I have been thinking about how I would comment on State Sen. Ashburn’s situation.  The fact that he voted against every gay Bill in California, except the one in his bed, is ultimately between the senator and his Golden State constituents.  After all, this country is a representative republic.  You would have to be smoking something other than medicinal to believe a vote from this district, which voted in favor of Prop 8 by a 3 to 1 margin, would ever yield anything other than a decisive “no” on any anti-gay discrimination legislation.  In fact, locals refer to this Bakersfield district as “Texas meets Orange County”.

What I would like to focus on is Sen. Ashburn’s admission.  I have to give him credit, he didn’t run to some rehabilitative religious reprogramming center, nor did he fall on his knees at a political prayer breakfast professing his sins of indiscretion.  He stopped denying and honestly admitted on a radio talk show, “I am gay …those are the words that have been so difficult for me for so long.”  Make no mistake about it, his political career is over.  Conservatives are calling him a sinner, and with his voting record, I don’t see those equality leaning Log Cabins putting out the welcome mat any time soon, either.  Gay rights activists are saying he cast his ballot behind a beard to protect his secret, and that is probably true.  I say those of us who have never passed through omission cast the first stone.

Though I don’t necessarily agree with Roy Ashburn’s politics, I have seen the personal tragedy associated with the fear of living one’s truth, and I can certainly empathize with his decision.  The consequences of that decision are the swift kicks from some members of our community.   It’s their right I suppose.  I choose to offer a hand rather than a foot.  Though the outing of a closeted Conservative certainly makes headlines, the bigger story here is that eventually, the truth wins out.  For those ignorant souls who proclaim sexuality is a choice, ask Senator Ashburn.  After all these years, would he really choose this?

I sincerely hope Roy Ashburn finds the inner peace and the validity that unburdening often brings.

I was reading an online article about sleep habits that reiterated common knowledge; we are a sleep deprived nation.  What did surprise me, though, is that a new survey suggests that how you sleep and what you do before you nod off, whether it’s watching late night TV, praying, or having sex, differs by ethnic group.  Who knew?  More than 1,000 individuals representing Caucasians, African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians (ages 25 to 60) were polled regarding their bedtime rituals.  The results from this survey, the first of its kind, are very interesting.

Seventy-five percent of African Americans reported watching television before going to bed, compared with 64% of whites.  Only 52% of Asians said they watched TV before bedtime, but more than half said they were more likely to use a computer or surf the Web before bed.

Ninety percent of Caucasians sleep with their spouse, a slightly higher rate than African-Americans.   For those of us who shack up or do not live in a certain five states or the District of Columbia, that goes for “partnered spouse” as well.   Compare that to 75% of Hispanics and two-thirds of Asians that say they do not sleep with their partner or spouse.   Hmmm…I wonder if they get more sleep.

Now the biggie…ten percent of African Americans and Hispanics reported having sex almost every night, compared with 4% of whites and 1% of Asians.  Now, the study indicates that African Americans were far more likely than other groups to pray before going to bed, and now I think we know what they are praying for!

God bless you, my friends.

http://mypetchup.com

From the I kid you not file, I saw @petchup tweeted on the web today, so I had to take a look.  Could it be?  Seriously?  Yes, it is.  Petchup, “a relish, sauce, or seasoning added to food to impart a particular flavour or to complement a dish”…for your dog.  According to the website, “Petchup® was created to offer a flavorful addition to dry food while providing a healthy portion of vitamins, minerals, glucosamine, omega 3 and prebiotic to your dog’s daily diet. It’s a delicious daily supplement.”

I was just wondering yesterday as my dog’s beard dripped with toilet water, where in the hell am I going to find a healthy dipping sauce alternative to gravy.  It must be canine intervention.  When I stop laughing, I’m going to purchase this product, and I’m giving it as gifts to my friends.

Seriously, this is fantastic.  We do the best we can to workout and eat well (with the exception of Girl Scout cookie season), so why shouldn’t the four legged member of the family have the same benefit to good nutrition?  We love her and want her with us for a very long time.

The website says online ordering for Petchup® is coming soon…do you think by that time they will have mutt-ard, too?

Venice in its first season has many things going for it.  One in particular is that it was done at all.  Presently, dramas dependent on uncensored content, devoid of corporate strangleholds, have little other place of premier besides the internet.  Open Book Productions harnessed the anticipatory power of an organized and largely unfulfilled fanbase and moved forward with their aspirations.  Living the ultimate realization of a dream is something to celebrate.

