I Want To Be Penetrated By Kat Von D



There's a great line in that classic masterpiece of American Cinema known as Tropic Thunder, in which Robert Downey Jr. utters the profound phrase, "You never go full retard." I really should take Mr. Downey's advice, because in life I ALWAYS go full retard.

Let me explain: When I get an idea in my head, it usually snowballs into a crazier idea, and ultimately evolves into an obsession that demands closure. A few months ago, for example, I saw a film by David Lynch (Eraserhead) and decided that I wanted to own a copy of it. Simple enough. But as I began searching stores for the special edition DVD, an idea popped into my head..."You know," I said to myself, "That was a REALLY good movie. I bet his other movies are good too. I need to own all of them." Long story short, I know have every David Lynch film, the entire series of Twin Peaks and about half a dozen Lynch-related posters on my wall. I even thought about doing my hair like Jack Nance in Eraserhead, but then I remembered I have no hair. Seriously, once an idea creeps into my head, watch out...

My latest bout of insanity came this week as I finally concluded that I want to get my first tattoo. That's simple enough, right? NO! Things are never simple with me. First I thought, "Hey, I'd like to get a tattoo on my arm." But after deliberating for a while, I thought to myself, "I want Kat Von D (famed tattoo artist, star of 'LA Ink' and all around goddess) to give me my first tattoo." But then "want" somehow became "need," and now I'm absolutely obsessed with the idea.

I mean, how cool would it be to tell people that I got my first tattoo from Kat Von D? This woman is a celebrity who has inked up practically every notable rock star in LA, and over the last couple of years she has become synonymous with the tattoo industry. Now I realize that getting a tattoo from Kat Von D is a lot like getting a haircut from some Beverly Hills hotshot named Antonio. It's all about bragging rights.

Somehow though, I don't care. I'm going full retard on this one. I've just submitted a request through her website; I will keep you posted. Here's hoping that miracles happen and I can actually get an appointment with the most in-demand tattoo artist on the planet.

The point of my story?

I've spent the last six months obsessing over David Lynch films with deformed women and possessed rabbits, and now I'm willing to pay three times the average rate to have a beautiful woman stick sharp needles into my body. Perhaps I should have just saved all of that money and invested it in some therapy.


UPDATE: I have just learned that Kat Von D is on tour plugging her book. This may require some patience on my part.

Holy War at the Box Office



I was browsing The Huffington Post today and happened to read the latest column by Jane Hamsher, entitled Maher Mangles Zucker at the Box Office. In a nutshell, the article champions the success (if you can call a #10 box office opening a “success”) of Bill Maher’s new film Religulous, by illustrating that although it only opened on a third as many screens as David Zucker’s new conservative comedy An American Carol, it made almost as much money ($35 million). By Hamsher’s logic, this makes Religulous three times as successful as An American Carol. She ends the article by noting, “There's no conspiracy going on against conservatives. When moviegoers have to vote with their dollars, it's just that nobody wants to see their shit.”

Of course, statements like these remind me that I must be some kind of masochist to constantly read the emotionally-driven rants at HuffPo, but the larger point is certainly valid. Much as conservatives like to decry how the liberal media is trying to maintain a stranglehold on the transmission of information, we must not forget that the news world--much like the world of cinema--is guided by the almighty dollar. Money talks, and if David Zucker’s #9 opening is any indication, we probably won’t be seeing a Carol sequel any time soon.

For the record, I saw Zucker’s film on Saturday, and for me it was sort of a mixed bag. I thought it raised a lot of really valid points about the hypocrisies and absurdities of Michael Moore and certain others, and some aspects were genuinely very funny. Unfortunately, though, the film was blatantly partisan to the point of discomfort: ACLU lawyers portrayed as zombies, liberals generalized as sheep and terrorist sympathizers. This type of humor is much more palatable when handled with more of a South Park approach; that is, raising necessary objections about the other side while still being sensible enough to poke fun at one’s own side for good measure. That’s where An American Carol falls desperately short. This film felt like one big bumper sticker slogan.

