Today's Weather Report

It's snowing in New York.

Quote of the Day

"You haven't seen or heard the last of me. This isn't over. NO! Stop! That's my pencil sharpener! Take your hands off me. What are you doing?"

Chester Devonshire III.
Former Entertainment Correspondent for The Rant

Saying Goodbye to Chester

Everyone, it is with great sadness that I announce the departure of Chester Devonshire, The Rant's long time enertainment correspondent. Due to the tightening of our budget and economic forces beyond our control, we have been forced to let him go.
We wish Chester nothing but the best, a week before Christmas as he joins the masses of displaced workers crowding the doors of the local unemployment office. The sound of him nibbling away at his latest article will truly be missed by all of us here at the rant.

Blueberries or Botox?

These are the really important questions we have to ask ourselves as we age.
As a society we find ourselves constantly bombarded with images of the unattainable ideal of perfection. Every photo is meticulously airbrushed, every blemish and crow's foot miraculously erased. This used to be the case only for women, but men have found themselves standing at a cosmetic crossroad. We can thank marketing and advertising for this, but ultimately I blame the homos. I hate to pile more blame on the plates of a group who are constantly accused of being the cause of hurricanes, terrorist acts, and single-handedly unraveling the moral fiber of society. Oh and of course destroying the sanctity of marriage and ruining the once perfect American family.

Thanks homos. Thanks a lot. You needed hot airbrushed muscular tan asses for your brochure promoting South beach and now we have to choose between injection botulism into our faces or having our skin stretched so tight we look like Chinese alien babies (see Michael Jackson)

Anyway, I digress.
If you happen to find yourself a little older today, perhaps feeling as worn out as a hooker in Tijuana after a marathon donkey show, then there is hope for you. There's no need to cover your sagging bag of bones in a full-body gauze tent. You just need to eat some blueberries and it will all be better.
Here's a link to a WebMD article about aging gracefully....
Bye Bye Botox and hello Blueberries.

If we had a big budget..

We would have hired Willard Scott to do a weather report that would probably read something like the biblical book of revelations. You know, the one with locusts and the moon turning to blood and the sea boiling. It afterall is snowing in Las Vegas and Malibu and it was almost 70 degrees in New York this week. After Willard finished his weather report, we would have him give a shout-out to those people who are 127 years old and crusty, hanging on for dear life on a wing and a prayer while they gum their tapioca, and he'd say something like this.

"Today Jason Swanson in Brooklyn New York is 30 years young. He still gets around without a cane and manages to eat solid food. He likes to drink wine and smoke menthol cigarettes, which is the secret to his astounding longevity. Here's wishing Jason many more years with his original teeth and hips"

But since we don't have a big budget, we couldn't get Willard Scott. We can always dream.

Quote of the day

"Sadness is just happiness for deep people"

-Sally Sparrow

(Doctor Who, the new series: Season 3, Episode: "Blink")

Typhoid Mary would like to retract her statement

Last week, after a meal of Empanada's at the newly opened location for Empanada Joe's on 22nd street, I became very ill with what I thought for sure was food poisoning. I have discovered over the course of the last few days as those around me have fallen ill , condemned to a similar fate of toilet hugging, that I was too quick to conclude food poisoning to be the source of my harrowing experience.

It is rare that I remove a post from this blog. However, in this case, I feel it is necessary to prevent any unfair criticism of Empanada Joes. I afterall did enjoy the food that I had there and it was reasonably priced. It is important to be able to admit when one has made a mistake, and in this case I have concluded that I was wrong.
I whole heartedly apologize to the folks over at Empanada Joes and wish them all the best with their new location.

That being said, Please everyone be aware that there is a highly contagious virus that can be spread with very little physical contact. (see here) I rode the train with poor Carrie Thomas on Thursday and on Friday night, she found herself bowing to the porcelain god.

On Saturday evening, Konstantine also fell to his knees and bowed his head in the confessional known as Jason and Simon's bathroom.