Jessica Leccia brings to the character of Ani a guileless vulnerability that encourages the viewer to root for her.  Roll after roll, over and over again, she puts herself out there until in the finale she inescapably decides to get off that emotional Magic Mountain that is Gina Brogno (Crystal Chappell) to find happiness in a lover without the nauseating twists and turns.  Who knows what will happen next season.   Will Ani grab a fast pass for Lara, or will she stand in that long, switch-back, line for Gina?  Personally, I hope Ani’s happiest place on earth will be with Lara.

Though Lara (Nadia Bjorlin) is a bit of a blank slate at this point, I really don’t care; she isn’t Gina.  For some reason, the character is likable and holds my interest.  Perhaps I am merely cheering for Ani and this is transference on my part.  Whatever the motivation, there is an anticipation that I don’t have for many of the other characters.  Also, I would be remiss if I did not mention that Nadia Bjorlin came to this character cold as it was originally cast with Elizabeth Keener.  It has been well publicized that upon arrival on the set to play her original role, Nadia stepped into the Lara part and has performed admirably.

Hillary B. Smith, episode two not withstanding, brings chemistry, maternal compassion, and humor to the series.  Her passionate plea to the Colonel (Jordan Clarke) for parental understanding is one of my favorite scenes.  Though the Colonel can be classified as stereotypical, such characteristics have their roots in reality, and though Gina waited until later in life to finally confront her homophobic father, she did it.  Many of us either lost that chance because of life’s fated circumstances, or perhaps we are not quite as well adjusted as our critics, therefore, seeing the manifestation on screen is satisfying.  On a selfish note, I have to say that while Crystal and Hillary stared longingly into each other’s eyes after a Goose downed evening in episode 9, I was pleading in my head, “Please make Guya the ADOPTED sister of Gina’s mother!” To this point, no scripted pairing has produced such a reaction.

Out of a much heralded cast, the standout surprise for me has to be Michelle N. Carter.  There is something about Michelle’s character that makes me want to point and say, “Yeah, what she said,” every time she completes a sentence.  She is not only Gina’s assistant, but her super ego with an attitude…not that there is any part of Gina’s moral compass that would respond to anyone less magnetic.

Technically, the series manipulates the beauty of the California beach through the use of high definition cameras to create a setting both visually pleasing and unique to many webseries.  Couple the fabulous photography with the decision to utilize indie music artists as added definition, and Venice creates a secondary storyline that is complimentary to the first.

Though I believe Venice has the potential as a continuing drama on the web, I believe as a viewer, some parts of this freshman season series need adjustment.  My biggest disappointment is there are too many characters to establish a full depth of development in the amount of time the production team arced for one season.  The “morning after scene” with Gina and Ani through the “body in the garage discovery” could have easily encompassed 24 to 36 complex episodes.  I would have preferred the episode 7 good-bye scene to have been the season one cliff hanger with much more character development in between.  I have said it before, please, show me, don’t tell me.  Of course, I can fill in the blanks myself, but as a viewer, I shouldn’t have to.

Not lost on me is that Gina, a character with the most number of scenes, is the least dimensional of the characters.   I watch each episode with the hope that this will be the week I like her.  Do something to expose her vulnerability.  Hell, show her buying a few beach orphans a shave ice, something, something that will tell me she is more than mean, crass, manipulative, and drunk.  As I said in my review of episode 7, Gina shows glimpses of humanity when she allows her personal walls a certain opaqueness.  Show me more.  Give me the slightest impression as to why Gina can’t commit.  A tent pole character doesn’t have to be without its nicks and its knots, it just has to be strong enough to support the apex of the canvas.

Crystal Chappell is one of the most talented actresses in any genre at delivering an emotionally charged scene.  Give her (and me) the bridge to get there.  Unfortunately, the writing for Gina’s final scene with Ani is an abrupt bridge to nowhere.  As with other important arcing sequences of this season, there are significant gaps in composition.  Gina schizophrenically overreacts to Ani’s rejection of their dysfunctional relationship.  I would have given more credence to this emotional outburst had I been privy to insight as to whether episode 7 had actually been the last time these two were alone together.

