Today brought a relief from the heat and a list of firsts for this new life in Asheville. First on the list of firsts was my first haircut here. I was a little nervous about this. As most of you know, I have curly hair and have been on the receiving end of many a clueless stylist. Trust me, it's no fun having big, frizzy Bozo hair. Alan, my hair guru in Los Angeles, did such a competent job, I was considering holding off on the haircut until my first visit back to Los Angeles. But we're going to a ball on Saturday night, so I felt I was overdue for a little trim. I was sent to a salon downtown and met with a really sweet (and young) hair stylist. The result was not so bad. While taming my unruly locks, she told me stories about life in Asheville, the arts scene and the jack-o-lantern skills I would need to acquire to take part in my neighborhood's annual Halloween event.
Next, it was off to the comic book store. I've been searching for a friendly place where I can get my weekly stash of comic books. Of course, nothing could replace House of Secrets in Burbank, but Pastimes in Asheville comes pretty close. If you've ever seen the Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons, you have a pretty good idea of the characters one encounters at comic book stores. Luckily, the proprietor of Pastimes was delightful and extremely helpful. I'm setting up an account, so I won't miss a single issue of Thor or Wonder Woman. So you can all rest a little easier now, knowing I'm getting my fix.
In the evening, we met friends at a local pub for cocktails and pitchers of tater tots. Really. Then it was off to see our first Asheville drag show. I don't know if anyone has ever used the word homespun to describe a drag show, but there was a fun, down-to-earth quality to it that was thoroughly enjoyable. The writing was crisp, the jokes hilarious and the music choices delightful. You just can't beat a drag queen crooning "Memory" while doing her best impersonation of a cat. Plus, the bartender made a really tasty cosmo, which is my litmus test for any bar or venue.
So I guess what all of this suggests is that we're slowly, but surely being absorbed into daily life in Asheville. I'm particularly looking forward to the aforementioned ball. I've never been to a ball. But I do like saying the word a lot. I intend to slip into full Cinderella mode as I get ready for said ball. Hopefully, my fairy godmother will show up and perform a little magic on my wardrobe. Or maybe turn Henry into a horse-drawn carriage or stretch limo.
So as my day of firsts ends, I realize we're also coming up on our first month here. Time flies, even in relaxing, slow-moving Asheville.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
"They Keep the Yuppies Out"
One of my primary concerns about moving to the South was...how shall I put this? I was concerned about a certain element of the population... Basically, I was worried about rednecks.
It's an unfair stereotype, I know. And it's a difficult distinction to make. Some would classify anyone living in the South as a redneck. But I don't believe that's true. I grew up in Oklahoma, so I know a thing or two about rural life. There are good people everywhere. Honest, hard-working, God-fearing, country music-listening people who may not know anything about me or my life, but also wouldn't join in a posse to hunt me down.
Before we moved here, I asked everyone we spoke to about living as an openly gay couple in the South. One fellow told us that neighbors help and look out for each other and don't care about anything else. But there was a caveat, and it's one gay people hear all the time: "as long as you're not throwing it in their faces." This is also often expressed as "as long as you're not flaunting your lifestyle." And therein lies the fear and panic. Because it's just normal behavior to me, so how do I know what will set someone off? I don't want to be helping Michael carry in the groceries one day and suddenly have angry mobs and burning crosses on my lawn.
So I guess I define a redneck as being intolerant and violent. And really, that could describe any bigot anywhere, not just in the South.
Michael and I had dinner last night with a terrific couple of guys we met way back during our karaoke bowling experience. They made some joke about "the rednecks coming down from the mountains," so I thought I would get their take on the subject and whether it was a geographical phenomenon or not. One of the guys explained that, just like in Los Angeles, there are probably some neighborhoods where you don't want to go for a walk by yourself. "You have gangs. We have rednecks," he said. His partner had a different take. "I'm glad we have rednecks," he said. "I'm glad there's a ring of them all around us. They keep the yuppies out."
