I didn’t know the Strib wrote about me!

“…intensely private, yet desperate for public accolades; humble, yet cocky when it came to his craft; warm, yet often distant with loved ones; good-humored, yet bordering on the edges of depression.”

Oh wait.  It’s not me.  They’re talking about Charles Schultz.

Well, he was successful. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

More on the whole Dumbledore thing

Here’s a link to what I feel was a fairly excellent article about the whole Dumbledore issue.  The reader comments are also interesting.

Full article text after the jump, minus the reader comments.

What it means to be white

I started temping yesterday at one of those schools you see advertised on TV–get your certificate in Adminitrative Assistance, Carpentry, Nursing Assistance, etc. in a short amount of time.  Will find you a job shortly thereafter.  Change your life, etc. etc.

At least this place doesn’t have the annoying National American University song. 

The interesting part about this job is that the students, and I think exclusively the staff with the exception of the keyboarding instructor and the development director, are all African-American.  This is a situation in which I don’t usually find myself.  I grew up in the sixth whitest suburb in the nation.  I went to college that had a fairly similar diversity demographic.  And foreign study?  Ireland. 

I’m not proud of this by any means.  But it just kind of happened that way.

I answered the phone yesterday at one point and the guy on the other end of the line said, “What you sounded so professional for?  You tryin’ to be white or something?”

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that comment.  Especially when he went on, after establishing the fact that he was talking to “some white woman”, that he was trying to get a job reference from the school. 

I would have laughed it off, except I had nearly the same conversation three more times on the phone. 

The topic of isms of any kind and being members of a minority group is something I think about a lot.  And I go back and forth on whether or not it’s a good thing to be part of a minority that doesn’t have a visually apparent difference (well, that’s not entirely true.  I look pretty gay most of the time). 

But, if I so choose, I can hide that difference.  Play the pronoun game, choose not to reveal it.  Does it let me assimilate into society that would otherwise be prone to reject me?  Of course it does.  It sure worked at Concordia.  Works at church, too.

But there’s a drawback to it as well.  It’s hard to foster community, fight for rights, when you can hide as part of the majority.  It’s one of the reasons I think the gay rights movement is so far behind the other civil rights groups.  And it’s the reason why there is a latent fear about homosexuality–because you don’t know where we are.  We’re like spies.  Or vending machine camouflage. 

I wonder what someone would say to me if I answered the phone “gay”.  I don’t even know I’m sure what that would sound like. 

The Amazing Race is Back!

Poor Viva Laughlin.  We hardly knew ye.  Actually, I knew ye for about 25 minutes as I attempted to watch the premiere of the first attempt at a singing prime time show since Cop Rock (and there’s good reason it hasn’t been attempted since Cop Rock).

As Hugh Jackman and Melanie Griffith attempt to hold their head high, Amazing Race fans rejoice because Race is back–starting November 4th at 7pm.

The eighth (good lord, have I been doing it that long?) Amazing Race unofficial but totally awesome pool will open as soon as the teams are announced.

Woo hoo!

So Dumbledore’s Gay, huh?

I’m sure anyone reading this has already heard about Rowling’s revelations about Albus Dumbledore, but if not, here’s a link to the article.

According to the article,  fans were elated when Rowling revealed this at Carnegie Hall last Friday.  For my part, I’m not so sure.  I’m a huge Potter fan.  I’m gay.  So why does this sit odd with me?

Because it doesn’t make sense textually.

Never, in seven books, was there any hint that Dumbledore was gay (of course, people are now going back to the last book at the few lines that are quoted in the above article).  I admire Rowling for having the backgrounds of her characters so fully flushed out in her mind, but to reveal something like this months after the last book of the series was released is just odd.

And, at the end of the day, what does it say?  Is it a good thing for the gay rights people to hold up Dumbledore and say “look at this–one of the most beloved fictional characters is one of us”?

Dumbledore’s main theory throughout the books is that the most important thing is the power of love.  Yet was he ever given the chance to experience real, true, lasting love himself?  From what Rowling has said, it sounds like the one love he ever had was the dark lord Grindlewald, whom Dumbledore had to battle and kill after Grindlewald turned evil.  Way to go on that whole fulfilling relationship thing.

It’s true that we don’t know about the personal lives of any of the teachers at Hogwarts (hell, we didn’t even meet all of them), which makes sense seeing as how we view this world through Harry’s eyes.  But if Dumbledore did hide his whole sexuality thing, what does that say that homosexuality has to be hidden in a world other than ours?

Especially since we have one disparaging remarks at gays in the series: in book five, when Dudley is taunting Harry about his nightmares and calling out “Don’t kill Cedric!”, Dudley asks him “Who’s Cedric?  Your boyfriend?”  Kids will be kids, yes, and tease each other and go for the easy taunts.

