Blogcritics Author: No Milk

About Another Boy, And A Different Life

No Milk — Mon, 3 Dec 2007 13:11:21 EST

Many feelings have come back to the fore as I read Nick Hornby's latest novel Slam...
When we talk about the future, my boyfriend and I have started saying things like "when we have kids..." or "when junior comes along..." I don't know when exactly this started, but I suppose that after almost six years of being together, thinking of the future in terms of vacations to take, or appliances to buy, or...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

In Pursuit of John McNally

No Milk — Sun, 30 Jul 2006 13:43:41 EDT

This is what it must feel like to be a stalker: nerves fire from every part of your body; your muscles quiver randomly like dandelions; your tired, blinkless eyes are like marathoners in the final mile, surging forward. There's a dry, brassy taste in my mouth, like deodorant or metal polish. I make a mental note to remind my boyfriend Brian to buy a different brand of metal polish – there must be one with a more pleasing scent – strawberry, perhaps.I'm at the Book Cellar, a genteel little bookstore in Lincoln Square, hiding behind the greeting card rack, like a lion waiting for my prey, the famous recluse, author John McNally, who was scheduled to do a reading and book signing. I scan the racks, hoping to find John an appropriate card for the occasion, one that says 'Congratulations!' or 'Good luck' or ''Til death do us part.' "Hey, No Milk," a man's voice behind me said. I turned around and it's John himself. He's tall, taller than I've imagined him to be from the picture in the back flap of his books. I imagined he would be, at most, six inches tall, with his lower body uncropped. But here he was, normal-sized and talking to me. It was a couple of seconds before I was able to respond with a weak "Hi!" I was amazed he even recognized me. The only explanation was that he must've read my blog and seen my pictures. But even that is surprising since I only post pictures of myself that are unrealistically attractive. They bear no resemblance to me in real life. In real life, I cannot hope to show only my 'good side' like Barbra Streisand. In real life, no cosmetic can cover up blemishes like Photoshop can. We spoke awkwardly for a few minutes. Our conversation was like a fish flopping about on dry land, gasping for a topic. I thanked him for sending me a copy of his book and he thanked me for posting my interview of him on my site. "Brian, my boyfriend, was saying that we should take a trip out to Duke's Italian Beef, out in Bridgeview," I said. "Is it like a Portillo's?" Portillo's is like the McDonald's of Italian Beef sandwiches in the Chicago area. "Nah," John said, "Duke's is more like a hole-in-the-wall." "I love hole-in-the-walls," I said excitedly, "in more ways than one!" He raised an eyebrow and said, "Ba-dum-bum." Ouch. But I didn't feel too bad because he grinned.The bookstore was filling up, everybody was looking for a seat. John excused himself politely. I found a seat for myself. My friend Annie, who came with me to the bookstore, sat next to me. I felt out of sorts. When I am in an audience, I am the guy who hoots and hollers, the one who initiates the clapping, the standing ovation. I looked around, scanning the small audience. People are seated, murmuring quietly. I wondered whether I should take my lighter out and raise it above my head, swaying. While John read from his new book, America's Report Card, I looked around. I wasn't listening; I had already read the book. I finished it quickly, in two late nights. My guess is that everybody in the audience had too. I was more interested in who I had to wrestle to get in front of the line for the signing later. An older woman, about sixty and with grey hair, sat a few seats away. She had a walker beside her. When I looked at her, she looked back, narrowing her eyes as she did. She had a stack of books on her lap. I was sure I could take her down. Or at least trip her. Later, John graciously signed all our books. As he rose to leave, a bald man who was sitting in the audience stood up. He was immensely tall. It was Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting and Porno. They chatted for bit. I tried to casually eavesdrop but I couldn't understand Irvine with his thick Scottish burr. In my mind, they were going to a nearby pub and were going to invite me and Annie along to discuss literature and booze and sex. It was perfect, I knew all about booze and sex. I stood right by the door for my invitation. Unfortunately, a night of literate debauchery was not to be, an invitation was not forthcoming. Annie and I left the bookstore only a little disappointed. We had our signed books and we shook John McNally's hand. I was even able to lightly touch Irvine Welsh with the back of my hand as I walked past him. That's enough for this stalker for one night.