On the other side we have Bill Maher, just as merciless in his one-sidedness, but far more mean-spirited in the fact that he revels in his own dishonesty: duping real people into thinking he was recording a documentary about the spiritual journey and then ambushing them with his trademark sardonic charm. Granted we would expect nothing less from a comedian like Maher, of whom I am a genuine admirer, but still, you can’t help but think that he wasted a great opportunity for profound dialogue by taking a snide, preaching-to-the-choir approach. Maher raises a lot of really excellent questions about spirituality...and then immediately turns them into punch lines. That’s great for 90 minutes of laughs, but it’s not going to win a lot of converts.

Going back to the Hamsher article, I think she raises an interesting point but draws a disjointed parallel. Comparing a political comedy to a religious documentary (of sorts) is fair enough, but if I were to apply her same standard and compare Maher’s documentary to the Christian-themed Fireproof (a more direct contrast), which opened at #4 last weekend and remains at #8, then I could call Religulous an epic failure. Fireproof is only playing on 800 screens, and still grossed about three times the amount of Maher’s film in its opening weekend.

So I guess faith is still alive in America. Hamsher is right about one thing; there is no conspiracy against conservatives in Hollywood, but clearly there are some people who do want to “see their shit.”

Go figure.

Nightwish and Sonata Arctica Rock the Wiltern Theater




There’s something strangely euphoric about drowning for hours in a sea of sweat and body heat, strangers pressed against you on all sides, while having your eardrums hammered by loud musical vibrations blasting from speakers the size of studio apartments. If you’re truly passionate about your music, then you must be willing to suffer for it. On September 13th, fans of Nightwish and Sonata Arctica were more than happy to suffer for their favorite Finnish metal bands.

Though Nightwish headlined the show, Sonata Arctica has been every bit as instrumental (forgive the pun) in introducing the classic heavy metal sound to a new generation, with a few modern twists of course. Sonata Arctica might best be described as Iron Maiden on speed, while Nightwish has been at the forefront of popularizing symphonic metal, which combines all the traditional aspects of big hair metal with rich, orchestral backgrounds. In the case of Nightwish, try to imagine Metallica’s Symphony & Metallica CD, but female-driven.

Though I had never driven to the Wiltern Theater before, it wasn’t hard to find. I was able to spot the mile-long line of Brett Michaels haircuts and Dragonforce t-shirts from three blocks away. This was going to be an interesting show.

As a word of caution, people who value their personal space should never attend a standing-room-only concert with a sellout crowd. The Wiltern—which is no small venue—was packed from wall to wall. Fans were squeezed together so tightly that some could have legitimately shouted “Rape!” Nevertheless, when the lights dimmed and Sonata Arctica took the stage, all discomfort was swiftly forgotten.

The band kicked things off with Black and White, the opening track from their latest release, Unia, and then moved seamlessly into their single Paid in Full. The energy was truly electric, and vocalist Tony Kakko had more than enough charisma to keep the crowd on their feet. The band performed for roughly forty-five minutes, exciting fans with such classics as Don’t Say A Word and The Cage, but the whole set seemed to be over in the blink of an eye. We were all begging for more.

The passion behind each song took on new meaning as band members flailed across the stage and enthusiastic fans started moshpits from one end of the theater to the other. Bright spotlights flashed and danced in time with the music in an almost hypnotic fashion, and Tony’s powerful tenor screams were like shock treatment for an already electrified crowd. I now understand why they call it powermetal.

The cheering continued long after the members of Sonata Arctica took their final bows. After about a thirty-five-minute intermission and sound check, the lights dimmed yet again and the room was filled with the haunting sounds of a pre-recorded orchestral melody. As the members of Nightwish stepped forward one by one, the excitement of the crowd was nearly audible enough to drown out the Wiltern’s sound system.

I was especially intrigued as vocalist Anette Olzon took the stage, donning a sexy but tasteful pink and black dress and commanding unrivaled attention despite her fragile, petite frame. I wasn’t the only one in the audience asking the question, “Can she pull it off?” Anette only recently took over as lead vocalist for the band, following a contentious split with original vocalist Tarja Turunen. Tarja is a classically trained soprano with enough power in her lungs to shatter glass and a vocal range that almost defies logic. Anette has none of those qualities. Needless to say, I was skeptical about her ability to sing the Nightwish classics.