But Rowling, if you’re going to introduce a gay insult, then keep your gay hero in the closet for seven books, something is a bit amiss.

A Grieving Day

My mom just called a few minutes ago to tell my that my Grandparent’s house, which has been on the market for well over a year, has finally sold.  She sounded a mix of relieved and sad about this.  They appointed her with power of attorney before my Grandfather’s death, so the business side of loss has fallen on her.  She wants me and my sister to go down to the house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota one last time to make sure we have everything that we want before they put the rest up for auction.

I’m very glad I don’t have time to go.  There’s a part of me that feels a loss knowing that the house is gone.  But, really, since my Grandparents moved out in January of 2006, it hasn’t really felt like the house anymore by any means.  And I know my mom wants their things to stay in the family, but really, what good would that do?  If I took the china, that would only be one more reason to procrastinate doing the dishes.  What good are table linens, or pieces of art, or old broken board games, half the pieces missing?

I didn’t take too many things for myself after my Grandfather’s death last year, but what I got is plenty.  His hat, which now wear on stage.  The book that he won for spelling competitions in 1930, that was never away from his bedside table.  The one family heirloom that means a lot to me, now in my apartment, is the piano.  But I don’t need anything else.

I was at a friend’s wedding about a month ago.  It was one of the most beautiful nights I’ve been apart of.  So much love.  So much happiness.  And they lifted the last line of their ceremony from Bill and Fleur’s wedding in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which is wicked cool.  Then, during the reception, after Emily had done the traditional dad and daughter’s dance, they announced that she would be doing one more special dance: she and her Grandfather.

And I lost it.  Tears streaming down my face, my breath coming in uneven gasps, I jumped from my chair and sped out of the tent, around the back of the house to the smoking area.  At my cousin’s wedding two years ago, I danced with my grandfather.  He told me that when Karen and I decided to get married, he’d dance with me then, too.  It was the first time my staunch republican, Bush supporting Grandfather had ever acknowledged the fact that I was gay, and that he was okay with it.

Karen and I are no longer together.  My grandfather’s been dead for over a year.  I have no plans and not much desire to ever get married.

But I still want that dance.

I can’t get that out of the house in Sioux Falls.  So, really, there’s no point in going.

Small Town Awesome

We played a show Saturday night in the town of Duvall, Washington.  Population 5735, separated from Seattle by a couple big mountains, located down in a valley.  Some of the guys were partying Friday night with some people they know in Seattle and said we were playing in Duvall and they’re reaction was, “wow, that sucks.  Sorry about that.”

But I didn’t think it was sorry at all.  There’s something fulfilling about playing in small towns.  They are so appreciative of us coming there.  It might not be the biggest audience we’ve ever had (well, nothing will ever top 2800 in New York last month, I don’t think), or the most high-tech setups, or the most knowledgeable staff.  The drama teacher from their high school was coordinating things, and we asked about her shows at the school.  She said, “I’ve got five casts of Wizard of Oz right now.  It’s kind of crazy”.  Apparently she does the same show at the same time at the high school, junior high, and three elementary schools simultaneously.  They use the same scenery and same script.  “That way,” she said, “if someone’s sick they’ve got four understudies!”  I pictured in my head what it would look like with a third grade Dorothy and high school munchkins. 

They put out a spread of food we haven’t seen since Albany, and afterwards asked shyly if we would mind coming out and talking to the people in the lobby. 

Usually we just go out and a bunch of teenage girls are just standing around wanting to get autographs from Rick and Andy.  This time, it was the whole town wanting to thank us.  Not only that, the organizers had set out all of these toy percussion instruments–small drums, rhythm sticks, maracas, etc., and the kids were already jamming.

Three year old Orien (see pictures below) caught my eye.  His rhythm was impeccable, and he was so enthusiastic he broke through the heads of two drums.

We sat down on the floor and jammed with them.

The big sold-out shows are certainly good for the ego.  It makes you feel successful, like maybe you are actually hitting the big time.

But these shows, like the one in Duvall, are good for the soul.

Figuring Out The Puzzle

For the past couple years, I’ve been addicted to Sudoku.  I think it started during Fringe 2005, when I wanted something to keep me occupied during my downtime.  I bought a book of ’em, and I was hooked.  I liked the grids, the boxes, how the puzzle could only go together in one way.  Numbers one through nine, none ever repeated in the same box, row, or column.

