Like Halley's Comet, Only Cheesier...

I have to tell you about what is, perhaps, the most significant invention of the past twenty-five years.
I refer not to the internet, or the artificial heart, or the saline breast implant, but rather, of course, to the new Burger King Cheesy Tot.
Just when you think that nobody could possibly find a new way to combine cheese and potato, what happens? Some genius in the Burger King research lab figures out that if you inject what seems to be hot, gooey Velveeta into your run-of-the-mill tater tot, you end up with a little nugget of heaven.
You think I’m exaggerating.
I understand.
It’s because you’re cynical.
It’s because you secretly think there couldn’t possibly be, in the twenty-first century, an unplumbed potato/cheese combo, or that there isn’t really that much difference between injecting potato with cheese, and dipping potato in cheese, or drizzling potato with cheese.
But you would be mistaken.
Because injecting the cheese makes all the difference in the natural world, and that’s why I’m a mere writer, and you do whatever you happen to do, and neither of us is a cheese and potato genius slaving away in the Burger King lab, which I now think of in much the same way I used to think about NASA, before we all found out about NASA being a government-subsidized sex camp with adult diapers.
Ah, how to describe the cheesy tot? How to convey its particular ecstasy? It’s hot, crusty on the outside, mushy on the inside, except, just when you’re lulled into thinking that it’s a regular tater tot, WHAM! WHOOSH! ZOOM!
A gush of hot, fake cheese, far better than any legitimate cheese could ever hope to be, because, unlike the real thing, fake cheese is actually engineered for flavor.
And then, it passes. Which would be very sad, if they weren’t sold in sets of six, a perfect number.
And now, everyone, before rushing out to buy, remember, it takes two people to make a work of profound, selfless brilliance. The person who creates it, and the person who talks about it. So, text your friends. Call your relatives. Make amends with your past over the linoleum-topped tables of Burger King. Spare no expense. Take photographs, record diary entries. After all, it isn’t often in life we get to be part of an event of real historical importance.

Author? Author?

So, I'm totally loving Ugly Betty. It's got heart. It's got funny. It's got pizzazz. What it doesn?t have is a character who's a writer. I mean, I don't think there's been one character on the show so far who writes for a living. (Yes, I know that Salma Hayek's character had written a couple of books, but within the plotline of the show she was an editor-in-chief, so that doesn't count.)

And this is a show about a magazine!

A show about a magazine on which there's a character who's a receptionist, and a character who's a seamstress, and a character who's an accountant, but not one writer, for chissakes.

I mean, I know that writers aren't, as a species, sleek and glamorous creatures. I'm aware that we're not fashion models, but come on, we've got to have more TVQ than the accountants.

Otherwise, it's really quite a good show.

Hillary vs Obama, Prius vs Civic

Can somebody please tell me when the prospect of having a black president became cooler than that of having a woman president? I mean, I understand that Obama, personally, is a much cooler, spontaneous, infinitely more inspiring figure than Hillary, who always seems so studious and measured and carefully plotted. And I get that Obama seems anti-establishment, while Clinton is the ultimate insider. But buried somewhere inside the tone of our common conversation is the idea that having a black president is satisfyingly radical and different, whereas having a woman president already seems a tad passé. Well, Jesus Christ, since when? I mean, did somebody fundamentally reorder society, finally balancing out the power differential between women and men, and forget to send me the memo? Is it just that Civil Rights has always been cooler than feminism? So that, even now, calling someone a feminist has dreary, bluestocking implications, whereas calling someone, I don’t know, a Civil Rights Crusader seems dashing and heroic.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, having a black president, any black president, would be enormous—really symbolically powerful. A tremendous step towards culturally redressing our nation’s history of slavery and apartheid. But guys, the idea of a woman president is nothing to sneeze at.

Not to mention that this whole line of thought, about a black or woman president, has a sort of gross, lefty-boutique shopping ring to it. Like we’re choosing between Hybrid cars, or bottled water, or something. We should, of course, be looking for the finest candidate for the job. It’s just that Obama and Hillary are the only interesting candidates for the job.

