The Promise of Post-genre World

I know I am starting to get nostalgic when my iPod starts crowding up with cover songs.

Oh to be in 1969 again...at the 5 and Dime?

Magnet is Norwegian folk singer Evan Johansen. Well a Norwegian who sings American folk music...not Norwegian folk music...which looks like this. Gemma Hayes is an Irish singer songwriter who is also incredibly beautiful. Together they make the perfect match to cover Dylan, this video is American Gothic come to life:



A more recent cover of Miike Snow by Sky Ferriera. There wasn't a real video, but I though this worked great as a visual eulogy, not that the 17-year-old Ferriera's death is imminent or anything. Anyway, the song works great when I am reminiscing about 2009.



Here is a concert I wished I been to...



1969,2009, pop, folk, soul, indie. Everyone is sharing sounds and genres and we re standing right in the middle of the globalized music era which I now christen "Post-genre" music. Just going along with the trend, possibly started by evil capitalists trying to create universal free markets (thanks Michael Denning!)...

...or possibly Bill Gates is behind this one too.

My husband, the gay pornographer.

My husband's name comes up a lot if you Google it. You have to search beyond the endless You Tube clips of Michael Jordan dunking on Patrick Ewing.



Beyond the impostors: a Southern Mississippi football player, an artist, an attorney, the famous producer, a wedding photographer, a Columbia University grants coordinator. There are 375 just like him according to the white pages in America alone.

Then we get to the real MJ. Maybe old records or articles of his Track times. Maybe an old review or sports commentary on the Phillies. A lot of commentary on the Phillies. A funny short story. A couple of acting headshots. All the innocent pastimes for a guy who has an eclectic background and likes to opine frequently.

And after reading one of his reviews on a film website, I put his name into the "search" for another. I was looking for some entertaining reading over dinner. His name did come up, in the Gay DVD section...

...under a movie called Rican Sizzle Gang Bang 2. A movie described by its various positions. I cannot rewrite the entire review by Mr. Powerbar, who REALLY liked the movie, but here are a few snippets:



"There are never any less than six men at once...We 'venture to that sizzling little island' to dig up some hot Latin men. Bobby Fox heads up this hot Latino cast of studs in action guaranteed to get you off. No talk, no plotline, just rough 'n tumble gang banging...starring Bobby Fox, Padro Rodriguez, Calvin Sabatini, Mark Starr, Andrew Wright, Joe Perez, Antonio Satana, and Michael Ewing..."




Wait, what? But...that's...my...

There was a clip.

I had to watch it.

Just in case.

The video clip took about 30 seconds to download. This was my thought process: There is no way, why am I even watching this...no absolutely not...but...no it's not possible, but perhaps...I mean I don't know...OF course I know, he would have said something...maybe. Or maybe not. Would it change anything? No, of course not. No, it was the past, there were hard times. We all have hard times. He was an actor. Oh my god he was an actor... He wouldn't have used his name. Unless maybe he didn't have a choice or didn't know. He doesn't even look Puerto Rican. Wait maybe they used spray tan. Would I recognize him? He won't have chest hair. If it's him, do I tell him I saw it? Why would he be in the sequel and not the first Rican Sizzle? I think he is better than sequels. Its not him, he wouldn't do a sequel...but... should I call him or tell him in person next weekend when he comes? What if it ruins the whole weekend? I'll wait until the airport. No, I can't keep this inside. I'll call him. We can handle this. I can handle this...

There was indeed a lot of spray tan. And a lot of penises. Eating a tossed salad (one of those moments where reality mocks motif), I had my first experience with gay porn. And I spent the entire time with my head against the screen trying to see if the skinny kid in the back was the closet-skeleton version of MJ. I can't make him out because his face is obscured by penis. It wasn't him. Of course. Of course not. See. I knew it. I was right, he is too white to ever pass for anything other than Irish American.



I would breathe a sign of relief, but I can't because I just saw a Gang Bang.

The Importance of Being Religious

The South is God's Chocolate Factory: an alternative reality that is just as viral, and to an outsider, just as fictional. On Sunday, the city is closed and quiet. Only the hum of the Walmart can be heard. This week I had three Southern religious experiences:


1. When you walk into an Episcopal Church anywhere in the country, one thing you can be sure of is consistency. Same architecture, same green carpet, same Books of Common Prayer, same choir outfits, same thurifer, same little old ladies in the front row, same female minister. WHAT? IN OXFORD? But yes, there was a woman in alms. I couldn't understand how the parish I attended with my grandmother in QUEENS, still had not progressed forward, but in Mississippi there was a female Reverend... and no one blinked. The rest of the service reminded me so much of Grace Church that I was shocked when the lector read with a Southern accent. "In the Nayme of the Lawd." Another difference... the pews were packed. Shoulder to shoulder, I waited for the Jonas Brothers to walk out. They didn't. But when people sang, I believe God could hear it. I found myself observing like an anthropologist and missing the spiritual mark. Too many people, too much ritual, too much distraction. No one welcoming me to coffee hour or asking my name. They didn't need to. They had the members. I walked out and thought, this was pointless.