On a whim last month, I picked up a book of Kakuro puzzles for Amy (and, well, me ’cause I’ve been curious about them).  Known amongst puzzlers as the wicked older brother of Sudoku, it follows the same basics–numbers one through nine, none repeated in the same line, except this time, instead of just fitting the numbers in the boxes, it’s a wordless crossword puzzle, where the numbers have to add up to a certain number.  It’s kind of hard to verbally explain (at least at this late hour), so here’s a link.   It takes logic one step further, and fucks with your brain just that much more.  I like that the most basic solving technique is to look for the unique combinations.  If you have two spaces that add up to 16, for example, you know those have to be 7 and 9.  And if that happens to cross with four spaces that add up to 14, you know the common square is a 7, because the least amount that three numbers can add up to is 6 (1, 2, 3), and therefore those other three spaces in the 14 are 1, 2, and 4 because that’s the only 3 number comination that can add up to 7.

Amy bought me the Mensa book.  I had to put it down and succumb to the “White Belt Kakuro” book.  Because it’s that gnarled (and gnarly).

The key to the puzzles is the find those cornerstones; the ones that just by looking at it you know has only one option, and then you can build off of that.  I can sometimes stare at a puzzle for twenty, thirty minutes while I search for that first cornerstone.  And sometimes I’m wrong, and that path will only take me so far before I retreat to another side of the puzzle and work from that angle.

I make a lot of mistakes.  I have a stick eraser at my side at all times (or, as the case usually is, in my mouth), the boxes full of smaller numbers, always in pencil, of possibilities.  But when you finish a puzzle, it is so satisfying.

I think my life is no longer a Sudoku puzzle.  It’s a Kakuro.  It’s no longer contained in a neat grid, a sqaure, with only one real logic that needs to be employed.  It is fraught with equations, confusion, still the same basic elements, but arranged in a totally different way, one which my routine-craving self is sometimes uncomfortable with.  But I do it just the same.

If I put temping here, I can put touring there.  And Fringe fits there.  And writing fits there.  And my friends.   And my family.  And sleep.  And the fall TV schedule.  And my health.

And.

And.

And.

I will ride this wave until I find the cornerstone, that area that needs to be solved first.  Until then, I hope everyone will allow for the eraser and pencil marks.

People ask me all the time…

Why don’t I play sax and dance at the same time, since I, you know, play back up for a dance show and used to myself be a tap dancer.

Well, it’s because I’m afraid the results might look something like this.

But in tune.

The Girl on the Plane

We flew from Minneapolis to Seattle last night. I had thought it would be an empty flight; midweek, leaving at 9.45 pm. I was wrong. The 757 was full–49 rows, three seats on either side. We were seated in row 39, and I forwent sitting with the rest of the band and an aisle seat to see how far I could move up in the plane. For some reason, my flight anxiety seems to be less the further up I sit, maybe because I can stay in firm denial about how big the contraption really is. I was moved up 17 rows, and with a window seat.

And I sat next to a small child.

To most people, this would be their worst nightmare. A long night flight next to a kid. But not me. Some of the best flights I’ve had have been next to kids, one particular one standing out was a flight to Amsterdam next to a Croatian family with an infant and toddler, whose asylum from the wars in the early-mid 90s had run out, and were emigrating back home. The toddler and I sat there playing peek-a-boo and other games all the way across the Atlantic. I think I even forgot to watch the movies.

But that was before the fear that grips me when I fly had really sunk in. Now, the presence of a child makes me be brave (and so does my Xanax), because I don’t want to show my nerves to a kid in case they’re nervous.

I shouldn’t have been worried. This kid was a pro. She spent the half-hour before we taxied out to the runway telling me how much she loved to fly at night–going really fast and then…zooooooooom into the air. Looking at the lights of the towns way down below. Seeing the lights move if they’re cars on the highways. The nose tipping down and zoooooooooom back to the ground.

The pilot came on to tell us that, since there were so many storms over the area between Minneapolis and Seattle, the first 45 minutes were going to be rocky, and probably the last hour. I sighed deeply, which is about the biggest outpouring of emotion I have whilst drugged, and glanced at the kid, now perusing my Kakuro puzzles trying to figure out how they worked, wondering if this would shake her. Nope. She grinned and said “I like it when it’s bumpy. It’s like a roller-coaster.”

And then the pilot flipped on the “Fasten Seatbelt” light as we were about to taxi away from the gate, and with some odd Pavlovian response, the moment the accompanying ding sounded, the kid fell fast asleep. On my arm. I looked at her, wondering if I should move her, wondering if her Grandma (sitting on the other side of her) would wake her up and scold her. But I didn’t more her, and her Grandma didn’t say anything.

We flew to Seattle, zooming up in the air, rocking like a roller coaster, over towns and moving lights of cars on highways. And the kid stayed nestled around my arm, missing all of her favorite parts of flying.

Usually I have to be brave for the kid sitting next to me. This time, I had no choice but to enjoy it for her.