The band opened with Bye Bye Beautiful, a heart-racing rock anthem from the new album Dark Passion Play. The artists weren’t as flashy or charismatic as Sonata Arctica, and the levels were so bad you could barely make out the chord progressions, but nobody in the audience seemed to mind. Fans jumped, hollered and trampled one another beneath flickering lights as Anette sang the familiar verses and bassist/vocalist Marco Hietala screamed the words “Bye bye beautiful!”

When the band performed Dark Chest of Wonders, from the Tarja-Turunen era, it quickly became clear that Anette Olzon is most certainly not Tarja Turunen. For the most part she substituted the high notes in the chorus because, quite simply, she didn’t have the range for them. This was confirmed when she actually attempted the high notes (unsuccessfully) toward the end of the song.

At first this was disappointing, especially as she poured her heart into several songs for which Tarja was known: treasures such as Wishmaster, The Siren and Dead to the World. She truly is the anti-Tarja, substituting guttural opera singing for clean pop rock. As time went on, her voice really began to grow on me though. It occurred to me that when the men in the band went in search of their new vocalist, they weren’t looking for a carbon copy of the old vocalist.

Anette is a fascinating addition to the band, as she breathes new life into songs that fans have loved for years. She may not have that La Bohéme quality that made Tarja so unique, but she can belt out notes with pure rock-and-roll aggression in ways that an opera singer would never dream of attempting. I can honestly say that by the end of the show, she made a believer out of me. This is a new chapter in the Nightwish story, and if Saturday’s concert is any indication, the future looks bright indeed.

In addition to the classics, the band performed some truly breathtaking renditions of their new material. Songs like Amaranth and The Islander proved to be among the most popular selections with fans that night, and we were all left speechless and just a little bit dizzy by The Poet and the Pendulum, which was performed flawlessly in all of its fourteen-minute glory.

I was disappointed only by the fact that they toned down their performance for their—albeit smaller—American audience. There were no elaborate costume changes, no smoke or pyrotechnics, no strobe lighting. Judging by the live footage from their DVD releases, they put on some pretty intense shows overseas, whereas Saturday’s performance was basically by the books, save for the swirling spotlights. Then again, the Wiltern Theater isn’t exactly Wembley Stadium, so I suppose it’s understandable.

Simplicity aside, when you leave a venue feeling uncoordinated, sweaty and sore, with a heart rate somewhere around 200 beats per minute, you know you’ve been to the kind of show that metal heads would call “epic.” That being the case, I can honestly say that Saturday night at the Wiltern was a pretty epic experience. Where else can you dive headfirst into a moshpit filled with Dungeons & Dragons addicts while rocking out to a woman in a pink dress?

Redefining the Marriage Debate



May 15th, 2008 will likely go down as an historic day for my home state of California. For same-sex couples and gay rights activists it was a day of celebration and a broad step forward in the fight for marital equality; for conservatives and evangelicals it was a day of injustice, an egregious slap in the face to the voters of California who had overwhelmingly rejected the public recognition of same-sex marriages with the help of prop 22 back in 2000. For me personally, it was a day of reflection, a chance to drive a proverbial lawnmower over my brain with the whole marriage conundrum. To briefly define this quandary, conservatives believe in limited government (some restrictions apply, void where prohibited), however they are fighting to protect their sole entitlement to a license that represents governmental dominion over a supposedly spiritual union, in order to prevent that union from losing its meaning. If the previous sentence has caused you any dizziness, headache or loss of brain cells, then perhaps you now understand my obscure lawnmower analogy.

It would seem that the opponents of same-sex marriage are in a frenzy because, as we all know, state marriage licenses are a sacred thing, originally handed down to Moses on Mount Sinai along with the ten commandments, intended by God as a way of legally binding the love between a man and a woman. Okay, so that’s not technically true. Marriage licenses were actually an American invention of the 1920s, intended as a way of preventing whites from marrying minorities in 38 states, but I guess that’s sort of the same thing. Because Lord knows, if you let mixed-race couples get married, next thing you know you’re going to have gay people wanting to get married!