I sign this post typhoid Mary, admittedly wrong...but ultimately just happy to eat solid food again.

Solid Food=A beautiful thing

Slowly I am venturing back to solid food.
Tentatively I can say that it is a good thing.
I'm such a foodie. I love to cook, to eat.
I may not have empanadas for a long time but I plan on relishing this weekend in the splendors of solid food once again.

Ricky...Thank you for the kind wishes. They seem to have worked. :)

Duct Tape Version 2.0

I recently "finished" a demo for a song called duct tape and superglue. Actually a few people seperately said that this is a song they could hear in a movie soundtrack. It's an interesting thing to hear about a song. I've never thought "soundtrack" for my path to "success." oh and I really love using quotation marks today. Picture me making them with my fingers while raising my eyebrows.

Anyway, The thing is. The song has felt a bit sluggish to me...and a bit long. Despite hours of work, I made the decision to rerecord the song at 7 beats per minute faster. Actually at 6.001 bpm's faster. I know this is an oddly precise and illogical increase in tempo. who increases the speed of something by .001? Apparently, I do.

Yesterday I finished rerecording the lead vocal and I have to say that I am glad I decided to tackle redoing this track. It is going quickly and smoothly and soon to be done. I can't wait to share this song. It is truly a piece of my heart. appropriate to the title I took a few of the elements from the original version and taped them and glued them to this new version.

Duct Tape 2.0 or maybe it is version 1.0001

First Things First

As previously mentioned in an earlier posting, I'm absolutely gaga for the music of Patrick Watson. Lately, it is what I have been listening to about 80% of the time I have allowed other people's music to enter my head.

Here is a beutiful example of Patrick as a live performer. This melts me at the core of my soul.


What do you think?

Jazz Hands

For some time now I have found myself mired in the muck of the world's many problems. I've been searching for a conclusion, a solution that was right in front of me.

All we really need to save this economy, to save this planet, to save this country, to save ourselves...

Jazz Hands

What Would Liberace Do?

I'll tell you what He'd do? He'd fight for your rights bitches, with a candleabra in one hand and a picket sign in the other. He'd blind them with a rhinestone cape reflecting to glorious sun that shines on all god's children.

So, do it for Liberace. Let's get up off our collective asses and show this nation that relious belief should not govern social policy.

It's time to fight for our rights.

Join me THIS SATURDAY Nov. 15th at 1:30 PM EST for a nationwide protest of Proposition 8. Stand up and march for the people who can be fired just for being gay, for the couples who are seperated because their marriages are not counted by the INS, for each and every homo who pays equal taxes but does not have equal rights. Let's show them that we care enough to stand up.

Get info on a protest near you
www.jointheimpact.com

Nov. 4th

Today I find myself in an odd state. I am tired beyond words.
Je suis trop fatigué pour les mots. I will start with a confession, something that I generally keep very quiet because it enrages some people and starts long drawn out conversations with no resolution, conversations for which I have distaste and which I have already had before.

Before this week, I have never voted.
I know it is my right, my civic duty, but honestly I have always felt and still to a great degree believe that the system is broken. If we didn't learn this in the 2000 election, then learning anything may be a hopeless cause. The electoral college is a system set up by rich white men who wanted a safeguard should the results of the election not meet their liking...regardless I've had this conversation before. I will not go into the details of my reasons for protesting a very non-democratic system for many years.

I am tired beyond words because I was restless on Monday night. I felt so tense. I stopped in the middle of the street in soho to call K. A homeless man standing 10 feet away began ranting in my direction about how white people are going to be exterminated from this planet like the disease that they are. I pretended I did not hear him, and walked away. I couldn't fall asleep that night. I think I fell asleep around midnight or 1am. I got up at 5:30 in the morning on Tuesday. Mind you, I am not a morning person. I seem to see everything in double vision until the clock strikes noon and two cups of coffee have churned away in my empty stomach threatening to bring a future self-induced problem with acid reflux. I'm sure there's a drug for that, a purple or blue or pink pill. There's a pill for everything.

