I'm Totally Gay for America

But who isn't?

The Bridge

Tonight, the IFC cable channel rebroadcast The Bridge, an astonishing, heartbreaking, and brutally honest documentary about people who committed suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. The filmmakers secretly staked out the bridge throughout 2004 with multiple cameras, and ended up actually photographing 19 of the 24 people who took their lives by going over the railing. This shockingly unshocking footing is interspersed with interviews with loved ones, and stunning shots of the bridge itself.

But it's much more than that. This movie exists in a place almost beyond documentation, possessing the same weird combination of empathy and detachment seen in Gus Van Sandt's fictional Elephant.

Some have claimed the film is exploitive, but I think they're missing the point: The only way to approach the topic of suicide is with clear eyes and the understanding that you'll never understand it. That is, the more you see, the less you know. And that's the point where The Bridge stops being a movie and becomes something else entirely.

Or as one interviewee says:

I don't have any answers. Just a bunch of observations....

Oh, Snap!

From Josh Levin's review of Meet the Spartans in Slate:

Friedberg and Seltzer do not practice the same craft as P.T. Anderson, David Cronenberg, Michael Bay, Kevin Costner, the Zucker Brothers, the Wayans Brothers, Uwe Boll, any dad who takes shaky home movies on a camping trip, or a bear who turns on a video camera by accident while trying to eat it.

I have to disagree. Three minutes of the inside of a bear's disgestive system might be worse than Meet the Spartans. But worse than one of Michael Bay's craptastic blockbusters? Doubt it.

If You Get Hungry

It's cheeseburger in a can--and for only 4 Euros!

Puts the "um" in "yum".

New Year, Getting Older by the Day

New year resolutions have always seemed a little weird to me--like kissing under mistletoe. I mean, why wait for that specific situation? On the other hand, I'm a very plan-y person. Even buying new blue jeans requires thoughtful consideration and a checklist. Why not take advantage of a cultural imperative to indulge in my own personal obsessions?

So here it is. My resolution for 2008. Late, but not out of date.

Have fun.

Simple and to the point, as all goals should be. I should be able to remember this. And if you're reading this, and you know me, and you see that I'm not having fun on purpose, you have my permission to slap-fight me.

Up, Up and Away

While in Turkey, the husband and tried to take advantage of every opportunity for fun and adventure. For example, we woke up at 4 AM to take a hot air balloon ride over the desolate moonscape of Cappadocia. The baskets were packed tight with chilly tourists. The balloons flew over 2,000 over the rocky terrain. And yet, the ride was still not as scary as the standard Turkish truckstop buffet.

Duh.

(Forgive the crummy resolution and color timing. I took these shots using my digital camera and put it together with MS Movie Magic. Oh, the music is "Dungeoneering" by Tim Hecker. He's awesome!)

I'm Opening My Eyes Again

I bought a new camera for my trip to Turkey (more on that to come). It's a point and shoot that has both greater resolution and manaul features than my crummy phone cam. Not that I'm complaining.

I've fired up DC Observed again, of course. And I take this little cam with me everywhere I go. The only downside is that it has no GPS recorder. That means all my image mapping is strictly guesswork at this point.

Oh, to have all the cameras in the world.

Jazz Thursdays: Ben Webster's A Night in Tunisia

I've been away for a few weeks in Asia Minor, so the blog's languished. But I'm back. Here's a swinging groove from around 1964 to scrape the gloom out of this infernal day.

Jazz Thursdays: Did You Evah

Two punk icons take Cole Porter's high society shimmer and drag it through a few punk cliches. Not jazz, not punk, all fun. Special mention goes to Rodan, as the party crasher, and Debbie's "la la la la" cresendo: a single moment without irony.

Secret, Secret

Although I love PostSecret.org, I never thought I'd ever want to send a secret in. Why? Because I have a big mouth and had not secrets to share. Or so I thought. I spent some time this weekend thinking about it, and came up with at least a dozen secrets--some barely a secret at all, some I wouldn't share with anyone.

So I sent my first card in on Monday. I have another waiting for next week. Several more are lurking in the wings. (I'm saving the juicier stuff for later).

If any of my cards are posted, I'll mention it here. I won't tell you which card is mine. You'll have to guess that on your own. But it will probably have a shirtless man on it.

Just saying.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Some see online interaction as a way to engage each other, spread influence, change minds.

Perhaps.

And if that's what you think, I encourage you to hop on over to Salon and check out this discussion of atheism. There were 234 comments the last time I looked. Only two of which have been highlighted by the editors as noteworthy.

Let that be your first warning.