If conservatives are so passionate about the ideals of limited government, then shouldn’t they be fighting to eliminate the marriage license altogether? Apparently not, because now they are countering the state Supreme Court’s decision by introducing The California Marriage Protection Act, which is basically a resurrected prop 22. Though not as melodramatic as the failed California Marriage Amendment, which sought to actually amend the state’s constitution, The California Marriage Protection Act will serve the purpose of reminding us all that the sacrament of marriage is only as good as the paper on which it is written. Score one for the Lord. Personally I find it more than a little silly when people title their initiatives with words like “protect” or “patriot,” but at least they didn’t call it The Let’s Protect Our Dear Children From the Pedophilic Tendencies of Practicing Homosexuals Act, which may very well have been their first choice.

We hear all this talk about the dangers of “redefining” holy matrimony, but I am afraid that ship has sailed. Legally-recognized marriage in this country requires permission from local officials, complete with massive paperwork, long lines and two forms of identification. To summarize, marriage as it is defined today has more in common with The Department of Motor Vehicles than it does with the church. So what if it becomes redefined? If we can redefine the universe as a six-thousand-year-old landscape where men danced with dinosaurs and women were created from ribs, then surely we can redefine marriage as a union rooted in love, as bold as that may seem.

The institution of marriage has been redefined so many times anyway, I fail to see how it would even matter. The Book of Genesis says that every man should take for himself a wife, but Genesis and the rest of The Old Testament are filled with more polygamy than a Utah county fair, not to mention instances of women as property, and even strange rules about brothers marrying widows. Abraham and Solomon are revered by Christians, Muslims and Jews alike, and both of those men were polygamists. Solomon even kept concubines. Yes, some would argue that Solomon’s women were the source of his downfall, but I fail to see the relevance in that. Delilah was the source of Samson’s downfall, and he was no polygamist. Then there are The Beatles and Yoko Ono...

The New Testament does not fare much better. The most vocal New Testament authority on marriage is St. Paul, a man who referred to women as weaker vessels and yet remarkably was never married himself. I believe, though, that Paul was a proponent of same-sex marriage. According to Paul, marriage ought to be reserved for those people who cannot control their sexual impulses. Since that basically describes every man who has ever lived, gay marriage would be pretty much mandatory by that standard.

But you may be asking, “Why the blasphemous theology lesson?” My point is that there is no singular, set-in-stone definition of marriage. Matrimony means different things to different cultures, different points in time and even different individuals. We are fortunate, however, to live in a time and place where marriage is all about the love of people. It is not a contract between families, nor an arrangement of social or economic advancement (is it too soon to enter an Anna Nicole joke here?). Marriage is a personal decision rooted in love and a desire for commitment, and those of you who oppose same-sex unions ought to bear in mind that you are not protecting marriage by fighting to regulate a piece of paper. If marriage is truly the spiritual union that you believe it to be, then that piece of paper is ultimately meaningless in the big scheme of things, and those whom you oppose are already married in their hearts, so why don’t we just level the playing field? My gay friends are entitled to all the same miseries as everyone else.

Dear Mr. President




Dear Mr. President,

When you were elected to the office of the presidency in November of 2000, I was basically indifferent. At the time I was a high school senior with more important things on my mind: graduation, prospective colleges, optimistic dreams of an uncertain and potentially exciting future. To me, the presidential election was a mere inconvenience; something that would occasionally preempt my favorite shows.

When you stood at ground zero on September 11, 2001, I became a believer in your words, your messages and your promises. I realized that indifference was not an option in such uncertain times, and I became overwhelmed with inspiration as you spent the next several weeks decrying the evils of terrorism and proclaiming the steadfastness of the American people when faced with adversity. As I remember, your approval rating was through the roof, and no one approved of your job performance more than myself.

What went wrong, Mr. President?

When you began presenting The United Nations and the American public with intelligence information regarding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, you assured us all that you wanted to resolve the matter peacefully with the cooperation of Saddam Hussein. I had a feeling even then that you were setting wheels into motion for an inevitable armed conflict with Iraq, but I continued to support you. Surely the government knows more about these things than the likes of me. I defended you even as the body count continued to rise, long after your infamous "Mission Accomplished" banner made international headlines.

