Rest your weary heads, all is well

I think it's time for some meat around here. All the boob talk is starting to worry me. Have you been watching Brothers and Sisters? You really should be. It's sweet and funny and rife with manmeat. Never mind that Rachel Griffiths is one of the sisters (adore her) and that Sally Field is fabulous as the ultra-liberal matriarch, because the real reason to tune in is that each of the titular brothers is more snackable than the next. So what choice do I have but to rate them in descending order of fuckitude? Understanding, of course, that I'd sell my left nut for a chance with any one of these guys. And I don't part with Esteban lightly, y'all.

1. Matthew RhysIs he #1 with me because he plays gay brother, Kevin? Possibly, because this character is adorable, you guys, and funny and smart and a lawyer and he gets lots of play. Plus, that face!

2. Dave AnnableBaby brother Justin is damaged goods. Fresh after his exit from Iraq, he's entered rehab. The caregiver in me wants to lend him a hand.

3. Balthazar GettyHe's so compact! And so Getty. I'll confess. Old money is Mikenip.

I said I was doing the brothers, and I stuck with that for the ranking, but I feel for the sake of completeness that I should at least mention the brother-in-law, played by John Pyper-Ferguson.Oh! Also, there's Kevin's new boyfriend, the closeted soap actor, played by Jason Lewis.Go on, click to enlarge. I know, right? Sunday nights at 10, kiddos.

Oh, to see a great big man entirely made of snow

You know I love you Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye (especially you, Danny), and Rosemary Clooney. Even you, the wasp-waisted bitch they had to dub (though you're not pictured here). I love all of you, I do, but seriously, it's snowing and it's five fucking degrees this morning and, add insult to injury, it feels like I'm getting an inside-the-nose zit. So you'll excuse me if I just sing along without the choreography, then? I can only move so much on this bathmat anyway, and I'm saving my energy for the sprint across frozen expanse of tile to the bedroom.

I'm not ready to write off the whole day yet, but let's file it under inauspicious start, shall we? If you don't want it nipped, you better cover it, and if you don't want it chapped, you better lube it, people. Oh, and fuck you, Snow Miser.

I am the son and the heir

If you don't get enough of me stumbling blindly into sexual innuendo around here, may I suggest you check out my 24 recaps over at Too Much Free Time? This season is a real corker, y'all. Serious Greek tragedy. It's like Sophocles, only with suitcase nukes and cool technical jargon. You're sold, right?

We're captive on the carousel of time

Will you allow me one more post about my vacation? I keep returning to one moment from that trip. My sister came in for the weekend with her kids and we were walking by Rockefeller Center on Saturday afternoon when I casually mentioned that I'd always wanted to skate there. That's all my niece and nephew needed to hear. They begged and begged (saving me the trouble) until my sister caved in. Never mind that they couldn't skate, or that it'd been at least 20 years since my sister or I had been on skates, within a few minutes we were dragging the kids around that famed rink. It's a quintessential NY touristy thing to do, right? The kids loved it. You should have seen them, all bundled up in hats and gloves, and sweating from all their Bambi-like efforts to stay up, faces beaming. Mine, too. I'm ear to ear now just thinking about it. Only I wasn't sweating, yo, as I'd opened my jacket, the better to highlight the casual drape of my jaunty red cashmere scarf. Oh, have I mentioned that a certain hott Santa gave me that gorgeous thing from the Banana Republic ad. The scarf, I mean. God, I do love it. And those kids, of course. I love those kids. Even though they're not mine, I cherish them and that afternoon. They'll be grown too soon and I'll no longer be the coolest guy ever. Circle game, Joni, you're so right.

Talkin' 'bout you using me

The things you own end up owning you.

Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, 1996
US writer (1962 - )

It's coming around again

I just wanna spend a whole day watching Volver over and over again. And I wanna do it curled up on a sofa in a warm, sunny villa in Madrid, over wine and tapas. Oh, and I wanna rest my head on Penelope Cruz' bosom while I watch.If you're a mother or a daughter, or if you have a mother or a daughter, you owe it to yourself to see this. Enchanting.