You are probably wondering why I was up at 5:30 or maybe you're clever and know the answer. It's all the rage and all the buzz. Black is the new white. As a person who happens to be gay in a predominantly carribean neighborhood, I find that the word minority has a special meaning. It's all about where you are standing. Plop me on the upper east side and I'm an economic minority. Plop me in a sports bar and I'm a "social" minority. Plop me in any church and I'm a religious minorty. I am a card carrying member of a native tribe. I look white as a sheet but don't let it fool you. Plop me on an indian reservation and I am an ethnic minority even though I share bloodlines with the people. Plop me in a "whitebread" town and I have a supressed desire to put on war paint, do a rain dance, scalp my enemy...no I kid and scalping can be traced to Mexicans. It is not a tradition of native culture. Push anyone far enough though and you better hold onto your hair.

At 6 in the morning I found myself in a line of people that wrapped around the block. Beaming smiles were painted on their faces. There was a sense of excitement, an energy that was palpable and electric. Parents with children took pictures with cellphone cameras. Most of the crowd were caribean americans/african americans, speckles of white like myself, all of us knowing that we were voting for the first black president, a pretty big deal. Though, honestly I don't think of Obama as black. He's half white, raised by a white woman in Hawaii. Much of being black in america is cultural. It is a shared experience that goes back to africa, crowded unsanitary boats, whips, chains, songs ripped from the soul, marching, death, rebirth, collared greens, the art of intriquite hair braiding, and the beating of a distant drum that you can hear if you listen hard enough. people kept coming, the line kept growing and growing. after an hour I was still in line, now double in size, almost triple. As I got closer, I began to get more and more excited, my heart beating like a hammer against my chest.

There was a woman who voted right before me. She had to be 80. She had a man holding her up on one side and a cane on the other side. She was glowing, an old african american woman who was voting in an historic election.

When it came to my turn, I stood in front of a closed curtain. Apparently the curtains are supposed to open, but mine was broken. There were no instructions or anything. I looked at the woman who was a volunteer in the process and said.

"What do I do?"

A girl behind me laughed. The woman smiled and told me to pull the lever, vote and then pull the lever back the other way...not the most eloquent or detailed of instructions but enough to get me where I needed to go.

When I pulled that lever, I felt like I had pulled down on a slot machine that was spitting out gold. It was like an electoral orgasm. My whole body tingled with power and satisfaction...uh huh. god it felt so good. I voted for the skinny man with the floppy ears and ooh did it ever feel like big ol' slice of pecan pie with whipped creme and sprinkles. mmmmm hmmm.

That evening K and I were sipping wine from a cheap bottle that tasted a little better than cheap, watching the results. When they called the election for Obama, we both started chearing and clapping. We heard yelling, clapping chearing in other apartments, people in the halls yelling OBAMA! We grabbed egg shakers and our Obama sign and took to the streets. People flooded the sidewalks and the streets, holding signs, banners, wearing t-shirts and buttons...hooting hollaring. Screaming. Cars slowed down honking, people hanging out the side, people drumming, dancing, playing music out their windows. We went to the bar right around the corner and the bartender who is our neighbor began pouring shots and handing them to everyone. We all raised our glasses together, cheering.

I mistakenly called my family. They are a group of conservative christian McCain supporters. I sometimes forget the pervasiveness of lies in negative campaigning and how they can seep into people's heads. I cannot repeat some of what came out of the mouths of my family members most noteably my sister. It absolutely horrifies me. Racist things, idiotic, crazy things. between coming down from this great historic victory and grappling with the evil discriminatory propositions that were passed in California, Florida, Arizona and Arkansas, I have found myself in a place of one who has had a sugar rush, bouncing off the walls and now everything has crashed a bit.

