before he’d try much the same thing in the uber-ridiculous “The Postman.” Guaranteed to kill any party.

The Day After
Supposedly, ABC cut this down to two hours in a panic when, as I remember it, the zeitgeist surrounding it got too hot. And that was before it aired. After the bombs drop, it’s a long slow slog with Steve Gutenberg to the end of the world. Not to be confused with the long slow slog with Steve Gutenberg that is “Cocoon.”

The World, the Flesh and the Devil
Mel Ferrer (aka Mr. Audrey Hepburn), Harry Belafonte, and Inger Stevens (who?) are the last three people in New York City. How they all got there and where the other bodies went is anyone’s guess. Not nearly as good as…

The Quiet Earth
A man, a woman, and a Maori tribesman (uh, ok) are the only three people left in New Zealand, probably the whole world. Works up to an interesting finish.

Kiss Me Deadly
“Blood Red Kisses! White Hot Thrills” goes its tagline. How does a Mickey Spillane adaptation fit with this list? Well, if you happen to see it sometime on Turner Classic Movies, just keep watching…

The Stand
Steven King’s phone-book sized tale of a superflu virus and the devastation it brings was an ABC miniseries with more gore than "The Day After." Still, the book was better.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Don Siegel’s model-of-economy black and white flick scared the heck out of us when we were kids (we were all ready to laugh at it, with that goofy title.) The plot, lean and mean with absolutely no fats or oils that add calories, still works its charms after all these years.

The Last Man on Earth and The Omega Man
Two adaptations of Richard Matheson’s “I Am Legend,” the first with Vincent Price, the second with Charlton Heston. "Omega" is nutty. "The Last Man" approaches zombie gold.

The Day the World Ended
Roger Corman quickie about, uh, let’s see, what is it about… oh yeah, the end of the world! Black and white, cheesy sets, bad acting… DC’s Channel 20 used to show this all the time, after which you always felt... somehow… dirty…

Panic in the Year Zero
Ray Milland directed this, about… oh you know. A family escapes Los Angeles just as the Bright White Flash takes over. Depressing but a smidgen of hope at the end.

and

Chant Sous la Pluie
Another bomb drops in Los Angeles, and the fallout is, well, interesting. In “Jericho” everybody stayed out of the possibly-irradiated rain. In this movie, the main character demands: “Bring It On!”

From Bucks to Bodybuilding
I've been hemorrhaging money this year. But for the first time in my life, it’s not because of the outside world and society’s pressures siphoning bucks from my bank account. I’m spending the money on myself, mainly personal training and three vacation cruises in the space of a year. I’m in probably the best shape of my life, I’ve been to places I’ve heretofore only seen, and the only problem is, next year, the spigot will have to be turned off! So I’m trying to prepare myself now for when I can no longer afford expensive vacations six months apart and a monitored workout. However, a small creature at the back of my skull keeps chanting “get a better paying job… get a better paying job, and you can continue to do all these things” in a high, nasal, tweedy tone, kind of like a tension headache. The front part of my skull actually considers this communique and states: “He’s got a point.” So, since I’m not focusing any outward energy on beginning the fourth draft of Kickass Zombie Movie, I need to update my resume, start perusing the job web sites I’ve perused in the past, go for coffee with more people who have connections, and visit Ask the Headhunter every day. After I take my multivitamin and make my lunch.

You Do The Math
Comparing two products that do essentially the same thing.

TODAY: Moleskine vs. Spiral Notebook

Used for: Jotting Things Down

Cost
Moleskine: $15
Spiral Notebook: $3.89

Paper
Moleskine: yellowish-brown
Spiral Notebook: bright white

Ruling
Moleskine: narrow
Spiral Notebook: medium

Used by celebrities?
Moleskine: Picasso, Hemingway, Chatwick
Spiral Notebook: Who knows? Probably.

Where to find:
Moleskine: Barnes and Noble in Georgetown
Spiral Notebook: Staples, Office Depot, CVS, etc.