Had they been given more of a reactive catalyst, the chemistry between Gina and Tracy (Lesli Kay) could have been perceived as more inciting than a child’s science project.  In episode 11, when Gina and Tracy throw each other against the wall, the audience is quickly cut to the product and left to assume the initial substance.  In the finale, Tracy emotionally pronounces she is falling in love with Gina.  How and when did this happen?  Without revealing the fundamentals of the motivation, what’s left is an unbalanced equation.  There is something to be said for giving Gina and Tracy the same relationship litmus test that Ani and Lara are given.

Season one ends with Gina answering a call for reinforcements from the Colonel and finding what appears to be a lifeless, handcuffed woman in his garage.  I have to admit, my first reaction was please let this be Tracy…or at least the personification of her bad British accent.   Cut to black, listen to the music, and wait for season two.

And about next season, I say please, no stunts and no Chaiken things up.  Develop the three dimensions of the twosomes before you work on the threesomes.  Take your time, ladies.  Contrary to fanatical belief, good is worth waiting for…with all elements of this potentially very successful show.

There is a Christian crusade of hate run amuck in the Lone Star State.  On the heels of a new report by the Southern Poverty Law Center that right-wing extremist groups have grown 244 percent in the last year, there is news of the evangelical Christian hate group, Repent Amarillo, that is terrorizing the Texas town’s gays, liberals, and other “sinners”.  Yes, I said Christian hate group, and no, this is not the Crusades, though I do consider most of Texas as residing in the Dark Ages.

Dressed in paramilitary battle dress uniform instead of the obligatory pseudo leather shit-kickers, young males of this American militia target Amarillo citizens perceived to be of a differing theology than the home-grown terrorist group.  Repent has a targeted hit list on its website that includes such groups as Muslims, liberal Christians, LGBT,  environmentalists, pornography shops, and even breast cancer events that do not highlight abortion.  Yes, these ignorant sycophants apparently believe babies come from boobies!

Repent is the lobotomized “brain” child of David Grisham, a security guard at Pantex, a nuclear weapons assembly and disassembly facility in Amarillo.  Good thing we are fighting them over there so we don’t have to fight them over here, right?  According to an expose by the Texas Observer, the group has stalked law abiding, of-age patrons of a local swingers club by running their license plates, going through their trash, and informing neighbors and coworkers of what was once a private social life.

Here is Repent Amarillo in action:

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A community theater showing, Bent, a play about Nazi persecution of homosexuals during World War II, was shut down by numerous anonymous calls to the fire marshall questioning the theater’s permit.  Staff of a nearby nature preserve had to defend themselves against accusations of witchcraft, and the list goes on and on.  Where is the police department in all this?  Harassment is illegal; prosecute these bible-thumping, counterfactual Christian cowards.   Sure seems like the roses are not the only things that are yellow in this part of Texas.

Well, this made me think of a few things, two things in particular.  One, unless you live in DC, Iowa, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont or Massachusetts, marriage for some of us is a different Proposition all together.  And two, if you are a lesbian, this is no great breaking news.  My Sapphic sisters have been shacking up since the beginning of time.  I’m pretty sure I read recently that the Director of Egyptian Antiquities found a U-haul hieroglyph inside the walls of Cleopatra’s tomb.  Had the CDC included in their interview  a category of lesbian and bisexual women, I hypothesize the percentages would have been much higher.  Is it economics?  I doubt it.  When my partner and I met, combining our assets did afford both of us greater financial flexibility, and since we are approximately the same size, our wardrobes immediately doubled.  Though this fact is a shared economic perk, it is not why we decided to live together.  Then why during a first passionate kiss, instead of hearing fireworks in our non-hetero heads, we so often hear the monotone beep of a moving truck backing up?  Well, ask a lesbian.

Beginning when I was seventeen, I discovered women wanted to come home with me.  Now, this was a wonderful cognizance until I realized they wanted to stay.  Though that jazz saxophone player added a nice syncopation to the whoopee spot, I had a difficult time convincing her that though the audition was nice, she was not part of the house band.  I’ll admit, for a myriad of reasons, I was a bit commitment phobic.  Superficial relationships were a defense mechanism, convincing myself I didn’t want to be the substitute security blanket for anyone.  In other words, I was a stereotypical man.  Not literally, of course, because I love being a woman, just emotionally the weaker sex.  Straight female friends of mine were constantly lamenting the fact they wanted more from their relationships.  They would bring their toothbrush on the second date and a change of clothes to the third…just in case.  One of my friends admitted she would purposely leave something in a date’s car just as an excuse to call him or drop by.  Then it dawned on me…you don’t accidentally leave an alto wind instrument in someone’s car…not in a two-seat convertible!  Women…we are all the same.