2. Ole Miss Rebels vs. Jacksonville State Gamecocks home opener. I am not trying to be cute. Football is a religion. It is the openly accepted golden calf. I attended service on Saturday and it was filled with the ritual and fanaticism of any given Sunday. They have tailgating to the extreme. The Grove (a lawn area on the campus) becomes this kind of temporary city, like a refugee camp or a Brazilian favela, only the tents have floral bouquets and chandeliers, and everyone is dressed for the inaugural ball. Men in button downs and dress slacks, girls in cocktail dresses and high heels. They hang out in their fraternity/sorority's tent for a while then they find their parents' tent and spend time with their Mom, Dad, Uncles, Cousins, etc. I cannot think of a college event outside of graduation that I would have spent with my parents. Ever. Much less get drunk with them. However, the University is a cultural center, and at that center is God and Football. Again, the chanting was so loud, Jesus Christ could hear it. He was singing along, "Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almighty."

Then they lost to a team they were expected to crush and everyone walked home in complete silence. The praise service suddenly transformed into a JFK-like funeral and all the women looked just as elegantly despondent as Jackie O.




3. Then the Quaker meeting. After a long search on the internet I found the home of the Oxford Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends and attended my first meeting since my wedding. Attendance: me, two elderly women, and two dogs. The dogs somehow knew the meaning of meeting. They were in the middle of barking and playing when one of the women yelled, "MEETING! I SAID MEETING!" and they lied down on the floor and closed their eyes. Well done. An hour of silence, as if I don't have enough silence being alone in this town. But in contrast to the noise of the previous two services, I welcomed the stillness. God might have heard nothing, but I heard everything, and it all bounced around inside my head. Afterward I was welcome to talk, eat, and drink coffee. I miss that feeling of home and family, where I could feel free to rinse a cup and put it in the dishwasher. Thank God for the Quakers. My spiritual side feels like at least I am paying attention to it.

Church and football, like I have never experienced before. The young faces with their bibles and the elderly people making announcements. The music of a hundred different genres from the unplugged organ, to the rock band Baptists, to the chanting of a thousand people screaming the fight song. All these different traditions, rituals, and sects of Christianity, and they all have one thing in common: making a lot of noise.

Except the Quakers, who sit in silence.

Housewives of our Lives

Housewives.

A term that almost disappeared in the politically correct folds of our language. No one would call a Black person Colored. No one would call their cleaning lady...a maid. Housewife was almost permanently buried in the graveyard next to Injun and Celestial. But someone brought it back from the dead. Hello, Mrs. Lazarus, love your garden!

When housewives started driving SUVs instead of minivans, they were renamed Stay-at-home-Moms. When people realized they often took care of household accounting, schedules both social and familial, community involvement, and part time jobs in order to help make that college tuition, they were "graduated" to a trade: Homemaker. There is no term that does not have diminutive connotations despite the struggles of these women (and often forgotten about men) to hold a family unit together. But at least it wasn't the word housewife. You're chained to the house and you exist as a wife.


SOMEONE saw this disappearing from our vernacular and said "Holy shit, we need a reality TV show." We need to re-meem 'housewife.' Good job, boys. America now hears this term at least once a day.

The idleness of the wealthy has been a long standing literary and cultural trope. The women scream obscenities at each other and create drama over trivial matters. The idea is that they have so little to do, that they are forced to create problems and then the working man/woman says, "THANK GOD my 9-7 job and 800 other responsibilities and obligations tire me out so much that I don't have those issues."

I love the campy quality of this clip:


But these aren't the aristocrats mocked by Jane Austen; they are common women who clawed into a higher income bracket. They are ridiculous, but they understand the middle-class life, thus defy the previous isolation of the aloof wealthy person. Danielle was a stripper. They are the American Dream. Apparently.

One of the women, Caroline, is a smart, emotional person with an unfortunate accent. She is the wisest person on TV right now. She called out all reality TV stars on "characterization" during the reunion. She said no one can blame editing. She admits that she said those things and acted that way, even when she was making a fool out of herself. She repeats, editing has nothing to do with it. Brilliant.





This is a picture of the founder of New Jersey. Lord Berkeley:



Lord Berkeley was an idle wealthy person. In an insignificant moment in his life he granted NJ its independence and sold it to Quakers who weren't comfortable in New York and wanted to move there. Funny. I just had a Quaker wedding with a man from Jersey. I, too, could be a Housewife of New Jersey.

Or at least get points for knowing who they are.