An Interview with John McNally, Author of America's Report Card

No Milk — Sun, 9 Jul 2006 18:34:01 EDT

When John McNally, wrote to me several months ago that he was going to give me a copy of his new book America's Report Card, I ignored it as if it were a venereal disease: it's not real until the scabs appeared. I didn't think he was actually going to send me the book. As long-time readers know, I don't write very good reviews. I tell people that I like it or I hate it, period. I'm not one for unearthing the hidden meaning of art or delving into the mind of the artist. That's for people who have a spatula instead of a personality. However, what I am good at is the celebrity interview. I've done so, so many. This time I tried to get John to reveal more intimate facts about himself. Even if you've never read anything John McNally has written, you'll laugh (or cry) at his responses to my irreverent questions.NM: When you said that you were going to send me a copy of your new book after it was published, I thought you were full of shit. I was going to send you a laxative, but I didn't know your address. But the book actually appeared on my doorstep. I was in the middle of reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and Chuck Palahniuk's Invisible Monsters. Invisible Monsters was my bathroom read, I need literature to help pass the time while I take my long craps. Your book was going to be the book I read in the car while I was stuck in traffic, propped against the steering wheel. I almost got into an accident because I got so absorbed in it, it blew away both other books. I even took an extra long crap so I could finish the last chapter. You must be proud of this novel. But if you had to save only one of your books from a burning house, which one would you save?JM: If you mean which of the books I've written I would save, I would probably say none. I tend to hate everything I’ve written by the time it's published. Instead, I would save Richard Yates' novel Revolutionary Road. But if I could replace the medium, I would actually save all of the seasons of Deadwood on DVD. I'm writing an essay for a magazine about why Deadwood is the best mass entertainment since Dickens. So, there you have it. I'd run into the burning house, run past my own books, and snag all of Deadwood. I should say here that the mobile home my family lived in when I was three years old burned down in the middle of the night, and while I was watching from inside the trailer next door, I saw what my father threw out the front door as the highest priorities to save: a rug cleaner; an answering machine (this was a Code-a-Phone, circa 1968), and a birdcage with our pet bird inside. And that was pretty much all we ended up with. My pet turtle, which I had bought the week before at Goldblatt's, perished.NM: I must admit I had some trepidation when I heard your book was going to be called America's Report Card; I have such an aversion to politically themed books. I hate things that tax my wallet, and I hate books that tax my intellect. Interestingly, your book drew me into the characters and their lives while implanting me with political rhetoric. What came first, the chicken or the politics? JM: The chicken. The book began as an essay about my crappy job of scoring standardized tests, and how corrupt I thought the whole enterprise was. The essay didn't work, so several years later I pulled out my shoebox full of notes and tried writing it as a novel. The novel didn’t work, either. But then came Election Year 2004. I was growing more and more pissed off every time I saw Bush on TV, and so I went back and wondered what it would be like to try writing the novel in the very moment that I was living, letting whatever was on the news filter into the story and letting my own anger fuel the writing of the book. Once I figured out that I would end the book on Election Day, I had a structure for the book, and the rest of the elements all fell into place. The last thing I wanted to do was write a politically themed book, but I managed to find a roundabout way to write one.NM: You mention Duke's Italian Beef in this novel, as you did in The Book of Ralph. Let me tell you, the Italian Beef sandwich is probably the one food that exemplifies Chicago for me, more than the Deep Dish Pizza or the Chicago-style Hot Dog. There should be a fanfare of trumpets or a chorus of angels whenever it is served. I'm from the Philippines and closest we have to something as iconic as an Italian Beef sandwich is balut, which is boiled duck embryo, still in its shell. There is no fanfare or chorus when you eat it, just the imaginary high-pitched scream/quack of a tiny, featherless duckling stewed in its own amniotic fluid.This is the way I like my Italian Beef: on a warm, flaky bun with hot peppers and a side of the "juice" or gravy, which I will dip my sandwich in before each bite. Sometimes, in my haste, parts of the waxy paper they use to wrap the sandwich end up in my mouth. I will also throw a few fries at a time in the gravy to soak and cram into my mouth before they get soggy. I arm myself with a three-inch stack of napkins to deal with the inevitable mess of eating this delicious meal. Why does Duke's have such a hold on you? And have you ever had balut?JM: I have never had balut, but I’m game for anything stewed in its own amniotic fluid. Sounds wonderful. As for Duke’s, it’s the