When you began proposing a federal constitutional amendment to bar same-sex marriages once and for all, I personally felt that such a measure was repressive, ill-advised and irresponsible, but I continued to support you. 'After all,' I reasoned with myself, 'nobody agrees with their leaders on every issue.' So I consciously looked the other way on those matters on which you and I disagree: gay marriage, abstinence education, abortion and so many aspects of your foreign policy, among other things.

I even looked the other way as your administration and inner-circle began to crumble. Perhaps some like Colin Powell were just smart enough to cut their losses and leave with dignity, but others like Karl Rove, Alberto Gonzales, Scooter Libby and arguably the worst wartime Secretary of Defense in American History (I'm referring of course to Donald Rumsfeld, although Robert Gates hasn't proven much better) have systematically dismantled any credibility that still remained in our Executive Branch of government.

And now Iraq is a complete mess with no signs of real improvement, our economy is spiraling toward a recession, the international community has understandably turned its back on us and our own nation is more divided than it has been since The Civil War. What is truly amazing is that you managed to accomplish all of this in less than eight years. I am sorry, Mr. President, but I have run out of excuses to defend you. I believed in you, and you let me down. You let us all down.

Jerry Lewis is the Man



Some of you may remember that I recently made a post about autograph collecting, and I expressed my intention to write a fan letter to Jerry Lewis (which I did). What's truly amazing is that I posted that entry on March 22nd, and mailed the letter about three days later. Now I've received a response and it hasn't even been three weeks. That must be a new record.

But seriously I don't want to cheapen it by implying that this was merely part of some autograph-collecting crusade. As I've expressed before, Jerry's work has had a profound impact on me, and having a personalized, autographed photo from the man himself is an intensely beautiful thing for me. I once even wrote a song inspired by his memoir, Dean and Me, which has been recorded four times and has gone on to become one of the most popular Embers of Avalon songs. Needless to say, today is a good day.

Jellicle Songs For Jellicle Cats



Over the weekend I went with some of my dearest relatives to see a production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's hit musical Cats at the California Performing Arts Center in San Bernardino. I admit that it has never been one of my favorite musicals, and in fact I have traditionally regarded it as my least favorite Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but I typically won't pass up an opportunity to see live musical theater, whatever it may be. To my surprise, I ended up having a pretty amazing time, and seeing the show in person gave me a totally new appreciation for it. The choreography is some of the most difficult and complex I have ever seen, and the ending (I'm embarrassed to say) really made me pretty emotional. It sort of makes me want to seek out some of the other Webber musicals that I've been disappointed with (namely Sunset Boulevard and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) and give them a second chance as well.

I have often wondered how a show as bizarre and esoteric as Cats could be one of the longest running musicals on Broadway, but now I think I understand a little better. It also got me thinking about how musical theater buffs like myself will often overlook much of Webber's genius and focus more on composers like Stephen Sondheim (a genius in his own right) who make more of a conscious effort to create intellectual works of musical art. Webber deserves a lot of credit, though. Not only is he responsible for the two longest running shows in Broadway history (Phantom of the Opera and the aforementioned Cats), and birthed such timeless, epic shows as Evita and Jesus Christ Superstar, but he has also composed music for some of the most beautiful and memorable songs of the twentieth century, songs like Don't Cry For Me Argentina, I Don't Know How To Love Him, Phantom of the Opera, Music of the Night, Unexpected Song and of course Memory, which has been covered by artists ranging from Barbara Streisand to Barry Manilow. His shows have been translated into dozens of languages and performed worldwide. The fact that he could make an obscure show about cats in a junkyard one of the most popular shows in Broadway history is a testament to how much of a genius he truly is (not to mention a fearless risk taker).

And yet many musical elitists (I'm referring to the Frank Rich types, those individuals who snub their noses at any show that isn't related to either Stephen Sondheim or some composer who has been dead for forty years) not only fail to acknowledge Webber's immense contributions to musical theater, but even revile him as being a "pop" composer who appeals to the brainless masses far too intellectually inept to grasp the profundity of a "real" musical. In some circles, if you confess to being a fan of Cats or Phantom, you might as well just write 'moron' across your forehead, because that is how you will be immediately branded anyway. I generally make it a point to ignore the musical elitists, because there really is no point in arguing with them. They have convinced themselves of their superiority to such a degree that any attempts to challenge their infallible opinions will appear as a completely foreign language. And if you accuse them of being elitist, the common answer is something to the extent of, "I'm not an elitist; I just know what I'm talking about."

