Reductionistic Two-Step With A Cha-Cha-Cha

The Midwest is getting to me. I knew when I moved back to the fat middle many years ago that this would happen, and now it has, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, and rarely with positive accompaniment. The wife and kids make it bearable, providing the oxygen needed to get through the slow-motion provincialism that surrounds us. At times I view our house as a bathosphere, stuck at the bottom of a deep muddy lake. Inside, laughter, singing, books, movies, and related amusements, while outside swim the locals, peering in the windows periodically to see what the weird family is up to.

If I sound elitist, snide, or condescending, my apologies. That's not my intention. I simply am who I am, and the fact is that I miss New York and all that goes on there. Now, I know my old NYC is long gone, washed away by Giuliani and Bloomberg; but even so, there is movement, electricity, noise, confusion, pace, assortment, and above all, intelligence. Not that there aren't smart people here: Ann Arbor is a campus town, after all. But a certain smugness pervades much of the conversation, and most of the local intellects I've encountered frown upon spontaneity, craziness, and exuberance.

In NYC, you can yell and dance down the street, and no one gives a fuck. Some of my fondest memories are of stumbling out of East Village bars and into the rain, acting like a demented Gene Kelly, jumping and stomping through the puddles and soaked gutters, getting so wet within two blocks that I put away my umbrella and screamed to the sky for more rain. And then there was my psilocybin period, when I ingested mushrooms in Central Park and let the blend of nature and towering architecture flow over me. Central Park is awesome enough on its own; but strip away the samsara visage and the deeper reality of the place fills your expanding mind, and all you can do is smile and laugh. The colors are pretty cool, too.

These days, it's grimy pick-up trucks bearing jingoist stickers and NASCAR numbers. Hummers driven by housewives on cell phones. Consumers in public slowed by fast-food weight, flashing dazed expressions. Young women in the drug store arguing about which celebrity is fattest. Young men trying to look tough while speaking in sentence fragments. Rednecks reeking of booze ahead of you in line at the store, being allowed to buy more booze for the road. Sadness. Complacency. No positive or creative engagement. Marking time until time runs out.

I need you, Central Park!

The Matt Sanchez, aka "Rod Majors," queer porn stud flap is quieting down, and an entertaining mini-spectacle it has been. I love how reactionaries suddenly find their compassion when one of their own is forced from the closet. They become as PC as the libs they hate, engaging in victimspeak while touting the power of redemption, just so long as the closet-case they're defending remains stoutly rightwing, or better yet, has "learned" from his or her "mistake," and is now a flag-waving, God-fearing heterosexual, devoted to adding new members to the tribe via missionary sex under a photo of Ronald Reagan on a horse. Frankly, the GOP, or Gays On Parade, as I like to call it, is a natural home for ex-gay porn stars. After all, they're already skilled at sucking dick and taking it up the ass, which is the surest route to advancement through the Republican ranks. Plus, they know how to fuck people who are in vulnerable positions, another reactionary trait. So, the next time you're watching man-on-man action, keep in mind that you may be witness to the next generation of conservative celebs. Praise the Lord, and pass the lubrication.

Public access TV from the 1980s has given us many memorable moments. I've recounted some of my favorites from Manhattan Cable, but here's a gem from Santa Monica public access, circa 1983. No explanation necessary -- just watch and enjoy, especially the ending. Those were the days.