beef sandwich place of my youth, so it’s not just tasty Italian beef that lures me in, it’s the nostalgia I have for the building itself, it’s the melancholy that overcomes me when I step inside. I weep each time I visit Duke’s. It’s that frickin’ emotional for me.You and I both know that when you order food outside of Chicago that bills itself "Chicago-style" that it isn’t really "Chicago-style." It’s just crappy food with some marketing savvy slapped on it. I got married in Iowa City, where their idea of an Italian sausage sandwich is to grill the sausage like a hamburger patty and serve it on a bun. What the fuck is that? The day after my wife and I got hitched, we threw a party, and so I had a friend from Chicago cater Italian beef and Italian sausage. There are several photos of me explaining the proper way to eat the sandwiches. Our guests were virgins when it came to this shit. They were trying not to get the bun wet with beef sandwich juice. My mother-in-law actually wanted to toast her bun in our oven because she mistook the bun's durability for it being stale. I almost kicked her out of the house. What these people didn't understand is that a good Italian beef sandwich is messy. They were acting like I was serving deli sandwiches. NM: I am a very important blogger; my blog is read by my twin brother, my boyfriend, and his mother. They can mean the difference between the discount bin and a runaway hit novel, which believe it or not, is a very slim divide, especially for my boyfriend's mother; she's never paid full price for a book ever. This past 4th of July, after dinner, she took our styrofoam plates and plastic cutlery, rinsed them and put them back in the cupboard. How does it feel to be in the presence of blog royalty?JM: I am humbled, sir. I quake even as I type this.NM: Since you sent me a free copy of your book before its publication date, the sales for this novel are now negative one. We gotta get more people to read your books. You're such a talented writer, so I think we should do this by focusing on something totally superficial about you. Can you tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue or possibly have athlete's foot? JM: Why do you assume that there's anything superficial about me? I have a goddamn Ph.D. and teach at a prestigious university! Okay, here’s something I used to do - and would still be willing to do if it meant selling books. Back when I was single, my pick-up line -- after a long night of drinking -- was to offer to flip a girl over my back, judo-style. When I was younger, I had taken a bunch of different martial arts, fought in tournaments, and could break boards over my head, but as I got older, the only thing that remained was my ability to flip someone, which is pretty much useless unless it’s used as a pick-up line. And so I spent a few years, between my first and second marriages, flipping girls. It’s fun. They loved it; I loved it. So, here’s the deal. I’m old now and out of shape, and my lower back frequently gives out when I reach for something on my fridge's bottom shelf, but if someone under, say, 150 pounds wants me to flip them at a reading, I'll flip them, regardless of gender, race, religious affiliation, or sexual orientation.NM: I noticed that you dedicated your book to Ann Coulter, she of the neo-Hitler politics and the red lace teddy. You could've dedicated the book to your wife, but you didn’t. Unless "Ann Coulter" is your code word for your wife to do something raunchy, I imagine that you’re in the doghouse. This is your chance to make it up to her. Go. JM: You got me, man. Ann Coulter is indeed a code word, but only if I say her name in a negative light, as I do in the book's dedication. It's an angry dedication. The angrier the context in which I say Ms. Coulter's name, the rauchier things get. NM: Finish this sentence: Dennis Rodman wore a wedding dress to a book signing, John McNally is going to send more free books to --JM: --the first stranger who hugs me after a reading. And to you, sir, oh king of the blogs. You are on the permanent free books mailing list.So that's the interview. The book is part-thriller, part-dark comedy, part-political satire. I enjoyed it very much. I wasn't kidding about the extra long crap. It kept me up late to see what happens to the protagonist Charlie Wolf, 25, over-educated, semi-employed, who liked to have sex with his girlfriend whenever he popped a chicken pot pie in the oven. But here, listen, what if you were bumming around one summer after graduating, and you decide to take a job scoring essays for a national standardized exam and the answer to one of the questions was this:"I don't know who reads these things and I can't imagine what kind of sad life you must have but let me tell you a little bit about myself. My name's Jainey O'Sullivan, and when I was given an IQ test years ago I blew everyone else out of the water, but something's happened. Someone killed my art teacher, and I'm afraid they're after me now…"I hope you have one of those cushioned toilet seats. You're gonna want to take an extra long crap to find out what happens. John McNally, award-winning writer, Italian beef eater, is also the author of the acclaimed novel The Book of Ralph, which this writer actually paid for with his own money. The novel America's Report Card is on sale July 17, 2006.Another interview with the author by this interviewer.