And while there is certainly no denying that Webber's musicals are typically geared toward a wide audience, does that make him any less of a genius? Let his record speak for itself. The immeasurable success that Webber has experienced, and the amount of people who have been impacted by his work, is not something that one can learn by taking a survey or arranging a focus group. That sort of thing comes from within, and if his growing legacy is any indication, then Andrew Lloyd Webber will undoubtedly go down in history alongside Cole Porter, Rodgers & Hammerstein and Leonard Bernstein.

Say What You Will About Thrift Stores...



...but I am completely addicted to them. On Holt Avenue in Pomona, there are two really great ones that my friends and I like to peruse on a regular basis. If you have the patience to sift through mountains of crap, you are pretty much guaranteed to find some really excellent buys. It's sort of like a treasure hunt, really, and in many ways the hunt is more exciting than the purchases themselves. That doesn't take away from the fact that I am in fact cheap, but perhaps that makes the hunt all the more exciting. If I can find a pair of pants for 5 dollars that would cost me 20 at Target, I call that a victory.

So yesterday I went with some friends to both of the thrift stores I just described, and was reminded that with thrift store shopping also comes heartbreak. For instance, I found a like-new Bad Religion (one of my favorite bands on Earth) t-shirt for $1.99, and my heart nearly skipped a beat; it was black and everything. Just one problem: it was an XL. Being the Medium that I am, I hung my head in shame and continued walking. There was also a great pair of Puma shoes in my size that looked practically new; Kumphak informed me that these shoes cost a lot of money in retail stores, and I should snatch them up since they were only five dollars. I would have too, except they were gray. So it would seem that thrift store shopping is a lot like dating. Sometimes your dreams come true, and sometimes you walk away brokenhearted.



That's right, boyyyyy



Thrift stores are great places to take glamor shots. You can put the clothes right back on the rack when you're finished.



Don't be deceived. I'm actually not as happy as I appear.

Not Quite Notre Dame, but Nevertheless...


The picture you see to the left is of the historic Mission Inn in Riverside CA, an immaculate old hotel with a unique history and even more unique architecture. I have a lot of great memories at that place: sleeping in reportedly-haunted rooms, attending parties and brunches, getting drunk on Tanqueray, all that kid stuff. I was turned on to the place by my dad and his fiancé, who not only frequent the place but also collect old trinkets from the Inn. It's an incredibly beautiful hotel, but also kind of spooky, which makes it all the more appealing.



I have been so impacted by this amazing place that it has become the prime inspiration for my new novel, The Black Portrait Estate. The "story" is actually about five stories in one, all taking place in a mysterious hotel known as The Black Portrait Estate, over the course of a weekend. The "main character," if you will, is the Estate itself, much like how the "main character" in Victor Hugo's masterpiece Notre Dame de Paris (or, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as it has been dumbed down for those of us in the English-speaking world) is the cathedral, and not (despite popular understanding) the hunchback, the gypsy, the cleric or anyone else.

There is great power in a place of history. An inanimate landmark can in many cases have more character than the living people who inhabit it. My grandmother was telling me recently about all of the amazing cathedrals she has visited in London, Paris and Florence, among other places. The way she described them really made them seem alive, as though they sheltered physical remnants of all those who had contributed to their existence and their history: the stone masons, the knights, the priests, the followers, and even the literature and art that was borne from their influence. I envision The Black Portrait Estate as such a place, but existing in a completely different universe of imagination, which, when you really get down to it, is what makes even tangible landmarks spectacular.

Just thinking out loud here...



I want to record a cover of Dramarama's Anything, Anything. That song is the reason they invented the term "bad-ass."

Give Up The Grudge



I went with some friends to Ontario Mills this afternoon. We had an early dinner at Hooters (half-priced wings during Happy Hour!) and then headed to AMC to watch the latest Japanese horror import, Shutter. I usually like to check out the new J-horror releases because I love a good ghost story, even though the vast majority of these films are really bad. For every gem like The Ring and The Grudge, there are a dozen duds like Dark Water, One Missed Call and Pulse.