I used to think it was easy to identify gang members in Los Angeles, but that was before it became fashionable for everyone to wear their jeans around their knees.
Plus, I'm not willing to try to categorize possibly hostile residents by what they're wearing. However, if someone who lived in another part of the country told me they wouldn't live in Los Angeles because of gang violence, I would probably laugh, because for the most part, you really have to go look for it. We lived in the Valley for God's sake.
None of the gay people we've talked to here have had any violent encounters with local residents. So maybe the Southern redneck is more myth than reality. Plus, I'd like to believe that as long as you're polite and friendly with people, no matter who they are or what they're wearing or where they live, you're going to be okay. They may turn around and tell a friend about the crazy fag they met that day, but they're not going to kill me.
Politics and religion are definitely big parts of it, too. Over the past eight years, people have been whipped into a frenzy and told by their own government that they need to fear and subjugate gays at all costs. So at this point, there's really no telling who might snap and try to hurt us. It could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.
Well...have a nice day!
It's an unfair stereotype, I know. And it's a difficult distinction to make. Some would classify anyone living in the South as a redneck. But I don't believe that's true. I grew up in Oklahoma, so I know a thing or two about rural life. There are good people everywhere. Honest, hard-working, God-fearing, country music-listening people who may not know anything about me or my life, but also wouldn't join in a posse to hunt me down.
Before we moved here, I asked everyone we spoke to about living as an openly gay couple in the South. One fellow told us that neighbors help and look out for each other and don't care about anything else. But there was a caveat, and it's one gay people hear all the time: "as long as you're not throwing it in their faces." This is also often expressed as "as long as you're not flaunting your lifestyle." And therein lies the fear and panic. Because it's just normal behavior to me, so how do I know what will set someone off? I don't want to be helping Michael carry in the groceries one day and suddenly have angry mobs and burning crosses on my lawn.
So I guess I define a redneck as being intolerant and violent. And really, that could describe any bigot anywhere, not just in the South.
Michael and I had dinner last night with a terrific couple of guys we met way back during our karaoke bowling experience. They made some joke about "the rednecks coming down from the mountains," so I thought I would get their take on the subject and whether it was a geographical phenomenon or not. One of the guys explained that, just like in Los Angeles, there are probably some neighborhoods where you don't want to go for a walk by yourself. "You have gangs. We have rednecks," he said. His partner had a different take. "I'm glad we have rednecks," he said. "I'm glad there's a ring of them all around us. They keep the yuppies out."
I used to think it was easy to identify gang members in Los Angeles, but that was before it became fashionable for everyone to wear their jeans around their knees.
Plus, I'm not willing to try to categorize possibly hostile residents by what they're wearing. However, if someone who lived in another part of the country told me they wouldn't live in Los Angeles because of gang violence, I would probably laugh, because for the most part, you really have to go look for it. We lived in the Valley for God's sake.
None of the gay people we've talked to here have had any violent encounters with local residents. So maybe the Southern redneck is more myth than reality. Plus, I'd like to believe that as long as you're polite and friendly with people, no matter who they are or what they're wearing or where they live, you're going to be okay. They may turn around and tell a friend about the crazy fag they met that day, but they're not going to kill me.
Politics and religion are definitely big parts of it, too. Over the past eight years, people have been whipped into a frenzy and told by their own government that they need to fear and subjugate gays at all costs. So at this point, there's really no telling who might snap and try to hurt us. It could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.
Well...have a nice day!
Monday, June 9, 2008
Asheville Arts
When it comes to theatre, I do like spectacle. I have been known to cheer and applaud when a big, crazy set piece rolls on stage or a particularly brilliant light cue comes up. But my favorite kind of theatre is a little more organic. You really only need three pieces to make theatre of any kind: space, performer and audience. So the plays or performances I see that stick most closely to those three elements, yet still manage to create a world and move an audience, are my favorite experiences. I particularly like seeing performances that feel like Mickey and Judy decided to round up their friends and put on a show in the barn in order to save the farm.