Heaven ain't close in a place like this

You know how I'm usually freak giddy and annoyingly sunny when I return from a good long run? Remember how last week I rambled on about it was "just me and the birds and bunnies" or some such nonsense? Well, today when I rang up the birds and bunnies to see if they were gonna join me, they took one look out and said, "Fuck that and fuck you." Even in their bird and bunny voices, it was harsh, but they were right. It was not fit for man or beast out there. As I type this I've just returned from the stubborn six miler. A glance up at the thermometer reveals it's 14F (that's -10C for the rest of the world). With the wind chill, they say it feels like -1F (-18C). I won't quibble. What's that? Yeah, I know it's not even remotely healthful to run in conditions like that, but that's what makes it a pathology, silly. I do feel a certain pride of accomplishment, but I don't have too much pride to admit that there was one section, about a half mile right into the wind with no cover, when I cried. Tears streamed down my face, no question, but because of the iPod/wind/toque I can't be sure if there were audible boohoos. There were no witnesses.

We're destined in the sky

Order! That's all I need. Order. I need a man like that, but he has to be a Geminian. ::lifts magnifying glass::

I've said before that I don't subscribe to any notion of "written in the stars", but I love this Free Will Astrology guy, Rob Brezsny, anyway. Here's mine for this week:

It's a scary responsibility to give people astrological advice. What if I suggested that you call in sick (even though you're not sick) so you could wander off into the Great Unknown in quest of close encounters with mind-blowing teachings? And what if in the course of following my suggestion you learned so many lessons about how to permanently expand your frontiers that you then decided to burn down a bridge to nowhere and give away most of your emotional baggage and live in greater devotion to your soul's radically simple needs? Could I then get sued by someone in your life who really doesn't want you to escape your traps?

If you've been around here much, you understand the appeal.

We are, we are all innocent

First I'll give you my shorthand Antoine and Dwayne-style review of Notes on a Scandal: Hated it!

I know this is supposed to be a thriller for the art house crowd. How do I know that? It's playing at the arty theaters, the trailer makes it out to be highbrow suspense, and the cast is serious. Also, most of the reviews tell you that's what it is. I'm convinced that's also how it was sold to Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett. How else to explain why they signed up? Well, if you start with a pile of poo, it doesn't matter how you dress it up (meringue it, make a poo reduction, adorn it with a poo foam), when you lift the silver lid with a flourish, it stinks just the same.

It's not like I have terribly high standards, either. Honestly, I watch Gay, Straight or Taken, remember? If they had just recycled all the banal thriller ingredients, I wouldn't be so irritated. Instead, they made me feel sorry for the pedophile, and it's still pissing me off a day later. Poor, poor Sheba. Guys, she's saddled with some old boring dude for a husband and she's been stuck at home raising her disabled child for ten years, doesn't she deserve a walk on the wild side? Why shouldn't she fuck a barely post-pubescent? Oh, and he's ALMOST 16, so he's hardly an innocent. All that is what she tells herself. Besides, we ALL have sexual feelings for kids sometimes, but we just don't act on them. That's what her husband says, anyway. PS? The kid lies and lies about having a horrible home life. He deceives her! What else was she supposed to do but blow him? She has every excuse. Maybe that's the point of the film. We all see ourselves as innocent. We may make poor choices, but we're the victim. Yuck. But that's not the worst of it.

Finally, finally, the ultimate villain in this picture is not the pedophile at all. No, the BIG BAD of this picture is the obsessive, isolated, sociopathic queer.You know, cuz we haven't seen a thriller done THAT way before.

I'm gonna grab that big brass ring

Ooooh, I’ve never been so happy to be cursed with sleeplessness. I got up last night around 2:30AM and read a little and then tuned into the last of the Australian Open semi-finals. It looked to be a shoot-out, pairing two players who have been on form all week, Tommy Haas and Fernando Gonzalez.Scintillating it was, but a shoot-out it wasn’t, as it was only Gonzo’s guns that were blazing. Haas only managed to put three games up on the board. You heard me. Count me as firmly in FG’s corner for the final against Roger Federer (who enjoyed an equally dominant semifinal victory over Andy Roddick). Federer is a great guy with an incredible game, possibly the best and most complete game there has ever been, but, well, enough already. Go Gonzo! I can't leave you without a parting shot from Herr Haas, though.Sehr gut, ja?

PS It's HAIRCUT DAY! Anyone else get positively giddy about a few hours in the salon?