Brokeback Mountain -- Not a "Gay" Film

No Milk — Sat, 24 Dec 2005 14:16:44 EST

When it comes to male-to-male sex in movies, I am completely jaded. The problem is that when filmmakers make these movies to cater to gay audiences, they think that all we want to see is the nudity. I think they really totally missed the point. We want to see ourselves portrayed just like real people. We want to see homos to meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after with as little clothing as possible.Brokeback Mountain is not that movie. First of all, they wear plaid. Second of all, the movie is set in Wyoming. Everybody knows that any gay kid over eighteen moves to a city where they have at least one gay bar that plays Madonna remixes. Third of all--did I already say they wore plaid? I mean, I don't think it would have bothered me so much if it was at least accessorized with Irony. A little ironing might have helped too.But for what it is, Brokeback Mountain is an excellent movie. I am not going to extol its virtues here because frankly, I'm sick of reading about this movie in blogs. There's so much gushing about this movie, it could sweep away an entire village. If this happened in Asia, it would trigger a tsunami. The Red Cross would have to provide relief by killing the victims. Besides, the last time I heard so much gushing was at a Beverly Hills colonic spa. However, I do have to say that the best thing about the movie is Heath Ledger and all the mumbling he does in the movie. I can't wait for him to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Performance by a Mumbler. He totally made me cry even though I couldn't understand a word he said. Now, that's acting. I can't wait for the inevitable gay porno version of the movie (Bareback Mountain--what else) where the bottom mumbles his way through an orgasm. It would be a welcome change from all the excessive moaning and groaning they do in porn. I do remember getting a boner during the movie. But you don't really want to hear about that, do you? Yeah, I'd rather you see it. It's a beaut.At some point during the movie, Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) tells Ennis (Heath Ledger) that after 20 years of being together, having sex three times a year wasn't enough for him. Then he cries like a leeettle guurl. He's lucky he even has sex. After being with my boyfriend Brian for four years, the only thing we do in bed now is fight over who's in charge of the TV remote. What did Jack expect? That gay sex is eternal, a continuous neverending chocolate fondue fountain? Gay sex is just like straight sex, except without the designer bedsheets, the twelve pillow shams and the stubborn lube stains. But this movie isn't about sex. This movie is about True Love. And True Love can't be about sex can it? Because all this time, we've been telling ourselves it's the relationship that matters. And if it wasn't about sex, well, then we're totally fucked. I don't think this movie is gonna change anybody's mind about gay people. It may change people's mind about Anne Hathaway though. Lovely, innocent, pristine Anne Hathaway, the star of the Disney movie The Princess Diaries blinds us with ten seconds of her smooth, milky white boobs. I think if I were I a straight guy, I would sit through two hours of True Gay Love just for a glimpse of those boobs. God knows, I sat through two hours of A Home at the End of the World for two blurred seconds of Colin Farrell's balls. What will change the minds of people is if this movie makes money. Because that's all people really care about. That's all politicians and businesses care about. It doesn't matter what the effin' right wing conservatives think. They don't matter. The good news is that this is a really good movie, maybe even a Great Movie, so you don't have to suffer through it or anything. I'm sure you've suffered through a really, really bad two-hour dinner just because you wanted to fuck the brains out of some really hot dish and I'm not talking about a warm apple pie. So go watch the movie already. Merry Christmas, ya big homo. -----Other questionable posts by No Milk. Visit the blog.