Saturday night, Michael and I attended a performance benefiting the Asheville Community Theatre (ACT). The show was called Divalicious and featured eight local Asheville personalities competing for the title of ACT Diva 2008. The contestants ranged from seasoned performers to a local restaurateur and a city councilwoman. It was loads of fun, with a wide variety of wild, campy, touching performances from each of the participants. It was a well-produced show, but still managed to feel like a bunch of friends who got together to save the farm.
Seeing all the talent Asheville has to offer, I wonder why anyone who can sing and act and dance would be in the mountains instead of in Hollywood or New York. Then again, Asheville is developing a reputation as a music and cultural arts center. The guy who is fixing our fence told me that musicians from all over the country are coming to Asheville to play the club and festival scenes as a career starting point. And if the fence guy knows that, there must be something to it. There are lots of street musicians and performers on the weekends, which also follows the three basic elements of theatre: space, performer, audience. A sidewalk is just as viable a stage as the Staples Center. You can get better seats on the street, too, and don't always have to go through a broker just to get a floor seat. Stupid Ticketmaster.
I'm looking forward to seeing more theatre here. The Montford Park Players are having their annual Shakespeare festival this summer, rain or shine. And ACT's next offering is I Hate Hamlet, which is one of my favorite Paul Rudnick plays. Next weekend, we'll be attending another fundraiser for the arts, which brings our tally up to:
Arts Fundraisers Attended: 2
Arts Performances Attended: 0
So we need to get some tickets to stuff soon, before all our money goes to fundraisers and we can't afford to see the arts we're supporting.
Saturday night, Michael and I attended a performance benefiting the Asheville Community Theatre (ACT). The show was called Divalicious and featured eight local Asheville personalities competing for the title of ACT Diva 2008. The contestants ranged from seasoned performers to a local restaurateur and a city councilwoman. It was loads of fun, with a wide variety of wild, campy, touching performances from each of the participants. It was a well-produced show, but still managed to feel like a bunch of friends who got together to save the farm.
Seeing all the talent Asheville has to offer, I wonder why anyone who can sing and act and dance would be in the mountains instead of in Hollywood or New York. Then again, Asheville is developing a reputation as a music and cultural arts center. The guy who is fixing our fence told me that musicians from all over the country are coming to Asheville to play the club and festival scenes as a career starting point. And if the fence guy knows that, there must be something to it. There are lots of street musicians and performers on the weekends, which also follows the three basic elements of theatre: space, performer, audience. A sidewalk is just as viable a stage as the Staples Center. You can get better seats on the street, too, and don't always have to go through a broker just to get a floor seat. Stupid Ticketmaster.
I'm looking forward to seeing more theatre here. The Montford Park Players are having their annual Shakespeare festival this summer, rain or shine. And ACT's next offering is I Hate Hamlet, which is one of my favorite Paul Rudnick plays. Next weekend, we'll be attending another fundraiser for the arts, which brings our tally up to:
Arts Fundraisers Attended: 2
Arts Performances Attended: 0
So we need to get some tickets to stuff soon, before all our money goes to fundraisers and we can't afford to see the arts we're supporting.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Mommie Dearest
I thought I would take a moment and tell anyone who happens to be reading this that I have a good mother. She's concerned that my blog entries could be construed as a daily treatise on her failings. Nothing could be further from the truth. If I am philosophical or self-critical or overly analytical, it's because that's part of what this whole year is about.
I'm taking a good look at my life and trying to decide what to do next, and that includes examining where I've been and the mistakes I've made along the way. This is a rare opportunity to stop, take a breath, get out the microscope and really look at things and figure out what I need to learn and do to be happy and fulfilled in the next chapter of my life.
So please keep in mind that if I start droning on about areas I'd like to improve in my head or body or life, it's NOT my mother's fault. More likely it's all my father's fault.