Last night, I went to visit my friend Beverly. Last week I was supposed to help her set up her cellphone. When I arrived at her building she was in the lobby holding a towel covered in blood, blood gushing out of her mouth, choking on her own blood. I had her doorman get in touch with her son. I rode in an ambulance with her to St. Vincent's hospital, truly the waiting room to purgatory. They managed to stop her bleeding and cauterized a broken blood vessel in her nose. Her son arrived and it was odd to look at him. He looked so much like his father, Norman Mailer, a notable writer who died earlier this year. Beverly had been involved in a love affair with jazz musician Miles Davis, but left him for Norman, became his 2nd wife and gave him two sons. She was a model on the price is right many many years ago and has acted in multipe movies, plays and commercials. She is full of so many stories. There are tales of spain and Hemmingway and of a New York that isn't here anymore. She is a special woman with a touch of southern charm and a dash of crazy...two elements I have as well.

Beverly seemed to be on the mend but still recovering. I helped her put some numbers into her new cellphone and show her how it works. I rushed from Beverly's to Mr. Dennehy's for the Leonard Cohen tribute night. K was waiting there for me. On my way I got into a heated discussion with my mother over the election. She preached doom and gloom, the coming apocolypse, her misguided view that Obama is a socialist and things bordering on racist....actually not bordering...truly racist. I became disgusted, angry. I said something with proceeded by the word *Fucking* and hung up on my mother. Oh my god. I hung up on my mother. She called back. I didn't answer. She called back. I didn't answer. She left a voicemail.

I called her back to explain that I was upset and horrified by what was coming out of her mouth. She apologized. I suggested reinstating our moratoreum on political discussions. She said it was not necessary. I love my mother deeply, but I am still horrified at the inherent racism of my family.

As a child the dreaded "N word" was used in our house. I had to train my parents, to tell them that it was offensive and not acceptable to me. The word disappeared, but I guess it is hard for some people to shake their surroundings. I carry the mud of radical christain hate which has been smeared on me like some coat of paint that might make me right. I don't know if it will ever wash off.

My parents have come a long way. I know they love me, but they think I am misguided and living in sin. They don't speak it, but I know it is there. I said that I wanted to spend christmas with K.. Instead of inviting him my mother made up a lame excuse about how there is not enough room in their house, of course meaning that K and I would have to sleep in the same bed, a horrible sin in the eyes of god for them. A part of me wants to cut ties with my family at times. It goes in waves. They love me. I love them. That's good and all, but they do not fully accept me for who I am. At times, it makes me feel like they are ashamed of me or embarrased of me.

It has been 12 years since my parents found out that I am gay. I knew long before that. I made out with my first boy in the 3rd grade. It felt innocent and natural. I hadn't learned yet that to some people I was stepping down the slippery slope to a heathen lifestyle. I live in a country which claims to be free yet has the highest per capita population of people incarcerated of any industrialized nation, a place where I cannot marry the man I love and have equal protection under the law. This election was an amazing powerful thing. I do think that people want change and that there is a renewed sense of hope in a new direction, but this nation is by no means free or equal. Gay people are second class citizens who are tollerated. There are not seperate water fountains or seperate seats on the bus, but we are not equal. Until every man and woman in this country has equal rights. This nation is not free. There is not freedom for all in my america. I hope that is the next thing to change.

Bowing down to the greatness of Leonard Cohen

The day after the big election, next Wednesday, I will be performing as part of a night of tribute to the music of Leonard Cohen.
Come one, come all. It's a free show and if You don't know Leonard Cohen's music then you are missing some amazing poetry.

I will be reading from the novel Beautiful Losers and singing my version of Famous Blue Raincoat.

Boo

Are French Children on Acid?

Our trip to Montreal has evoked a fascination with the French language and a desire to learn it. In my quest I have come across many interesting websites, podcasts and online tools for learning French. By far, the most interesting and most twisted is a children's show called Telechat. Well, Actually it's a tie between Telechat and Léguman. I shall let you be the judge.