REVIEW: The Aristocrats

No Milk — Sun, 14 Aug 2005 11:20:19 EDT

WARNING: SPOILERS! GRAPHIC SEX, VIOLENCE AND PROFANITY. IF YOU READ THIS POST, YOU WILL HAVE NO REASON TO WATCH THIS STUPID MOVIE ABOUT THE DIRTIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD.-----A man comes into reality TV show producer Mark Burnett's office. He says, "I have a great concept for a reality show."Mark says in his British accent, "Hit me."The man says, "We bring in a pastor's family: husband and wife, their son, daughter and their cute golden retriever." "The pastor beats up his wife and punches her in the face until she's cut and bleeding. Then he face-fucks her until he reaches orgasm and comes on her face, the jizz mixing in with the blood. He ties her up in a chair and brings in his daughter and starts fucking her while his wife watches. After he's done he ties up his daughter and brings in his son. The father forces the son to fuck his daughter and when the son is done, the father starts fucking him. Then he brings in the dog and makes the dog fuck the wife, the daughter and the son, and then he fucks the dog."Mark sits there stunned. Then he says, "I like it! It's fresh, it's ground-breaking!" He jumps out of his black leather chair and starts pacing. "We may have to blur and bleep out some parts but I think it will be a hit!" He turns to the man and asks, "What do you call it?"The man says, "The Republicans.""Perfect! What about a sequel? Any ideas about that?" asks Mark."Absolutely!" says the man, "For the sequel, we bring in a black family and do the same thing except the wife will be pregnant and the father will perform an abortion. We'll call it The Democrats." That's it. That's the movie. I just saved you $10. Before you go all lunatic on me and start flaming this post, I want to mention that everything I wrote here is in the movie except Mark Burnett. I also left out the part about the n*ggers and Jesus coming back to earth to fuck everyone. -----Read another (less graphic) Blogcritic review.Other questionable posts by No Milk. Visit the blog.

Do-It-Yourself Bjork

No Milk — Tue, 2 Aug 2005 09:26:29 EDT

Oh no, not her again. I know I know I know, my boyfriend Brian would like to have a moratorium on Bjork posts as well. What do you do when you have a significant other that hates some artist or record that you absolutely love? It's almost like in my closeted teen days when I had a huge crush on Boy George. I didn't really know what to tell my family and friends about my obsession with this tall, outlandish, heavily made-up person. I needn't have bothered with my family. I talked to my parents a few months ago and they were going to turn my old room into a sewing room for my mother. They asked whether they could take the poster of that brutish, unattractive girl off the wall. I was like, "Oh sure! And wait, mom can probably use the sewing kit that I have under the bed. Does she like quilting? If you look behind my desk--I know it's heavy--there's a quilting frame she might be able to use as well." To my friends, I defended my musical choices by saying that it's just theatrics--it's performance, you know, like David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust phase, Michael Jackson in his Diana Ross phase or Michael Jackson in his LaToya Jackson phase. They all nodded their assent, but thought privately: what a big, raving F...ilipino.Before I got my iPod, I used to have to sneak into the garage and listen to Bjork in the car. I would grab my pack of Marlboro's and lighter and tell Brian I was out for a quick cig, which I would ditch for the CDs I stashed in the fire extinguisher cabinet. Apparently, it was a popular hiding place. I found a set of spare keys, a small bottle of whiskey, a tube of salmon pink lipstick. I thought, it's gotta be Chuck from 11N, he's the only one who had the right coloring for salmon pink. Because of this, I hadn't really been able to appreciate Med�lla , Bjork's foray into musical weirdness. But I wasn't too worried about it. Suffice it to say, an album of all vocals: choral, Inuit throat-singing and human beatboxes, was something I probably would listen to once, maybe twice, a year--three, if I was trying to get rid of unwanted guests.As has been her custom, Bjork would release various remixes of her singles. These singles often included some very good mixes that I sometimes prefer over the originals; I hungrily acquired them. She had even gone as far as releasing Telegram, an album of Post remixes. Telegram was very hit-or-miss, there were some cool mixes on it like "Isobel" and "I Miss You," but by and large, it was quite impenetrable, like Katie Holmes' skull. In addition, I would scour the local DJ record stores for "white labels," records of bootleg mixes of artists. That was 1996. Since then, with the help of production software like Sony's ACID-Pro 5, music lovers have turned their PCs and laptops into portable recording studios and themselves into amateur DJs. In 2005, as soon as a record hits the stores, fans puts their own spin into it and throw it out onto the internet. Google any song by an artist and the word "remix," it is very likely that you will find some aficionado's set. Some of these "amateurs" are so accomplished, their mixes sound better than the official releases. In the months following the release of Med�lla, Bjork had released three singles "Oceania," "Who Is It" and "Triumph of A Heart," of which, only "Who Is It" had remixes that appealed to me. The mixes of other two were so much in the vein of the original that I didn't get the point of them. I checked out sunday-in-the-park.com's Bjork Remix Web Archive, a good site to find homegrown mixes of the artist and I found a plethora of mixes from that album and previous ones. Med�lla makes it easier for the novice DJ to remix because there isn't a lot of production that you'd need to edit out or overlay; you can take the song to a direction that it wasn't meant to, you know, like a straight man after three beers. I was particularly impressed with Dark Jedi's remix of the dense "Where Is The Line." Where the original version was very darkly insistent, his remix added a sad, plaintiveness to the song. This is probably the hardest song in the album to remix. I think that when I first downloaded this mix, I must've played it thirty times, really getting into the groove of it. One of the more prolific ones, Dark Jedi offers five remixes from the album, including "Pleasure Is All Mine" and an industrial, bass-heavy "Oceania." Another exceptional remix is Prydrm's nervous, jittery version of "Triumph of A Heart." I am not sure how he eliminated Rahzel's beats, but it is undetectable. To confound me more, he offers a great melodic mix of "Mouth's Cradle."I was leery of Psy's "Out of the Deep" mix of "Submarine" at first. I wasn't sure of what anyone could do with the song and with Robert Wyatt's atonal backing vocals, but Psy transforms it with a hard-driving jungle beat. The repeated phrases of "do it now" and "out of the heavy deep sleep" becomes a hypnotic command. Digging further, I found Disk69's sensuous "Desired Constellation" and Jeranium's scratchy music box version of "Show Me Forgiveness." So here they are, in my humble opinion, the best do-it-yourself Med�lla remixes from the web. I suggest you download them and put them in the same order as the songs in the original CD. Mine includes the original version of "Sonnets / Unrealities XI," a beautiful a cappella song, which works surprisingly well among them. I've even provided the artwork, click on the scary Bjork picture in this post.Dark Jedi - Pleasure Is All Mine Jeranium - Show Me Forgiveness Dark Jedi - Where Is The Line Mark Bell - Who Is It (Choir Mix) - get it here Psy - Submarine (Out of The Deep Mix) Disk69 - Desired Constellation (MJU:O Mix) Dark Jedi - Oceania Prydrm - Mouth's Cradle (Hidden Cradle Mix) Prydrm - Triumph Of A HeartOther notable mixes: Lesser - Who Is It (c2n dattasette mix) - get it here Buddy Bravo - Oceania (Impression Mix) Buddy Bravo - Where Is The Line (Keybroad Mix) Dark Jedi - Show Me Forgiveness Dark Jedi - Desired Constellation Jeranium - Pleasure Is All MineNote: Find the mixes above (as well as others) in the Bjork Remix Web Archive-----My original Med�lla post "Bjork's Saga" by Alex Ross from The New YorkerOther questionable posts by No Milk. Visit the blog.