St. Peter, Don't You Call Me, I'm in Line For Elaine Stritch

When I die and go to heaven, I want it to be Elaine Stritch at the Café Carlyle. No fooling. It’s the greatest. Maybe you’ve had the experience of sitting in a darkened theatre or nightclub or cabaret, and knowing, just knowing, that This Is Happiness. That this is one of life’s Great Good Times—a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, a moment of seamless bliss, and if the carousel would only keep spinning forever, you’d never, ever want to jump off. Or maybe you haven’t. But if you haven’t, then it’s probably because you’ve never seen Stritch’s cabaret act—and in that case, you should call the Carlyle pronto, and make a reservation for January’s show, which is sure to sell out any minute now.

I have friends who do understand what I love about Stritch, and I have friends who do not. Those who don’t tend to mention that she doesn’t have a “pretty” voice. That she sort of screams a lot, and often seems a tad, well, cranky. I suppose all that’s true enough, but then again, fuck pretty. I’m so goddamn sick of the tyranny of prettiness, which just tends to spoil the hell out of everything. So that the whole, twirling world ends up smelling like White Diamonds and sounding like Celine Dion and looking like People magazine, until the red beating heart of everything is dead dead dead. I think Truman Capote said, “Good taste is the death of art.” It’s the flat truth, and here’s my own epigram—“Prettiness is the death of beauty.” And Elaine Stritch, joshing and screeching and dead-panning away, has the same sort of divine off-kilter beauty as Garland and Coward and Cole Porter, and Diana Vreeland, and also, my grandmother.

That’s another reason I love Elaine Stritch—she reminds me of the women in my family—brilliant, witty, and furious. I suspect that many others feel the same way, and that this constitutes a large part of her appeal. In her pearls and cardigans and tightly rolled hair, Stritch is the upper-middle class suburban lady susperstar. She’s what all our mothers and grandmothers might have been had they’d hopped a train to New York City, and had an affair with Marlon Brando. It’s why “The Ladies Who Lunch” moves us so enormously—because Elaine is the lady who escaped that racket, singing about all those who didn’t. Tremendous.

All of which doesn’t do a lot to expain the good time aspect of her show, but trust me, she’s hilarious. The Carlyle is glorious, and looks just like something out of the Batista Regime. The food is so-so, but who cares? If you want art and truth and beauty, not to mention a fucking blast, go see Elaine. There’s no better show anywhere. If you have to, sell your children for a seat.

Molly Ivins, My Best Friend (Sort of)

Well, Molly Ivins has been dead a little over six months now, and it still sucks. Not that I knew her. But she was one of the reasons I always wanted to become a famous writer—so that Molly and I could be girlfriends. So that when she just couldn't get one of those fabulous, witty, homey columns of hers quite right, she'd call me up and say, "Robert, do you think you could take a glance at this?" And every time, I'd say, "Of course, Moll. Don't give it a second thought, Moll." Because that's just the sort of imaginary friend I am. The kind who'd do anything for you.

But I don't want you to think that ours was a one-sided fake friendship. Because whenever I came across some delicious little Texas-y tidbit, I imagined myself phoning Molly, and after we laughed and laughed, she'd tell me, "Now, you know I have to quote you, Robert." And I'd say, "No, Moll, take it. It's yours." And she'd say, "No, Robert, how could I possibly deny the nation a wit like yours. The People have to know there still are fellows out there with your kind of humor and eloquence." (The reader will note that even in my fantasy life, I never lose my concern for the public.) And then, she would quote me, and it was almost embarrassing the way complete strangers would come up to me on the street, and repeat my own jokes back to me.