This latest import wasn't as abysmal as some of the others, but nevertheless it was far from being a masterpiece. One of my friends, Toshiko, speaks fluent Japanese and so she was able to interpret much of the Japanese dialogue that revealed facts about the film that were never otherwise brought to light, which is kind of cool, I suppose. It makes me feel as though I'm privy to information that other white boys are not. But at this point I'm rambling.

The point I want to make is that it seems like they're phoning in these horror movies. Later this year, they're supposed to be releasing an American remake of the Asian classic A Tale of Two Sisters, one of my favorite eastern horror films, and I shudder to think how they'll destroy that one. Hollywood has decided that Asian horror films are a major cash cow, no matter how poorly they are remade. A good horror movie, though, is so much more than women in corpse makeup jumping out of closets. It's about atmosphere, and most importantly it's about subtlety, because in order for a movie to scare us, we must be made to believe that it could actually happen to us. The last truly good horror movie I saw was The Orphanage, and I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't seen it. I think that the reason for it's brilliance is that it is an authentic Spanish import, and the formula morons in Hollywood haven't had a chance to get their hands on it...

...yet.

Be afraid.

I Never Thought I'd Say This...



...but I sort of relate to Barack Obama (but only slightly). Said Obama during his now famous race speech:

I have already condemned, in unequivocal terms, the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused such controversy. For some, nagging questions remain. Did I know him to be an occasionally fierce critic of American domestic and foreign policy? Of course. Did I ever hear him make remarks that could be considered controversial while I sat in church? Yes. Did I strongly disagree with many of his political views? Absolutely - just as I'm sure many of you have heard remarks from your pastors, priests, or rabbis with which you strongly disagreed.

Now, it's easy to call Obama a hypocrite, a panderer, a man who will do or say whatever it takes to maintain the support of the American public during this contentious primary season. I have to admit, though, that the more I think about it, the more I know where he's coming from. Being that I am a social libertarian (for the most part) in an evangelical church, I have had my share of disagreements with my pastor. In recent weeks, for examples, the church has been encouraging people to provide their signatures in favor of the California Marriage Amendment, the so-called "Voter's Right To Protect Marriage Initiative." Now, I am just as much a Christian as anyone else in the congregation (though some of my more conservative friends might dispute that notion), and I personally oppose this measure, quite vehemently.

My question to anyone in support of barring same-sex marriage is this: What would such an amendment accomplish for the betterment of society? Folks like Dr. James Dobson will tell you that for a society to accept gay marriage sets a precedent that opens the door for polygamy, group marriage, and somewhere down the line perhaps even bestiality. Then you have to (heaven forfend!) allow gays to adopt kids, which will cause the kids to become all screwed up in the head, and before you know it we're living in Sodom and Gomorrah.

Now, I don't pretend to understand the psychology of a homosexual (although those of you familiar with my love of musical theater have probably had your suspicions about me); I do not have feelings of homosexuality, and the legality or lack thereof has no direct impact on my existence, so this is not some personal vendetta of mine. This is simply a matter of recognizing that the government has a place in society, and the marriage business is not it. It might surprise some people to learn that the federal government had no established place in marriage until 1920, and even state governments didn't get involved until after the Civil War, when slaves were freed and some feared the evils of interracial unions. The only way to prevent such unions and effectively institute anti-miscegenation laws was to keep an eye on who was marrying who. Prior to that time, marriage was simply a personal matter; there were no government licenses, and nobody felt as though their union was invalid because of a lack of federal recognition. So if conservatives wish to be angry about the government undermining the sanctity of marriage, then they should be upset about their government ever having gotten involved in the first place. Our leaders have done more to undermine the sanctity of marriage over the past 150 years by using heterosexual unions than most people even begin to realize. Marriage as it is defined today is more of an IRS matter than a spiritual union.

But since the damage is already done, the government has a responsibility to extend equal rights to everyone. I don't believe we can ever return to the days when marriage was truly a personal matter, and allowing gays to marry is not going to usher in the great tribulation. In fact evangelical Christians are shooting themselves in the foot by opposing such unions because we are only further alienating people who already think we're bigots, and since so many Christians are concerned with "making disciples of all nations," this really isn't helping matters.