Book Review: A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby

No Milk — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 11:21:44 EDT

There are a lot of ways to commit suicide: jumping off a bridge, ODing on drugs, pissing off Oprah; but I've never really seriously considered it. I mean, yes, as with many alienated gay teens, I have fantasized about Ending It All instead of having to suffer one more day of wearing a uniform to high school. But in my fantasies, I've somehow skipped the killing myself part and pictured myself lying in the casket, looking serene and peaceful, a light dusting of powder on my nose and cheeks to prevent shine. My family would be wailing, beating on their chests. Serves them right for not letting me go to the Salsa and Merengue Dance Camp. Suicide is scary to me. Death is scary to me. I fear death because I fear the pain of dying. I visualize the dying, I visualize the pain. I have very lurid visions of what it would be like to be rammed head-on by a speeding semi-truck while driving on a highway. I look at a knife and imagine someone stabbing me repeatedly, my eyes watching the blood spurt from my chest, a silent scream frozen in my mouth. I think about suffocating under Star Jones and an avalanche of Payless shoes. But what of those who experience a pain in life that exceeds that of the pain of dying? At least when you're dead, there is no more pain. In life, you must continue to suffer. In life, you must continue to deal with loss, abandonment and rejection and then you have to walk eight blocks home in stiletto heels, two sizes too small. And I don't want to belittle the struggles of our gay youth, many of whom thoughts of suicide are not a fantasy, but a very real struggle. Even for gay kids with very understanding and supportive parents, the dangers of suicide and depression lurk. Some statistics may indicate that gay people, especially teens, are more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. I will not paint us queers as victims or martyrs, despite its possibilities for a one-man-cabaret show. But we must be vigilant. We must protect ourselves, protect our children, and we must charge a two-drink minimum. It seems ironic to me that the only kind of control suicides have on their lives is the manner of their deaths. But sometimes, even that is foiled. Of almost a third of people who fully intend to kill themselves, fewer than half succeed. Those that fail generally do so because of unexpected rescue, or, more often, mistakes in planning or knowledge.-----In a way, that's what happens in Nick Hornby's new novel A Long Way Down. Hornby conjures a story of four very different people, in very different times of their lives, who happen to meet one New Year's Eve at the top of the fictional Topper's House, a London building with the reputation of being a suicide's destination. It is this chance meeting that stops the four from going through with their plans. There is forty-something Martin, disgraced morning talk show host, ex-con, who had gone to jail for having sex with a minor; Maureen, middle-aged single mother, with a vegetable for a son and I don't mean a turnip; Jess, eighteen, heartbroken, who wonders why her ex-boyfriend won't explain to her why they broke up; and JJ, American, wanna-be rock star, condemned to a life of delivering pizza. Except for Martin, I thought about how flimsy some of the others' reasons were for ending their lives. But Hornby's ear for dialogue, his talent for moving the story forward, enabled me to get over the initial skepticism and get into the story.As it turns out, things run much deeper. As we get to know the characters and their lives, we find that there are many incidents that propelled these people towards that fateful New Year's Eve. It was as if events have aligned in such a manner that led them down this path. I am reminded of an article from The New Yorker which told about a guy in his thirties, who wrote a suicide note and left it on his bureau. It said, 'I'm going to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge. If one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump.' He jumped off the bridge. In A Long Way Down, the meeting of the four was an equivalent of that smile. It was the stay of execution, so to speak. They make a pact to get back together at the same place on Valentine's Day to see if they are still in the same place. Then, because of Martin's fame as an ex-talk show host, the tabloids got a hold of their story and their lives become entangled. I had to assume that these people were really serious about committing suicide otherwise the story would sorta fall apart. I'm not sure Nick Hornby really convinced me because the characters are so chatty, so full of life that it's hard to imagine them offing themselves. But then again, I've read about people who seemed to have everything going for them, go off and kill themselves, leaving friends and relatives mystified on what had happened. Three of the four are proto-Hornby characters: Martin, Jess and JJ are charmingly verbose, introspective and full of cultural references. However, it is middle-aged Maureen whom I identified with the most. She compares life to a television program about a Scottish detective who had family problems: "In an hour-long program, there was probably ten minutes of him arguing with his ex-wide and his children, and fifty minutes of him trying to find [the murderer]. That's about right to me, ten minutes an hour [dealing with problems]. But there have been lots of times when I couldn't stop [my son] from becoming sixty minutes an hour, and when you do that, you're bound to end up on the roof of Topper's House." I really enjoyed the novel. It is a quick read, a slim volume. It's better than How To Be Good, though not to the level of About A Boy or High Fidelity.-----I do have a very personal experience with suicide. Late one winter night, while I was driving home from a movie, I had received a tearful phone call from my friend Susannah. She was crying inconsolably, gasping out every word. She could not take a breath, there was so much grief pouring out of her. I tried to calm her down for a nearly an hour, listening and comforting. Then suddenly, she was quiet. She had finally calmed down, I thought. After a minute of silence, she said, "Thank you, Paul. Goodbye."As I got ready for bed, I couldn't shake the bad feeling I had. I put on my pants and drove to Susannah's apartment and knocked loudly at her door, calling out her name. I didn't care about waking the neighbors even though it was past midnight. I couldn't hear anything. I don't know how long I knocked. It couldn't have been too long, but it felt like ages. Susannah opened the door. I was relieved. The apartment was completely dark when I entered. I went from room to room, turning on lights. I didn't know what I was looking for. A gun. Pills. A toilet plunger. I don't know. When I got to the kitchen, I found all the windows were shut and the cracks under the doors were sealed with towels. The oven was turned on, its door lying open. On the floor in front of it, I found a blanket and a tear-soaked pillow. In the novel, Martin realizes a very important truth about suicide: "Failure is as hurtful as success, and is likely to provoke even more anger, because there's no grief with which to water it down." I was never angry at Susannah. I was angry my helplessness. I was angry at my fear. I was angry at the world. But I wasn't angry at her. There have been thousands of suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge, but only twenty-six have survived the jump. One survivor, Ken Baldwin, recalls what he thought a few seconds after he jumped: "I instantly realized that everything in my life that I'd thought was unfixable was totally fixable--except for having just jumped."I visited Golden Gate Bridge late last year. I remember looking down the bridge, my heart in my throat. The water looked very beautiful, very blue. It didn't look like it was a long way down. Not at all. -----"Jumpers" by Tad Friend. The fatal grandeur of the Golden Gate Bridge. Tad Friend discusses his New Yorker article on NPR (audio)CDC: Suicide Fact Sheet Suicide facts Teen suicide factsOther questionable posts by No Milk. Visit the blog. REF: BMcK Edited: PC