I joke about the lesbian U-haul mystique, but honestly, I think it’s just a stereotype often perpetuated by my own sarcasm.  I don’t think female same-sex relationships are necessarily any different than our hetero counterparts.  Women are beautifully sentimental creatures on their own, but when paired together, not only double, but logarithmically intensify that innate emotional desire to nurture, comfort, and yes, nest. I would like to believe that I was immune to such a siren’s song, but I did succumb to that one special woman who breached my independent stream of consciousness and convinced me to book that platinum third-finger house band for a long-term engagement.

As far as the CDC report goes, it comes as no surprise that more women are choosing cohabitation…whatever the relationship.  Economic hard times and difficult circumstances tend to encourage a sentimental psyche to do what it does best.  I can’t really comment on the report’s conclusions regarding a greater propensity toward marriage because I don’t live in one those six areas of the United States where same-sex unions are legal.  Constitutionally, I am no one’s wife.  But I have to say, I do love my life…and all that effeminate, emotional jazz.

Globe photo

Good lord, I have had it!  It’s time for our Olympic downhill divas to put on their big girl spandex, bind the corporate sponsorship to their boots, and just ski.  Apparently no one mentioned that there is no whining on the Wheaties box.  It was no surprise to wake up this morning to the headline of our fresh powder princesses and their giant slalom race for media attention.  Of course this is a popularity competition, Ms. Mancuso; this is America for frack’s sake.  So what.  You are in Vancouver to participate in a world competition of sport and skill, not run for homecoming queen.

Perhaps it has slipped your mind that along with Rossignol, there is USA emblazoned on your form-fitting fashion.  That means you are representing me, a patriotic American, in your quest for gold plated publicity, and I am saying shut the fuck up and act like you’ve been there before.  Run the race of champions, not some pseudo snow edition of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Remember the Olympic creed that Zeus apparently handed down from 30 Rockefeller Center:  “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.”  It says nothing about the sour grapes of the gods and the blonde SI swimsuit skier that is way over-exposed.  So, take off the tea-party tiara, get your mind back on the games, and let go of the Vonn voyeurism that has become your vision quest.  Think faster, higher, stronger…not louder.

I had just gotten home from the airport last night when a friend of mine called to inform me that the long anticipated Episode 4 “ABM Tuesday” was fortunately an unanticipated day-early live link.  I was anxiously awaiting this episode because as luck would have it, my ABM experience began earlier in the morning as series co-writer and co-Executive Producer, Susan Miller, could have been having breakfast with anyone but me…but she wasn’t.

I will write more later about the best part of waking up with Susan Miller, but for now, I want to focus on the latest episode of the series, Anyone But Me, this particular one written by Susan and directed and edited by Tina Cesa Ward.

As I watched the episode unfold, I smiled and shook my head in recognition.  Just as I had experienced earlier that morning, Susan has a comforting and humorous way of bringing out the personal in a conversation, so too, does she have a similar way with these characters.  Utilizing the voice of an appropriately sarcastic therapist (guest star, Liza Weil), the dialogue begins to scratch at the surface of the complex and uncharted Aster (Nicole Pacent).  By all observations, Aster is a star…white-hot and radiant.  Don’t get too close, you might spontaneously combust.  Taking this into consideration, Tina allows the viewer to hover just above the periphery while the therapist cleverly explores Aster’s sexually charged and cynical solar flares.

Therapist: “So tell me about the first time?”  Aster: “That I had sex?”  Therapist: “I meant therapy, but I’m interested in hearing about that too.”

I like this facetious female Freud.  I could have used a therapist like her, not some miracle-cured, flaming former-gay, Southern Baptist that smelled eerily like Aqua Velva and fried chicken, but I digress.  I can’t wait to see where this goes.   Will we get a glimpse into Aster’s core, or will she burn out before we get the chance?  And what is that obvious thing, other than Aster, definitely orbiting around Vivian (Rachael Hip-Flores) and Sophie (Jessy Hodges)?  Soph’s superficial and sophomoric curiosity, or something meteor?