And the dish ran away with the spoon

OK, one more BROADWAY post and then I'll stop, k? I'm compelled to do one more because if you're in the vicinity (or will be) in the next two weeks, you owe it to yourself to catch Little Dog Laughed before its run ends. So funny, you guys. It's a bit of a coming out story, although it tilts more toward staying closeted, as an aspiring Hollywood hearthrob (Tom Everett Scott) grapples with his emerging love for the rent boy he hired (Johnny Galecki).Both of them are really good (and hot...no really...Galecki?...who knew?)(oh, and you get to see their weiners, as I've said over and over), but Julie White gets to steal this show. She's the agent who is determined to keep her client on the down low so that she can pad her bottom line.She's a scream. You might remember her from her hilarious turn as Mitzi Dalton-Huntley on Six Feet Under. Or, if you're of a certain age, Nadine on Grace Under Fire. Seriously, go see this show. Do like I did and stop at the TKTS booth about 20 minutes before showtime. No line, half price. Walk over to the Cort Theater, laugh your ass off, and remember to thank me later.

You are beautiful, no matter what they say*

Tyra Banks weighs more than me, people. Doesn't that make me feel mui macho? One thing about blogs that makes me a little sad sometimes is how unflattering pictures of celebrities are blanketed across the internet within hours, to be savaged by any and all comers (I'm guilty). I know the stars put themselves up for praise, but do they deserve ridicule in equal measure? All I know is that I think Ty-Ty is teh hotness, gorgeously voluptuous (is it always about the boobs with me?) and batshit fucking crazy. Yum!

*unless you're a skank, like Paris Hilton, then you get what's coming to you.

Somebody crowd me with love, somebody force me to care

So yeah, this is where I'm gonna wax rhapsodic (mostly) about the rest of the thea-tah I checked out when in New York. Here's the lowdown:

Company
OMG, y'all. It's Stephen Sondheim/George Furth, so you know it's gonna be good. No matter how they might muck up the production, there'll still be the songs. In this case, they took a minimalist approach, the same one this producer used last year (to great acclaim) with Sweeney Todd, with the actors doubling as the orchestra. I thought it might be distracting, but it was really cool, and in some instances really highlighted the songs. When there is a bare minimum of set and nary a special effect, all the focus is on the acting and the singing and Raul Esparza (oh sweet, sweet Jesus) is up to the task.He's quiet (and chic in Armani) but seething behind his drinks and his jokes through the entire play until he erupts in a version of "Being Alive" that brings the house down. Bobby, baby, Bobby, bubbi, I'm five years later, but I hear you. We seek out things and we seek out answers and we seek out meaning, but maybe all we need is the right company. Check out some video from opening night here.

PS Raul has been in the press recently for making certain discoveries/disclosures about himself. Go team!

ADDED: After seeing Company (and having coffee with Paula Abdul), I was riding the elevator back up to my room with two frosted queens who were SAVAGING the show they'd just seen. Turns out it was Grey Gardens, which I'd loved. By floor 12 I had them convinced the second half was genius and by floor 36 they thought it was the best thing they'd ever seen. Such are my powers of persuasion. Then the older one blew me. Same reason.

At a bar on 43rd at quarter to two

Oft-mentioned but little detailed has been my recent trip to New York. Every time I go to post about it, I feel overwhelmed. Guys, this was one of the best vacations I've had in a long time. Like ROME level good. Instead of tackling all of it, if you'll allow, I'm gonna share a few snippets.

I got in on Wednesday and had another When Worlds Collide moment, meeting my darling Freakgirl within hours of the plane touching down. If you read her blog, you think you know her. Funny thing is, you do. She's exactly as sweet and snarky and smart and funny as you'd expect. Surprises were few but she is definitely more low-key than I expected. She says funny shit all the time, but she doesn't punctuate her punchlines. She says that I say she mumbles (even though I recall she said other people say that). Her speaking voice? Think Thora Birch in Ghost World. And don't let her kid you, girl's got no discernible Jersey accent. Oh, and you've seen her picture, but she's even cuter and prettier and possibly tinier (except for the boobs) in person. Her skin is awesome. Like as good as her hair awesome.

Anyway, I had a lovely time with her. I greeted her with a hearty hug and an extravagant cupcake. I know. Suck-up. We had lunch at a fab pan-Asian bistro she selected and then we saw Grey Gardens, which I enjoyed immensely and La Freakgirl claimed the same. Christine Ebersole is spot-on as Little Edie, and I was surprised by her crystalline singing. Tragic. Awesome. As I type this, I'm wearing a headscarf fashioned from a cable-knit sweater, accented with an understated broach. Or is it a curtain tie-back? I think it's the best costume for today. Have you seen the documentary? Hysterical. It's a guilty pleasure, and I mean that literally. I'm plagued with guilt over how much I love it and I'm not sure why.