Thank U, Alanis

No Milk — Thu, 16 Jun 2005 14:16:10 EDT

I can't even remember what I was doing ten years ago. Oh, I remember now, my best friend was fucking my boyfriend of three months. Yeah, that was bad. I was so angry I saw red. I was green with jealousy. And then I saw yellow--a yellow discharge oozing out of my dick. They had given me the clap. I felt terrible. In one fell swoop, I had lost a lover and friend. In the following weeks, I searched my soul even as I searched for a good urologist. I pondered my exes and I pondered the whys. I still am not sure how it all happened, even though the signs were plain as a zebra's stripes. I had even told them I was happy they were getting along so well. I thought it was a sign that the relationship was going very well. I guess it was, just not mine. Hindsight would've been on 20/20 if I had gotten to the knife drawer before they ran out of my apartment, dragging along whatever clothing they were able to grab. I would've filed a lawsuit, but I didn't know their last names. Ever since then, I have made a decision never to introduce a new guy to my friends until I got to know them first. I want to make sure that I found the craziest homo I could find so I wouldn't feel so bad if they slept with him. That's what's bad about gay people. It's hard to trust anybody. Well-adjusted faggots are so rare that everybody's always trying to steal your boyfriend. I can't say I blame them. I've knowingly slept with guys who were already in relationships. Karma, right? It comes back to bite you. You just hope it has had its rabies shots.Eventually, I got over my anger and disconsolation. It all evens out in the end. Or at least that's what it says on the box of my medication. In any case, I got over it.And after ten years, Alanis Morissette also got over it. In the ten year anniversary of her groundbreaking CD Jagged Little Pill, she has released an all-acoustic version of the CD. You can buy the CD now at Starbucks, six weeks ahead of the record stores. Alanis observed that the calm, relaxing atmosphere of the coffee chain is perfect place to access her latest album. I agree, it gives me something to listen to while I am sitting in Starbucks' bathroom--coffee just makes me shit, y'know? This move is not without its conflicts. Record store chain HMV retaliated by pulling all Alanis titles off their shelves, which in my mind, probably won't hurt Alanis that much since her last CDs So Called Chaos and Under Rug Swept didn't exactly fire up the charts. Last Saturday, in her concert at the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago, Alanis mocked her own image of an angry, spurned woman. She noted how a couple of songs ("Forgiven" and "You Oughta Know") on Jagged Little Pill made her the poster girl for a whole movement of riot grrlz. If you've listened past "You Oughta Know," you'd know that the song is really quite uncharacteristic of her. "Ironic" and "You Learn" are very gentle and introspective songs which are more in tune with her onstage persona: shy and very self-deprecating. She is not Avril Lavigne or Lindsay Lohan partying it up with Paris Hilton, dancing on top of tables. The set looked like a very comfortable den: it had a grandfather clock, a couple of couches with throw pillows and blankets. All it needs is cat hair all over the place and it could be my living room. The persian rugs, the small buddha gave it a slightly eastern flavor (whereas I only have to stand in the middle of my own living room to give it some eastern flava). A little end table with a small lamp sat on the front of the stage next to the mic. The whole vibe of the concert was as if the band were spending an evening at home, playing music together. It felt very intimate, very tight. A fart would've been disastrous. The concert wasn't strictly acoustic. The bass and drums gave the songs a fuller sound and the organ created a gospel undertone. There are no surprises here, no radical re-imaginings of the songs. But I think that these arrangements brought out how personal and touching some of the songs were. My wussy friend Joe cried during "Perfect," a song about trying to make a relationship work: "how long before you screw it up / how many times do I have to tell you / to hurry up?" She captured the awkwardness of falling in love in "Head Over Feet." Alanis also throws in some choice cuts in between JLP songs. I loved the conversational tone of "Hands Clean" and the stark "Uninvited." She updates "Ironic" to reflect the new freedoms in her country, Canada: "It's meeting the man of my dreams and I'm meeting his beautiful...husband." The crowd cheered. She closes the show with an exuberant "Thank U," thanking providence for letting her get this far. And if I stopped to think about it, I've a lot to be thankful for as well. Losing a lover, losing a friend was necessary to bring me where I am today. If those things didn't happen, I might have still been wondering how I got the clap. Check out the acoustic version of "Hand In Pocket" here (WM) (Real) (QuickTime) -----Other questionable posts by No Milk. Visit the blog.

Extraordinary Machine

No Milk — Wed, 8 Jun 2005 09:58:34 EDT

As I listened to Fiona Apple's unreleased album Extraordinary Machine, I pictured Fiona, face heavily painted, alternately banging on trashcan lids, playing an accordion and the armpit fart, while a monkey scampered about her feet, dressed in a marching band suit, playing an organ grinder. It's Fiona gone vaudeville. Or a western saloon. Extraordinary Machine was reportedly shelved by Fiona's record label Sony since late 2003 because it had been deemed 'uncommercial.' I guess when they were thinking 'surefire hit,' they were thinking Mariah Carey's Charmbracelet. I think this proves that you can't predict what the public will like, because the only thing different about Charmbracelet and any of its predecessors is Mariah's increasingly trampy outfits. A fan, desperate to get Extraordinary Machine released, started the Free Fiona campaign, hoping to pressure Sony to release it. It's an uphill battle of biblical proportions, like the David vs Liza Minnelli-Gest divorce proceedings.Fortunately, the whole album was leaked to the internet in March, purportedly by Fiona's camp. Fans had been buzzing about how amazing it was. Like everyone else, I started trying to find sources where I could download it, but Sony had shut down many sites which had provided it. It was just by luck that I happened on a fellow Blogcritic who had posted a high quality rip of the album for a very short time. I wasn't really sure what to think about the album. The only other time I've heard anything like this was when Barbra Streisand sang "The World Is a Concerto/Make Your Own Kind of Music," accompanied by an orchestra made up of strings, horns and household appliances. Barbra, in a long satin white gown with long sleeves and a bouffant, sang her heart out while typewriters, vacuum cleaners and blenders all clacked and whirred along. Yes, it was that gay. Throw a Pucci apron on her and she's your average domestic goddess.Many of the fan-created CD cover artwork had been very literal: robotic Fiona, Franken-Fiona, Fiona-and-a-rotisserie-oven (appliances again). But no, the album isn't electronica or Nine Inch Nails; it's more like Fiona meets Tin Pan Alley, emphasis on the tin pans. At first listen, the album is all dissonant chords and jangling percussion, very difficult to listen to, very distracting. Remind me never to play this in a BD classroom or within twenty-five feet of Robin Williams. I thought it was terrible, I don't think you can blame me. "Red, Red, Red" was Fiona channeling Yoko Ono. She played jarring, fat-fingered chords on the piano in "Oh Sailor." "Better Version of Me" had me looking around to see if Christopher Walken was going to suddenly burst in and yell, "More cowbell! I need more cowbell!"But, the album did get better as I listened to it more. The pot had nothing to do with it at all. I would say it took about eight tries before I was able to get past producer Jon Brion's extravagant flourishes and the Fiona we all know and loved emerged: the broodiness and melancholia, the sudden tempo changes, the crazy ex-girlfriend who gave you herpes--on purpose. This album is very similar in spirit to When The Pawn, but nowhere near it's accomplishment and artistry. I think a lot of folks prefer Tidal, which was more mainstream. For these folks, Extraordinary Machine will probably not suit. The title track, "Not About Love" and "Better Version of Me" are very good songs, but there is no "Criminal" or "Limp" here, but that shouldn't be a reason why this album should be held hostage. I think it deserves to be heard. I mean, we had to listen to Hillary Duff sing for chrissakes, the suits owe us this one.I turned to my boyfriend and asked him what he thought about the album. He said, "It makes me angry. Shut it off." -----Watch Christopher Walken's SNL Cowbell Skit (wmv)More questionable posts by No Milk Visit my site