Speaking of my father, he'll be happy to know that I went to a sporting event last night. I believe they call it "the base ball game." The Asheville Tourists were playing the Hickory Crawdads. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I'm told that people enjoy the base ball game along with their moms and apple pie. Though I didn't see any apple pie last night. Luckily, the Asheville Tourists won, 5-4! Funny story, during the game, I had a long conversation with another attendee, and had to fairly shout to be heard. After our conversation, she turned to me and said, "You're so quiet." So I'm learning that volume isn't really a piece of that puzzle. The enigma continues.
Incidentally, I do know what baseball is. I was kidding about that. In fact, just to bring this thing full circle, when I was a kid, my mother made me sign up for little league in a last-ditch attempt to impress my father. I threw away the practice and game schedule and made up alternative times, so that when she took me to practice or a game, no one else would be there. She finally figured out that ruse and I was forced to play in an actual game. Where I promptly broke my little finger, disfiguring it for life and ending my dreams of being a hand model.
So, I guess in this case, I do blame my mother (and by extension my father) for this particular shortcoming. I can't wear a ring on my ring finger next to my broken pinkie, and I can't do any sign language with my right hand that involves that finger. In fact, now that I think about it, my deformed pinkie could be the root of all my problems. Hmmm.
You can see photos from the game here.
I'm taking a good look at my life and trying to decide what to do next, and that includes examining where I've been and the mistakes I've made along the way. This is a rare opportunity to stop, take a breath, get out the microscope and really look at things and figure out what I need to learn and do to be happy and fulfilled in the next chapter of my life.
So please keep in mind that if I start droning on about areas I'd like to improve in my head or body or life, it's NOT my mother's fault. More likely it's all my father's fault.
Speaking of my father, he'll be happy to know that I went to a sporting event last night. I believe they call it "the base ball game." The Asheville Tourists were playing the Hickory Crawdads. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I'm told that people enjoy the base ball game along with their moms and apple pie. Though I didn't see any apple pie last night. Luckily, the Asheville Tourists won, 5-4! Funny story, during the game, I had a long conversation with another attendee, and had to fairly shout to be heard. After our conversation, she turned to me and said, "You're so quiet." So I'm learning that volume isn't really a piece of that puzzle. The enigma continues.
Incidentally, I do know what baseball is. I was kidding about that. In fact, just to bring this thing full circle, when I was a kid, my mother made me sign up for little league in a last-ditch attempt to impress my father. I threw away the practice and game schedule and made up alternative times, so that when she took me to practice or a game, no one else would be there. She finally figured out that ruse and I was forced to play in an actual game. Where I promptly broke my little finger, disfiguring it for life and ending my dreams of being a hand model.
So, I guess in this case, I do blame my mother (and by extension my father) for this particular shortcoming. I can't wear a ring on my ring finger next to my broken pinkie, and I can't do any sign language with my right hand that involves that finger. In fact, now that I think about it, my deformed pinkie could be the root of all my problems. Hmmm.
You can see photos from the game here.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thoreau It Away
Still unpacking. My joy at finally receiving all our stuff has quickly turned to despair. As I predicted while packing back in Los Angeles, I'm now opening boxes and thinking, "I can't believe I moved this across the country. Now what am I going to do with it?" Thoreau said, "Simplify, simplify." So now I'm faced with the prospect of downsizing after the move, when I should have done it before and saved about a thousand pounds.
With Thoreau shaking his head at me, I decided to stroll down to the lake, our own little Walden Pond, and cool off a little bit. I've always had a huge respect for nature. I'm a card-carrying tree-hugger from way back. But I've always kept nature at a distance. I don't hike. I don't camp. I love viewing fall foliage, especially from inside a car. Maybe I'm rebelling against my rural Oklahoma upbringing, or maybe I just like things to be neat and tidy, and nature has a tendency to be a big old mess. Either way, I'm now completely surrounded by nature and would very much like to organize it a little.