Best Comic Book Convention...Ever

Tony and I spent Saturday morning trolling the booths at the SPX, the small press expo, somewhere in the hinterlands of Maryland. I've never thought of myself as a "comic book guy." Shameless fanboy, perhaps. But comic books--while I understood how cool they could be--never really created any passion in me. This show changed my mind.

The floor was small but crowded. Almost every booth had a pile of objects to look through. Many were handmade or one-of-a-kind. Styles ranged from exquisite hand painted abstracts, to postmodern pen-and-ink cartoons. The artists were super friendly and everyone had a great story. (And by "great" I mean funny, weird, inspirational, and/or insane.)

I bought an autobiographical book called Shirtlifter from a supremely hot bear artist named Steve MacIsaac. He said it was more "artistic-y than pornographic-y." Having cruised through it last night, I guess he's correct. But it still plenty pornographic-y for me. I'm not sure I get the point of the whole thing, but I think that's commonplace among the small press people: Hold a magnifying glass up to the most arcane, commonplace, or otherwise invisible speck of reality (or surreality) and let it speak for itself.

On the way out, I bought a silkscreen of 16 little line drawings of the same dumpy little man in various states of dress.

I'll let that speak for itself, too.

PostSecret

PostSecret.org has been one of my favorite website/art installations for years. We had a chance to see Frank Warren, the artist behind the project, speak at a local bookstore. He's a very earnest, thoughtful, and apparently kind man, but I have to say his description of the project dimishes it a bit--just as one would expect any great work of art to eclipse its creator. There wasn't a lot of insight to be had, but we did get to see and hold a few actual secrets in our hands. That alone was worth the trip. There's surprising power in those little cards.

He Might Be an Evil Genius and All...

Went with the usual suspects to see Merrily We Roll Along at Signature last night. A few things:

• When I turned the corner, I thought for one second I was in a retirement home. I haven't seen that much grey hair since the DC Eagle circa 1990.


• I still hate musicals. Maybe not hate. Maybe...don't get. But I still hate wasting my time.


• My friends and family are funny people. And by funny, I mean random and vulgar.


• Lamb vindaloo is so hot, my saliva becomes poison.


• Stephen Sondheim may be an evil genius and all, but cliche is cliche. There, I said it.

Jazz Thursdays: The Jazz Messengers - A Night in Tunisia

Serious jamming from all-stars from the 1960s: drummer Art Blakey, Lee Morgan, and I think that's a young Wayne Shorter.

Home Sweet Homo.

I've returned from the Twin Cities. The week-long work conference was exceptionally busy. Work, what a drag. Sheesh.

Although most of my time was spent in the conference center, I did get to see a bit of both St. Paul and Minneapolis.

One of my co-workers used to live in the Minneapolis, so he took us on a night tour. Very cool city. Small enough to live in, big enough not to be bored. And it's on the Mississippi--who knew!

I also found a quaint little gay bar near my hotel. That came in handy when the boys from work stood me up one night. That's OK. I know how gay men of a certain age are. I had a Plan B already in mind. (No. Not that Plan B. Gross.)

All in all, it's nice to be back.

Roxy Music: Jealous Guy

Less elemental (and more truly full of regret) than John Lennon's orginal, you definitely get the feeling Bryan Ferry is singing directly to Lennon after his murder. It's not a love song. It's a eulogy, from one giant to another.

On the Road: Which Is the Evil Twin?

I'm here in Minneapolis-St. Paul for a week-long work conference. I can't say that this trip has has an auspicious beginning. One of the first things I saw from the window of my cab was an old man vomiting violenting on the side of the street. Then giggling and tiptoeing away. I also found out that a man came into my hotel last week, grabbed one of the domesticated ducks that swim in the interior decorative pond, and bit its head off.

Ahem.

Still, the cities themselves have a groovy, post-industrial feel. The buildings are pleasingly square. And the streets are walkable.

I have six more days for some drunk to gnaw my head off.

Jazz Thursdays: Chet Baker's Let's Get Lost

Not a video, but a slideshow of Chet's publicity stills, under one of the most romantic songs (and performances) of all time. Let's get lost, indeed.

Insult of the Day

This feature has been gone from EE for too long. Perhaps, it's been waiting for this:

Realistically the competition is now between Hung and Casey. Both Brian, who makes no sense, and Dale, who makes no sauce, are both plainly outclassed and they know it. You kind of feel bad for Brian, whose years on Ritalin have left him a glassy-eyed surfer strewn on the beach of life with no board.

I love Top Chef. There, I said it. But Gawker's gentle assassinations run a close second.