Wicked

No Milk — Wed, 25 May 2005 07:21:55 EDT

If Ann Coulter had a button to press that would instantly kill all the homosexuals from the face of the earth, I bet she wouldn't hesitate to do it. Okay, maybe that was too harsh. Maybe she'd do what every compassionate conservative would do: she'd consider just where and when to hold the press conference first. Theeen, she'd press the button. I think that for the ultra-right wing conservatives, gays are not human. We're just deviant animals, not worthy of living, let alone in fabulously furnished high-rises with a sunset view. Sometimes I think that if we had the Holocaust all over again, the URWCs wouldn't find it too hard to herd the gays into the gas chambers -- all they have to do is stage a musical in it and we'd all line up and buy tickets. (But seriously, if these URWCs want to do this homo-slaughter properly, they should disguise the gas chamber as a Prada store with a clearance sale of unbelievable magnitude. The sale has to be to-die-for, or else don't bother thinking that gays are going to die. Sure, maybe a few heteros, some metrosexuals will get caught in the carnage, but that's just the price of morality isn't it?)I mean, take my best friend Joe. He didn't find it hard at all to get group discount tickets to Wicked. He needed 20 people. He got 35 without even trying. All he had to do was go to that gayest of gay places: the gym.There were more muscled gym bunnies there than at a gay Easter parade. It was funny to see the flurry of excitement as gays hopped over barbells, skipped past the pec deck, and jumped over the hairy, sweaty fat mound doing sit-ups to get discount tickets. And twenty minutes later, Joe was done. Yeah, it was quick and painless, plus we got discounted tickets to the hottest show in town. God knows what would've happened if he'd gone to a leather bar and yelled "Ballet tickets!" instead. People would've gotten hurt in the stampede for sure -- not to worry, that's just foreplay to them. Wicked is based on the novel by Gregory Maguire about the life of the Wicked Witch of the West before Dorothy came to Oz. The Oriental Theatre in Chicago, with its baroque décor featuring gargoyles and semi-nude Roman figures seemed perfect for this show. There was an enormous animated dragon with fiery red eyes mounted above the stage and extended over the orchestra. The sets had the inner workings of a old clock, gears and hardware, interspersed with more cartoonish elements. It was cool, but I had expected it to be more outlandish, more Cheesecake Factory, so I was a tad disappointed. The story follows the story of Elphaba, a green baby girl born to the Mayor of Munchkinland and his unfaithful wife. Elphaba grows up being taunted and jeered by people because of the color of her skin. She also has to control the great magickal power growing within her. She grows up to be an outspoken yet shy girl, with a pure and tender heart. When she goes to college, she meets the bubbly, air-head society girl Galinda, the future Glinda the Good. After some initial girl-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks/haughty-rich-girl conflict, they become very close friends. Then, Elphaba blossoms into a beautiful, yet still green, woman. All is wondrous and fair until she learns about the terrible secret of the Wizard of Oz; then the story spirals into its dark third act. The show invents the origins of many of the characters from the original story: the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Flying Monkeys, which for the most part was very entertaining, although somewhat forced. I loved wonderful, powerful performances of the lead characters of Stephanie J Block (Elphaba) and Kendra Kassebaum (Galinda), which thankfully, overcame the show's weak songs. I did love the song "I'm Not That Girl." The participation of Carol Kane as Madame Morrible was an added bonus. I loved the story of this infamously Wicked woman. It fleshes out this one-dimensional character by giving her a touching backstory and a push-up bra. I think that many queers can relate to this story. We all understand being viewed as one-dimensional and evil -- except SpongeBob -- he's two-dimensional. But even he must feel awful, being labeled as the cause of the decline of civilization in Bikini Bottom and everything else above the Pacific Ocean. To many of the so-called "conservatives," gays are indeed a wicked bunch. We are lumped together with pedophiles, murderers, and tourists, which wouldn't be so horrible if they didn't wear so much polyester. It just makes us look bad, you know?Anyway, I hear there is a direct correlation between crime and the amount of synthetic fibers in your clothing, which only proves that the gays and Simon Cowell are innocent. Duh, everybody knows that we like our spandex clothing to be as tiny as possible. All the spandex thongs in the world would fit into Elton John's suitcases. For here are the lessons of Wicked: If you knew what it was like to be gay, if you walked a mile in our ruby slippers, without Dr. Scholl's inserts, would you still hate us? -----Wicked is now playing at the Oriental Theatre in Chicago. Get tickets here.Visit my site Other questionable posts by No Milk