And just another quick word about Barack Obama. I can happily say that although I believe my pastor to have some misplaced priorities, he in no way embodies the vitriol and hatred of Obama's former pastor, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. If he did, I would have nothing to do with that church, as my ability to respectfully disagree with someone can only go so far. When a man can passionately refer to American troops with the statement, "America's chickens are coming home to roost," that is beyond reprehensible. If it were discovered that a Republican candidate attended Westboro Baptist Church, that person's political career would be over immediately, and rightfully so. Something to think about.

To whom it may concern



One of my many, many hobbies is to collect autographs from actors/musician/public figures whom I admire. I've built a fairly modest collection over the years: Elisa Donovan, Sarah Michelle Gellar, James Taylor, Eric Idle, Ashley Judd, Larry Elder, The Eyeliners, The Halo Friendlies, Save Ferris, Meredith Bishop, Giada de Laurentiis, Penn and Teller, Nigella Lawson, Tammy Bruce, Joy Electric and others. Most are personalized, some are not. They have come as a result of fan letters, concerts and book signings, mostly (I always do well at the LA Times Festival of Books). I haven't actually written a fan letter since high school, not because I feel like I'm too old, but I probably fell out of the habit because it can get expensive buying all of those stamps and manila envelopes, and then having to wait sometimes several months for a reply.

Still, I've been thinking more and more about it lately. I really used to enjoy writing fan letters, and of course getting responses. I've decided to get back into the habit, since everybody needs to collect something (or so I am told), and my collection has slowed down quite a bit. I've made a list of people that I really want to write to:

Jerry Lewis (my idol)
Kristin Chenoweth (the love of my life)
Bernadette Peters (one of the most gifted performers on Earth)
Milla Jovovich (I like her acting, but I love her music)
Kate Beckinsale (beauty personified)


And that's probably all I can afford right now, but more will follow...

Where there never was a hat...

After months of deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that Stephen Sondheim's hit musical Sunday in the Park with George is the single greatest artistic masterpiece of the 20th century. I'm exaggerating, of course, but only slightly. I was watching the DVD again this evening, a performance of the show recorded on Broadway circa 1986 with the original cast, Mandy Patinkin and Bernadette Peters in the lead roles. And for the record, I gush over this musical for many reasons, and not only because I'm madly in love with Bernadette Peters (a woman who, despite the forces of nature, simply does not age).

For those of you who don't know, Sunday in the Park is a fictional account of the life of the famous painter Georges Seurat, during that period in his life when he worked to create his masterpiece, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. It's a story of isolation, obsession, love, loss, art, conformity, regret and a longing for recognition that transcends generations. Anyone who has ever struggled with their art (whether music, literature, painting, or any creative endeavor) can relate to this profound story, and anyone who has ever loved can relate as well.

The brilliance of this Sondheim musical, though, lies not so much in the theme, but in the subtext. When you can take a line as simple as "where there never was a hat," and analyze the hell out of it until you've practically cracked the very meaning of life, you know you're dealing with a true masterpiece. Songs like "We Do Not Belong Together," "Finishing the Hat" and "Move On" are some of the most powerful and touching numbers that modern musical theater has to offer. As I was watching the DVD tonight, I was once again struck by my favorite lines, sung so mellifluously by Bernadette Peters: "Stop worrying if your vision is new; let others make that decision, they usually do; you keep moving on." I think I'm comfortable enough in my manhood to admit that I cannot get through that song without weeping.

Farewell UCR....I think.



Today I attended my last class at UCR. It's weird, and I feel like a chapter of my life has ended, but I realize that it's only sad in a bittersweet kind of way. Like, it kind of bummed me out to think that I may never step foot in another classroom, but at the same time I was thinking, "Dear God, I hope I never have to step foot in another classroom." That was after taking a three-hour final, though (see yesterday's entry). Now I'm just going to enjoy a brief, self-appointed spring break and start looking for a real job.

In other news, the new Foxglove Hunt CD is amazing. It sounds like Joy Electric and Fine China tossed into a blender with a sprinkle of New Order (and yes, I fully realize that most of you will have no idea what that means, but definitely check them out regardless).