Post-matinée we braved the cold and shopped at my new crush, LUSH, though, be warned all ye olfactory delicates, it seems that it's not for everyone. Me? I'm in love with the mask and the scrub and the bar shampoo and the cuticle butter and the lip balm and the face soap. Curse you Freakgirl! And, of course, bless you. After, we traded tales over coffee. Truth be told, coffee conversation-wise, apparently she's the top and I'm the bottom. Don't get me wrong. I was an enthusiastic receiver. After that, and too soon, we parted ways. Until next time, darling!

That's a lot right there, but how often do I get to New York? Another show was in order. Sondheim anyone? To be continued.....

Everyone's got to face down their demons

We all have them, don't we? Demons, I mean. Some worse than others. I guess I should be thankful that mine don't include 1940s era fascism, like the main characters in both the play and movie I saw this weekend. Funny that I didn't make that fascist connection until hours after the fact, because usually I see demagogues everywhere I look. Anyway, I already told you about my glorious Sunday morning run, and the rest of that day was lazy, quiet and relaxed. That's what an autocracy by my design looks like. Not so for Friday and Saturday. Shall we discuss?

Friday night found me at the local production of I Am My Own Wife. Meet Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, and hear her story of survival during the Nazi and then Soviet regimes in Berlin. Charlotte's a dude, by the way. Transvestite. Not a drag queen in the flamboyant sense. More in the Barbara Bush sense, all sensible shoes and double-stranded pearls. Her life is something to see, and not without its sinister undertones, but the real fascination here is the opportunity for the actor playing her. And the 38 other odd parts (admittedly mostly one-liners) that make up the play, because it's a one man show. Bruce Cromer, a local professional, was up to the task. Will you allow me to use "tour de force"? Brother nailed it. He was Charlotte foremost, but there was no confusion as he morphed from character to character with no costume changes. I'm not that bright, so all credit to him. The play won a Pulitzer and the odd Tony. Check it out if it ever comes 'round your parts. Here's hoping there'll be no snoring or farting when you see it.

Saturday night I checked out Pan's Labyrinth at the neighborhood multiplex. OMG, y'all, see this picture! You might think that writer/director/producer Guillermo Del Toro bit off a little more than he could chew when he decided to weave the story of guerrilla resistance to Franco's rule after the Spanish Civil War together with a macabre Grimm-like fairytale of a young girl on a fantastic and frightening quest to save her mother and unborn brother, but you'd be wrong. Like I was. This movie is riveting and the seemingly dissonant storylines are actually one and the same, and seamless. It's scary and it's violent and it's also incredibly moving and beautiful. Check it out. Thank me later.

Snowflakes fall like velvet from iron-colored skies

I've been meaning to chat you up all week about my New York trip. I have SO MUCH to say, but for some reason it's this morning's run that finally has me pulling up a chair to our table. You don't mind that I put on my Lush Mask of Magnaminty for our little tete-a- tete, do you? You're a doll. Anyway, six miles on a chilly Sunday morning, what's so special about that? I can almost hear you asking. Well, add about three inches of snow to that picture, with more coming down, and you get a better feeling for why I'm basking in the afterglow of giddy. Exhilarating!

I admit that after dressing for the run, always a delicate balance between form and function (while one likes to have the proper mix of wicking and wind protection, one also likes to look pretty), I was a bit nonplussed to find that the snow was a good bit deeper than I'd anticipated. My thoughts turned to cold ankles and the sore muscles I'd get from all the slipping and sliding, but I forged on, rationalizing that I could always turn back. So glad I didn't. The path was untracked but for me and the birds and the bunnies, y'all. I'll forgive you if you pictured me in Snow White garb for a second. I did. It was cold and blustery, but it was also gorgeous and serene as I tramped along in the insulating quiet of the snow. As I said, exhilarating. If you want some idea, let your big dog out in the snow and watch.

I did the whole run, about six miles, and I think part of the pleasure was just that. I can. It's cold, the footing is slippery, I'm 41 years old, and I can knock out six miles with my heart soaring more than pounding. OK. You can smack the wholesomeness out of me now.

