Drip, Drip, Drop

Sometimes I prefer to be rained on than to use an umbrella.

Why Kathy Bates Will Save the World

My better half is watching Misery on Lifetime-Television-For-Women right now, and I just overheard:

He didn't get out of the COCKADOODIE CAR!

God, I love Kathy Bates. As if blithely bearing her tits in all their overweight, middle-aged glory in About Schmidt wasn't enough to earn my respect, she also plays one of the best secondary characters on TV in Six Feet Under (as well as directing a few of the episodes).

And, of course, who could forget good old psychopathic Annie Wilkes from Misery?

You! You dirty bird! How could you?

...

Misery is alive. Misery is alive! Oh, this whole house is going to be full of romance. Oooh, I am going to put on my Liberace records!

...

At the feedstore do I say, "Oh, now Wally, give me a bag of that F-in' pig feed, and a pound of that bitchly cow corn"? At the bank do I say, "Oh, Mrs. Malenger, here is one big bastard of a check, now give me some of your Christ-ing money!"

Norway, José

KARE 11, a TV station in the Twin Cities, has issued an ad campaign in — what else? — Norwegian. At the end, he even says, "Ya, you betcha." They're promoting their new weatherman. And let me tell you, weather(man) or not — this kid is a little hunk of cute.

With a name like Sven Sundgaard, he sounds like he owns a coffee shop in Lake Wobegon. What choice is there? It begs for a little Scandinavian navel-gazing.

I Love Project Runway. I Hate Project Runway.

I once counted myself as one of the proud few who did not fall for mind-numbing reality TV crap. American Idol — Love Kelly Clarkson. What red-blooded American homosexual man doesn't? But Who Wants to be a Superhero? If this is the evolution being televised, please spare me.

However...

The clouds part and a fiery chariot descents to earth to bring us ... Project Runway.

I. Love. Project Runway. As far this particular reality show goes, I have dismounted my high horse. It takes a subject that makes no sense to me whatsoever — fashion — and makes into a backdrop for some really good human drama. These people live together. They are made to run around like chimpanzees trying to work out how to reach the bananas.

I simultaneously love and hate the contrivances and twists that are engineered to create drama for those poor contestants. The third season may be the best so far, but I'm worried about Seasons 5 and 6 and 7. Already they've been made to design for each others' mothers and sisters (with the result that one was reduced to tears). They've designed for dogs. They've used recyclable trash as fabric. What will they make those designers do in a few years? Create underwear for each other? Design dresses for the male contestants to model? Use human waste as dyes and pigments?

Tonight, in a move both brilliant and cynical, they brought back two of the designers who had previously been removed. I nearly shit myself when I saw Vincent again. I hate Vincent. (No, Eric... You hate how Vincent behaves.) I guess it makes sense: They have some talent; maybe it was bum luck that got them removed. And they got booted off anyway, along with the pageant queen Kayne, much to my dismay.

I am now Project Runway's bitch. Yeah, daddy. Do it.

R.I.P., Oddfellows

[oddfellowsrestaurant.com]

My favorite restaurant in all the world was a darling little number in Northeast Minneapolis. ("was" ... It hurts just saying that.) It was attached to a gay bar called Boom! under the same ownership. I just learned that the venerable gay-owned Oddfellows closed down on the 10th and Boom! will pull up stakes later this month, which makes me very, very sad. Some heteros got in on the "Nordeast" economic boom and bought them out, I guess.

Oddfellows always claimed it wasn't a "gay restaurant," which I found to be a.) usually inaccurate given the clientel, and b.) irrelevant and a slightly off-putting designation.

However, their chow was magnificent. The menu changed every season and was always fresh. Oddfellows described its food as "Contemporary American Cuisine with an 'odd' twist of flavors from around the world." (Read the description here, before their Web site completely disappears.) Their orange-lacquered pork tenderloin was one of the finest dishes on earth. And I once had a lavender-infused custard dessert there that nearly made me mess my pants. Oddfellows taught me to appreciate excellent gourmet food in human-sized (read: non-Applebee's) portions, and to not be so uptight about a high restaurant bill — as long as it's worth it. And it always was.

The inimitable Dara Moskowitz of the alternative news and arts weekly CityPages predicted upon its opening that it would become a "big destination restaurant."

The shingle soon to be removed. [oddfellowsrestaurant.com]

The restaurant and bar occupied a historic building (c. 1891), the meeting lodge of the Independent Order of Oddfellows. Lots of exposed brick and holes in the wall where heavy timber floor joices once inserted. The high pressed-tin ceiling throughout was cool. The blonde woodwork was a little bit too "Target" for my taste, and the stainless steel bar felt a little cold to me. But it was always clean and bright.

I'll miss that place. Lots of anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine's Days and impromptu "fancy" dinners out.

As for Boom!, I can take it or leave it. As a bar, it was not remarkable. The burgers were fantastic, and the fries were tasty (both were from the Oddfellows kitchen), but the drinks were too pricey and it was famously impossible to get a bartender's attention on a busy night.