I know, I know…but this is frustrating.  So many questions, yet so little time.  Waiting has never been my forte, and don’t think I haven’t tried to entice the answers out of my morning coffee mate.  Susan is not talking.  The only crumbs I got came from the croissant.   Tina, give me direction!  Damn it.

Well, I guess it’s speculation for another week, but isn’t that what good entertainment is all about? A look, an angle, a word, a phrase can mean so many things to so many people.  I have a few favorable ideas and who knows better the journey these girls must take than someone who has traveled a like highway?  Can’t be anyone but me…right?

This country is experiencing an erectile dysfunction of a different proportion.  The former elected Dick can’t help repetitiously raising his ugly head and spewing politically charged rhetoric…something that to this point has been considered a historical breach of bureaucratic manners and unwritten domestic etiquette. There is no surprise this isn’t an affliction experienced by Ronald Reagan or George H. W. Bush.  Hell, even Bill Clinton has managed to keep it down with the rare exception of those few months on the road with his wife.  And honestly, I can never find too many things to compliment “Dubya” on, but I have to hand it to him, when he moved to “Big D”, he kept it deep in the heart of.

Over the last thirteen months, Dick Cheney, bucking years of non-partisan tradition, never met a moment he didn’t like, or a chance he didn’t take, to screw the Obama administration over foreign policy, threats of terrorism, and two left-over wars. The blog, Politico, a recent hand of the former VP’s flogging, published an interesting and balanced article entitled, Why Dick Cheney Attacks that provides some insight.  Whether it’s ideological demagoguery, promoting his upcoming memoir, swaying public opinion, or an attempt to revise history to avoid infamy, matters little in relation to what it indicates about the character of the man.

As the former Vice President, Dick said he has “the great freedom and luxury of speaking out and saying what I want to say, what I believe. And I have not been discouraged from doing so.”  Is this just hubris or the result of being born in a proverbial barn?  Come on, Dick, heads up.  Take your cue from your last Bush boss and try a little professionalism. (Am I really saying that?)  In his first public speech since leaving the Presidency, Mr. Bush said of President Obama, “I’m not going to spend my time criticizing him. There are plenty of critics in the arena,” Bush continued. “He deserves my silence.”  Bush 43 went on to say, “I love my country a lot more than I love politics,” Bush also said. “I think it is essential that he be helped in office.”

So, Dick, take the advice of those who have come before you.  Enjoy your retirement. Write your book, hang out with your friend, and if you experience a sustained erection of political ire for more than four hours, consult your physician.

V-day basic training for this eventual conscientious objector began in grade school when I was presented with a white paper bag and the obligatory red and pink construction paper.  I wanted blue, but I was told Valentines are red or pink.  How about yellow?  No, Valentines are red or pink.  Why?  Because American Greetings, the Whitman Sampler, and God say so.  Huh?  Yes, Cupid is an angel, and you don’t go against God.  So heeding the divine call of the 13th Commandment, thou shalt make the appropriate color paper valentines, I began to cut out with expertly maneuvered blunt scissors, the perfect pink and red hearts made by folding the paper just so.  A little bit of glue and glitter, and viola, a pink and red valentine holder worthy of grace.  For years to come, purchase after purchase of single sheet, paper valentines, arrayed with my favorite Disney and Warner Brothers cartoons, were placed in each student’s bag.  Everyone received one, everyone, including Carlton, who I protested.  He was mean to me, pulled my hair every day, and looked up my dress at nap time.

As I got older, I began to figure out that this made-up holiday is more about guilt than love.  Each year became a logarithmic scale of symbolism over substance.  Have I done enough?  Chocolates, dark or milk, or nothing?  If nothing, will she think that I think she is fat?  A card, Hallmark or other, and will other seem less than I care to send the very best? Roses, one dozen or two, and can I finance?  Or does she think roses are trite and prefer lilies or tulips or sunflowers?  Oh, my.  Jewelry, necklace or bracelet, diamond or ruby?  Restaurant, the table in the back by the fireplace…damn, it’s been booked for six months?  Will it look like I didn’t try hard enough?

Enough!  Stop the insanity!  I’m sure Geoffrey Chaucer never envisioned this single day of pink and red retail and restaurant propaganda eclipsing his idea of courtly and romantic love.  An affair of the heart transcends time and place and needs no official one day reminder.  Live your love every day of your life without amalgamated instruction or an annual calendar day of passion.  I agree the words, “I love you” are a present, but they do not come with a don’t open ‘til February 14th label.