You think the only people who are people are the people who look and think like you

I know I've been gone for a week, and I have SO MANY things I wanna share, kitten, but I can't not put this video up. I thought the whole Grey's Anatomy faggot brouhaha was overblown, but as evidenced in this interview, it was obviously a very hurtful incident for TR Knight. And still is. I don't really care if you call me a faggot, but some do. We can all afford to watch what we say. Seriously, could you love him any more? (via)

ADDED: Whilst on the TV tip, for those who missed this trifecta of delicious casting tidbits, I feel compelled to note that Christopher Eccleston will be joining our Heroes, while Tim Gunn and Kathy Griffin will be making guest appearances on Ugly Betty. Yay, yay and yay! Oh crap, I just realized I forgot to stalk Tim Gunn while I was in New York last week.

Start spreadin' the news

Have you seen the new Lifetime dating show Gay, Straight or Taken? yet? I caught it, mostly because my TiVo records anything that has "gay" in it. Or "queer". Or "homosexual", but the only time that one has come up was an episode of All In The Family (Oh, Archie!). Anyway, my sensibilities are FAR from delicate, but I couldn't help but be a little offended by this one. The skinny is the girl has to decide which guy is which. If she picks the "right" one, she gets a dream vacation with him. Pick one of the other two and THEY get the dream vacation with their significant other. So it's not JUST that the gay guy has to pretend to be straight in order to win, but as the chick is waffling on who's who, when she tags a guy as gay, they play a nasty little sound effect. Oh, and I watched two episodes, and in each one the woman apologizes to the straight guy for guessing he's gay. Gay guys get no apologies, of course. PS? Kinda surprising, but I'm ALL OVER figuring this shit out. No, really. I batted 1.000. If it's so offensive, why am I watching again? You tell me.

RE: The post title
I head to NYC tomorrow. Yay! Broadway shows, shopping, running with the gays in Central Park (it's an actual running club), lots of food and drink. And FREAKGIRL! Yes, you heard me. I'm about to meet the very person who tenderly, but firmly introduced me to my first blogging experience. Sing it with me.....it's never....as good as the first time......

It's one life and there's no return and no deposit

I dare say "I Am What I Am" lyrics are the most abused when I forage for post titles. It's kind of the recurrent theme around these parts, though. You understand. I realize we just had La Barrowman burning up the screen a few days ago with that clip from Torchwood, and if you weren't entranced like I, then surf on, dear. Otherwise, revel with me. John Barrowman - I Am What I Am
The quietly dramatic build to a belting climax, now THAT'S a showtune, my friend. When his voice breaks on "Hey, world!" my sack tingles. Every time.

I want love, just a different kind

OK, I'll admit it. I repeatedly posit that I don't even WANT to marry some dude, but still I'm enthralled by the video wedding announcements at the New York Times website. All my best to you, Peter and Clifton!And to my own amazing yet-to-be-found waiting for me out there somewhere, here's to you! ::clink::

In local news, the whole damn state is in a frenzy over the Buckeyes playing in the national championship tonight. Off work early today, taking tomorrow off, big television buying, wings eating and beer drinking frenzy. ::yawn:: Oh, and Ted Strickland took the oath of office last night so we have a Democratic governor in Ohio for the first time in 16 years! Do I think a Democrat in Columbus is the panacea for this state's multiple ills? No, but it couldn't hurt.

Blue skies smiling at me

Visual evidence of the bluebird day of which I spoke previously. This is Whistler Village from the little coffee shop I frequented. 

Kitty on my foot and I wanna touch it

Apres-lunch on the slopes last week, I ran across this little number and just had to snap a photo for La Freakgirl.While I was snapping, the owner's boyfriend kindly offered to show me the business side.
Dost thou covet?

My life since then has been from man to man

I think a first date should involve costume changes, because I don't feel comfortable being judged based on just one of my outfits.

Speaking of outfits, I previously vowed to hold myself in relative check at my new favorite store, lululemon athletica, and I did. At first. Both the no-stink shirt and the not-too-tight running tights were on sale. Then I totally bought this jacket (in grey).I was torn, and now I'm so glad my Jewess twisted my arm. ::sings:: Loving it! And they just opened a store in Lincoln Center. Have I mentioned I'll be in NYC next week?

Oh, and name that title tune! Get it?

You'd be so nice to come home to

If you've been around here long, you know of my adoration for John Barrowman. I've admired (read: jacked off to) him ever since he sang Cole Porter in De-lovely and on John Barrowman Swings Cole Porter. He's currently in a BBC spin-off of Doctor Who called Torchwood. Meats and cheeses but that clip rocks my world. This show MUST come to our shores. (via)

Barrowman and his partner, Jack Gill, were recently joined in connubial bliss, civil union style, in the UK.