Sitting on the dock, enjoying the cool breezes and watching the ripples in the water, I kind of got it. You know, got it. Like, I see why people love nature. I see why people want to spend time in it. It's refreshing...but more than that, I can see how it holds a promise to make you better...to cleanse your soul somehow. Since I have more than a drop or two of Cherokee blood in my veins, I tried to look at the surrounding mountains and imagine them devoid of human life. What must it have been like for the Cherokees who decided to flee the Trail of Tears and hide out in the North Carolina mountains? You don't get much closer to nature than that.
Thoreau also said, "Still, we live meanly like ants." Man's true nature may not be so far removed from the wilds he tries to conquer after all. That Thoreau, he said a lot of stuff.
The problem with nature is that once you become part of it, you're fair game. And by game, I mean food. Nature is always waiting for you to fall in a lake or stop to tie your shoe, so it can pounce. Which is probably why rolling over it all with concrete and steel probably gives us a feeling of safety and victory. We've conquered nature. We won't be eaten by bears or moose today.
As I sat on the dock, I looked up at the house and saw Henry step out on the porch. He looked and me, so I patted my leg for him to come down and join me. He stayed where he was, surveyed the scene, then turned around and went back inside. He's a city dog, after all. So I packed up my thoughts and my Thoreau and joined him.
With Thoreau shaking his head at me, I decided to stroll down to the lake, our own little Walden Pond, and cool off a little bit. I've always had a huge respect for nature. I'm a card-carrying tree-hugger from way back. But I've always kept nature at a distance. I don't hike. I don't camp. I love viewing fall foliage, especially from inside a car. Maybe I'm rebelling against my rural Oklahoma upbringing, or maybe I just like things to be neat and tidy, and nature has a tendency to be a big old mess. Either way, I'm now completely surrounded by nature and would very much like to organize it a little.
Sitting on the dock, enjoying the cool breezes and watching the ripples in the water, I kind of got it. You know, got it. Like, I see why people love nature. I see why people want to spend time in it. It's refreshing...but more than that, I can see how it holds a promise to make you better...to cleanse your soul somehow. Since I have more than a drop or two of Cherokee blood in my veins, I tried to look at the surrounding mountains and imagine them devoid of human life. What must it have been like for the Cherokees who decided to flee the Trail of Tears and hide out in the North Carolina mountains? You don't get much closer to nature than that.
Thoreau also said, "Still, we live meanly like ants." Man's true nature may not be so far removed from the wilds he tries to conquer after all. That Thoreau, he said a lot of stuff.
The problem with nature is that once you become part of it, you're fair game. And by game, I mean food. Nature is always waiting for you to fall in a lake or stop to tie your shoe, so it can pounce. Which is probably why rolling over it all with concrete and steel probably gives us a feeling of safety and victory. We've conquered nature. We won't be eaten by bears or moose today.
As I sat on the dock, I looked up at the house and saw Henry step out on the porch. He looked and me, so I patted my leg for him to come down and join me. He stayed where he was, surveyed the scene, then turned around and went back inside. He's a city dog, after all. So I packed up my thoughts and my Thoreau and joined him.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Something Good
I know I quote show tunes a lot. But besides English, it's really the only other language I know. So today we're quoting from The Sound of Music. "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good." It's easy to look at my life as a long series of failures. Career, weight, personal relationships, that whole Debbie Gibson era. I've made a lot of mistakes, a lot of crazy choices and failed. A lot. But somewhere, somehow, I got Michael. Completely undeserved and unexpected. A shining, gleaming success.
Admittedly, I've been enthusiastic, but skeptical about this whole adventure. I'm a skeptical person. Pessimistically, reservedly skeptical. And it's just in my nature to expect disaster around every corner. Somehow, Michael is optimistic, open-minded and expects the best outcome in any situation. I suppose there's a lesson to be learned there, self-fulfilling prophesy and how we make our own luck and good fortune and all that. To be fair, I do bring a little helpful pragmatism to the relationship. Like when Michael's standing in a puddle of water and about to stick a fork in the toaster, I tend to say, "Please don't do that."
So somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done some little thing, some act of kindness that the universe noted and said, "We'll give him Michael later on, that'll shut up all his complaining for the rest of his life." Whatever it was, I'm glad I did it. Though if it was nice, I'm sure I probably did it by mistake. But I'm not complaining.
Admittedly, I've been enthusiastic, but skeptical about this whole adventure. I'm a skeptical person. Pessimistically, reservedly skeptical. And it's just in my nature to expect disaster around every corner. Somehow, Michael is optimistic, open-minded and expects the best outcome in any situation. I suppose there's a lesson to be learned there, self-fulfilling prophesy and how we make our own luck and good fortune and all that. To be fair, I do bring a little helpful pragmatism to the relationship. Like when Michael's standing in a puddle of water and about to stick a fork in the toaster, I tend to say, "Please don't do that."
So somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done some little thing, some act of kindness that the universe noted and said, "We'll give him Michael later on, that'll shut up all his complaining for the rest of his life." Whatever it was, I'm glad I did it. Though if it was nice, I'm sure I probably did it by mistake. But I'm not complaining.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Culture Shock: Part 2
I never thought I lived life in the fast lane back in Los Angeles. In fact, I often became annoyed with people who exhibited impatient behavior, whether on the freeway or in line at the grocery store. Really, does the five seconds you save by barking at the cashier really make that much of a difference in your day?
So I didn't think I would have any problem adapting to a slower pace. We were warned, after all. On one of our initial trips to Asheville, we met a woman who had moved here from a big city and ominously told us not to expect a quick meal at any restaurants in the South.
People here aren't in any hurry, it seems. And apparently, I am so used to rushing around, part of the big Los Angeles machine, always set to high speed, that I didn't even realize it. So now the wait in any line seems interminable to me. Oh my God, when someone asks "How are you?" here, they really want to know! And people will respond and tell them! At length!
Restaurants in Los Angeles want you in and out as soon as possible. No time to dilly-dally! But here, they seem to expect you're going to take your time and stay a while. The other night, our dinner of wine and cheese took two-and-a-half hours! No one seems in any hurry to bring or take your check, either. It's as if they think dinner should be relished and enjoyed and that conversation is more important than turn-over. What the hell?
I'm doing my best to take a deep breath and relax when I start to feel like blowing a whistle and hustling people along. "Move it! Move it! I don't have all day, people!" We came here for a change of pace, so I know I need to try to fit in and enjoy that. Maybe more wine will help. I'll start having an extra glass or two with breakfast. Don't worry, it'll be 5:00 by the time the check comes.
So I didn't think I would have any problem adapting to a slower pace. We were warned, after all. On one of our initial trips to Asheville, we met a woman who had moved here from a big city and ominously told us not to expect a quick meal at any restaurants in the South.
People here aren't in any hurry, it seems. And apparently, I am so used to rushing around, part of the big Los Angeles machine, always set to high speed, that I didn't even realize it. So now the wait in any line seems interminable to me. Oh my God, when someone asks "How are you?" here, they really want to know! And people will respond and tell them! At length!
Restaurants in Los Angeles want you in and out as soon as possible. No time to dilly-dally! But here, they seem to expect you're going to take your time and stay a while. The other night, our dinner of wine and cheese took two-and-a-half hours! No one seems in any hurry to bring or take your check, either. It's as if they think dinner should be relished and enjoyed and that conversation is more important than turn-over. What the hell?
I'm doing my best to take a deep breath and relax when I start to feel like blowing a whistle and hustling people along. "Move it! Move it! I don't have all day, people!" We came here for a change of pace, so I know I need to try to fit in and enjoy that. Maybe more wine will help. I'll start having an extra glass or two with breakfast. Don't worry, it'll be 5:00 by the time the check comes.
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