I am now convinced that French children are on acid.

Knots in my stomach

Photo by Robert German of The Illuminated Crowd Statue Downtown Montreal, Quebec

It is a day that ties knots in my stomach
and drags my heart across the floor.
I am waiting for the call,
waiting to rush to your side.
to hold enough of your weight for you to walk through the door.
ready for the water to pour from your eyes.

I am here,
two feet tapping
Two shoulders with years of experience
collecting tears.

They are yours to soak today.
I will hold you if you need it
cook you soup
tap dance.

I will try my best. I am here, waiting for your call
stomach tied in knots with thoughts
of all that is to come
and all that's come undone.

Robert Recommends: Patrick Watson

Close To Paradise
by
Patrick Watson

While visiting Montreal we stayed with our friend Matheiu who much like myself is very passionate about music.





One artist in particular by the name of Patrick Watson caught my ear.

His music is unique, fun and full of whimsy with vocalization and production that touch upon the voices of Jeff Buckley and Chris Martin(Coldplay) and production elements of The Beatles, Pink Floyd and again,Coldplay. The fusion of these sounds treats the listeners ears to something uniquely breathtaking, full of ear candy and angst.

I highly recommend this current album on my playlist.

Get it from iTunes.

Back in NY

I am back in New York and adjusting to the change of pace, the change of scale, the change of language.

There is something so romantic about montreal.
It has seeped into my skin. My ears are full of music
and French words whose meanings I have yet to discover.

I wrote a silly little song about a convenience store called Couche-tard.

There are stories and images coming soon as I collect the thoughts in my head.
after the 11 hour train ride, I am still in recovery, though I must say the beauty from the window of the train was paralyzing.

A Vacation of sorts

I feel fortunate and very blessed to have some of the most amazing and giving friends. Though I don't get to see many of them as much as I would like, I have been given the opportunity to meet some really sweet, talented and warm people in my travels and in my life. I would like take a moment to say thank you... to Ricky for the letters,the help with the studio, and being one of my biggest cheerleaders. Recently you have helped me to find a renewed sense of purpose...to George for everything, more than I can even say. Of course, Sanford, who I will get to see tonight.
I will do my best to do you all proud.

So, I am very excited...something that almost never happens is happening.
I almost never get the opportunity to take vacations really with the exception of visiting Mr. Carpentier's beach house in Delaware during the summer...and that is not too shabby. Rehoboth is a beautiful magical town. If you walk two blocks from Mr. Carpentier's house and cross the highway, you will find yourself in a soccer field. Walk through the soccer field to the row of trees, cross the dirt road and you will find yourself at the swing sets. If I am visiting then you will probably find Mr. Carpentier and I swinging. It is good to hold onto part of being a child, to still see parts of the world through those hopeful eyes.

This time tomorrow, K and I will be in Vermont visiting our friend Chris and mountain biking. We arrive at what I've been told is the peak of the turning leaves. Chris has been kind enough to let us stay with him and also managed to borrow some bikes for us to use. See, this is what I am talking about, so sweet.

On Friday, we are taking a 2 1/2 hour bus ride to Montreal to visit friends. Matheiu has been kind enough to offer us a place to stay in his apartment. His roomate who I have not met is out of town for the weekend and has kindly loaned us her room and bed.

I have never been to Montreal, but I hear that it is amazing. It is the 2nd largest French speaking city in the world next to Paris. This will be the first time I have left the country in over 6 years. I am so excited to see what waits in store for us on this little adventure. I will try to take some pictures and document the journey as I am able.

I must say it is strange to be traveling and not doing a show. I don't travel generally unless I can also book a show. I did almost book something in Montreal, but unfortunately it was too short of notice to make it happen.

Well, I am packed. Laura is staying in the apartment to watch the cat.
Deep breath...Away we go