If lost:
Moleskine: You’re out $15
Spiral Notebook: Pickup another one for around $5

Brand Image
Moleskine: Pretentious
Spiral Notebook: School work

Lays flat:
Moleskine: Only if you bend the binding back and forth a number of times.
Spiral Notebook: Upon opening.

Magically transforms your notes into amazing artistic money-making products:
Moleskine: No.
Spiral Notebook: Maybe.

A Tale of Three Trainers
A couple of weeks before I went on my Awesome End Of August Vacation, my trainer PD was transferred to another gym. That was tough - we'd been together since February. But I marched on. PD handed me to Squatmeister TM, so named (by me) because he believed that in the Squat lay the secrets of the universe and the saving of the world. "He believes everybody should squat," said PD. "Women, teenagers, babies...everybody."

Squatmeister also believed in worshiping a holy trinity of workout moves: the afore-mentioned squat, the deadlift, and the bench-press. "What about bicep curls?" I asked. "Well," he began...

I was with him for about two weeks before I went on The Awesome Vacation. When I returned I found this email:

Hey Mike,
Hope your vacation is going well. I am writing to let you know that I moved this weekend out to R-- I have been asked to transfer to that gym. As such I will not be able to continue training at M-- for a bit. I have been pairing up clients with people I think work well together and I believe that you would work best with [D-Man]. I gave him your contact info so he will contact you about scheduling when you get back from your trip.

So, now I'm with D-Man, and he's producing the required effect of soreness that makes me believe I'm achieving something. The funniest part of all of this is the whole issue of diet. In July, PD suggested I bump my protein intake up to 200 g's per day. And, he counseled me to "go all out" on my cheat day, midnight to midnight. "Eat as much of whatever it is you want!" he challenged me. Well, after a McDonald's Big Breakfast, it's hard to eat anything the rest of the day. Now, D-Man is saying "PD told you that? No no no, man, you only get 1 cheat meal per week."

Anybody need a frozen cheesecake?

This Passion Thing is Way Overrated
Kickass Zombie Movie script has been lying dormant for months now, sleeping in its third draft, awaiting the dexterity of the handsome prince to awaken it to its fourth incarnation. Also known as EM:ZD, the screenplay was very popular last fall among the scribes at the Writer's Center screenplay seminar. "You got zombies!" they said, eyes aglow with interest, minds afire with "why didn't I think of that?" I've even figured out a kickass opening scene, which I was told it needed. So, why don't I get to it?

It's not like I haven't had success in these sorts of endeavors.

My shrink thinks it's because I'm not getting my emotional needs met. At this point, I'm inclined to agree with him.

But a bigger question haunts me. Do I want to continue chasing this dream all the way to the Best Screenplay Oscar? Or have I finally accepted that I've been doing all this largely to:
a. make myself more interesting
b. find a hunky boyfriend
c. make lots of mo-nay.

When I look at the movies that are out nowadays, and all of them starring Ben Stiller, I don't get excited. At all. Kickass Zombie Movie will most likely never get made, and that's just something that has to be said and accepted. The whole "why don't you produce art just for art's sake?" no longer works for me, especially since I don't know anyone named Art, much less anyone named Art with lots and lots of money.

And while I find the whole screenwriting thing fascinating, I ask myself: Do I really want to live in LA?

But there's another question, which might just cancel out everything: What if I finished the fourth draft, and the picture got made?

Does Anybody Really Like CVS?
CVS is what I would call one of my "forced brands." As in "I'm forced to go there for toothpaste, shampoo, tylenol, ibuprofin, chapstick, etc." When I think of CVS, I think of dingy aisles, far too much merchandise, demonic fluorescent lighting, and bored, surly staff. CVS is the store that you enter and can't wait to exit. No wonder the staff is surly. They're stuck there. And what about the uniforms they're made to wear? Bad colors, bad polyester, bad bad bad. The checkout counters are cluttered with... stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. None of which I need. I read somewhere that CVS's HQ requires each store to stock an overabundance of... stuff. CVS doesn't give a damn what kind of experience I have when I'm there. Oh, the commercials may say they do. But they don't. They really don't. If they did, maybe they'd do something about their stores. Like have Project Runway redesign those uniforms.