The one thing that impressed me about it (besides its Nordeast location — I lived in the neighborhood) is that it was the first gay bar I had seen in the Twin Cities that had enormous windows that were not blackened out or boarded up. It left the 'mos inside exposed to the blue collar and the sunlight. To me it represented a proud declaration that Minneapolis' queers would not be kept underground and in the dark.

Oh, how I used to love standing in front of those wide-open windows on Showtunes Night, belting out "Nothing Dirty Goin' On" from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, being gay and free.

Citizen Sane

I always leave the voting booth with a deep sense of satisfaction. I nearly whistled as I walked home. Voting is the most basic of our panoply of rights, and I'm always proud of, and grateful for, my excursions to my polling place. Even for a primary. It's so easy to do, yet turnout — especially on primary days — is notoriously low among our complacent populace. People are dumb. What can I say?

Today felt especially good in contrast with yesterday's day-long mourning. (September 11, 2001, was a voting day, remember?)

America has alternated between sticking its head in the sand and up its ass since then. Sand. Ass. Sand. Ass.

Let's hope the votes count.

My Faith in Humanity Tourists Restored

I am notorious in my own mind for leaving my card in the ATM. When withdrawing money, people are usually given their cards back these days before they are given their money — I think. Wasn't always this way. It's one of the great technological innovations of the last five years or so, in my opinion. Still, however, when making deposits at an ATM, we are not given our cards until after we make the deposit. The banks want their money. They don't want people to make phantom deposits to give themselves a temporary bonanza of Monopoly money before the beancounters figure it out the next day.

So, when I make a deposit at an ATM, I almost always forget my card — until the machine starts squawking or beeping at me. There was a period a few years back when I lost my ATM card once a month for three months. It wreaked havoc on my online billing accounts. I have since recovered.

This is not to say that I am never forgetful when making withdrawals.

Tonight, when I left the ATM anteroom, I reflected rather pridefully that I didn't forget my card. (It's the little things, right?) However, the shocker came when a young woman ran up behind me a full block away from the bank, calling, "Sir? Sir!" to inform me that I had left the ATM without my money.

I thought she must be talking about someone else. But when I checked my wallet, the $40 I had just taken out was indeed not there. I gasped audibly.

"Some people have your money," she said. "The people who came behind you. They're at the bank looking for you."

I thanked her profusely.

Then she gave me perhaps the funniest bit of information: "They're tourists."

I made a run for the bank.

Was that final detail meant to help me recognize them? Or was she drawing a contrast between tourists and New Yorkers, as if to say that a local would never pass up such opportunism? (I once saw a $20 sticking out of an ATM — with no one around. I walked right past the machine. When, a minute later, the devil on my left shoulder had knocked the angel off my right shoulder, I went back to the ATM and found the cash gone. Yay! With a faceless stranger safely designated the "bad guy," I was free continue my life as a self-righteous Midwesterner.)

Either way, I made short work of that $40 at the bar minutes later.

A Technicality

I'm writing more about myself than I am comfortable with. I'm worried it shows a lack of imagination, or at least a lack of observation. Truth is, I'm starting all kinds of posts and not finishing them for weeks at a time. I'm slow. But I want them to be good!

Anyway, I take small comfort in a logical technicality. It doesn't matter whether I write about myself or not. If I don't write about myself, the name of this blog is clever. If I do write about myself, the name of this blog is ironic.

I win either way.

So there.

Year Five

My sympathies to news reporters, producers and editors who are working today, living and reliving the disaster. Thank you for what you do.

My sympathies to the families and friends of lost loved ones who are forced to remember our way as well as their way. Our public remembrance is an invasion of your private grief. Thank you for your strength.

My sympathies to the idealistic Washington interns who have to put up with our pompous leaders, many of whom are too mindful of re-election to grieve without politics. Here's hoping you learn and improve on the model.

Year Six has begun.

By the Numbers

I sometimes find myself mindlessly reciting numbers in my head. The number is always meaningful in some way, but the reason I remember it at that moment is never clear.

For example, whenever I walk toward the locker room at my gym, I find myself thinking

18 - 27 - 33

This is an old locker combination. It's probably from at least three locks ago. Yet it comes to mind as readily as my current combination. And I can't remember any of the other locker combinations I've ever had in my life. (It was always easy to remember, because each of the three numbers is 3 away from a multiple of 5. Maybe this doesn't seem mnemonic to you, but for whatever reason, I could always remember that 18 was 15 + 3, 27 was 30 - 3, and 33 was 30 + 3. Big deal, right?) But this is at least in context, and probably excusable.

Even weirder is when I remember things randomly — such as the home phone number of my childhood best friend. (The same childhood friend who abandoned me a full year after I came out — and a month after he conspicuously did not give me a Chirstmas present — by telling me over the phone, "I don't think you should come over anymore. I don't think you should come over ever." He was never one to mince words.)

I won't post this phone number, tempting as it may be.

I also remember my first phone number in New York, which is now defunct. (We gave up our land line after having it less than a year.) But I routinely forget my current cell number.

Why do these things come back to us?