Ah, well. All that's gone now, and all due to stupid, stupid breast cancer. And all I'm left with, from all our years of near-mutual devotion, are Molly's fantastic books. Particularly Molly Ivins Can't Say That, Can She? Which is so funny and smart it makes my teeth hurt. So funny and smart, that if Molly hadn't been my imaginary friend, I'd have hated her guts. When I was in college, my mother offered to pay me fifteen hundred dollars if I promised to never read another person's poetry to her ever again. She's never been a big fan of being read to—feels dominating to her. But one of our great joys has been reading Molly back and forth to one another, with big, fat breaks of laughter. A particular favorite is the one where Molly goes to the Greenhouse, a spa outside Dallas, and is told by an over-zealous makeup artiste that she (Molly) has "a fabulous space between her eyes." It's become something my mother and I say to one another. "But Mother," I'll say, when she's getting depressed about her looks, "you have a fabulous space between your eyes!"

Anyway, as usual, I started out talking about somebody else, and I ended up talking about myself. But only half of that's selfishness—the other half is how much a part of my life Molly Ivins, total stranger, seemed to me for years. She's one of a very small handful of people who've made me boastful of being a Texan. She made me say, when Yankees made the mistake of equating Texas with Bush, "Well, Molly Ivins is from Texas, so how bad could it be?" And to Molly's enormous credit, those know-it-all Yankees always agreed with me.

Molly Ivins is a writer who leapt off the page and into my life. I think about her all the time. As crazy as it sounds, I miss her terribly. I miss being her fake girlfriend. I miss hoping that someday, after I become world famous, we'll be, really, best friends. And now, everybody, go get that damned mammogram. Hell, I'm considering getting one, too.

Why I'm voting for Hillary

If you want to take the temperature of the nation’s current level of sexism, just perk your ears up every time you hear Hillary Clinton decried for being “smart.” Take note of the sinister tone of the speaker, who will often emphasize his point by pausing one beat, before repeating, “very smart.” It’s almost as though Hill’s braininess is perceived to give her some sort of unfair advantage over the other candidates. Like the A student who spoils the grade curve, Smarty-pants Hillary is somehow understood to be ruining it for the rest of the class. And it has been leveled at Democratic candidates of yesteryear, like Adlai Stevenson and John Kerry. Remember when Kerry was derided for his “professorial manner?” Quelle horreur! Of course, this is a point packed with implicit sexism, too, because God knows the nation is scared to death of a smart woman.

All of this reminds me of the story about Uta Hagen telling the drama student, “Hamlet is not A Guy Like You.” Do we really want a president of average intelligence? I, for one, fail to see the appeal of a dumbed-down democracy. Who was it that said, “Democracy is a leveling up, not a leveling down?” When it comes to making decisions about nuclear war, I want somebody a hell of a lot smarter than me in the Oval office.
And speaking of nuclear war, the idea that the whole Middle East is just one big powder keg has been occurring to me with greater frequency. I’m just not sure I want anybody elected president who doesn’t have enormous experience in foreign affairs. It’s that kind of election year, guys. This doesn’t seem the moment to vote according to domestic concerns. And out of all the candidates, Democrat or Republican, there only seem to be three people capable of adequately addressing the hideous international situation—Hillary, Gore, and John McCain.
Well, Gore’s not running, and McCain’s a cranky old fascist.
So my vote’s going to Hillary.
Okay, so maybe she doesn’t have Obama’s Kennedy-esque eloquence. Maybe she’s more bureaucrat than visionary; more Johnson than JFK. I’m willing to sacrifice charm for inside-the-beltway know-how. I’d gladly pay to hear Obama lecture, but let’s send Miss Smarty-pants back to the White House.

Fire Island, Gay Israel

Last week, Michael and I went to Fire Island for the first time. Which was very…interesting. The whole place is sort of like those nature hikes I never wanted to go on as a little gay boy in Texas—with weeds and woods and chiggers. Except, with sex in the bushes. I mean, people (and by people, I mean gay guys) are actually having sex in the bushes! There are actual garbage bags slung from tree branches in order to encourage people to throw away their condoms and lube when they’re, hmm hmmm, finished. In fact, this is probably the signature act of the entire Island’s civic life.

Granted, I was born in 1979. I am, admittedly, a child of the Reagan era. I am aware that generations of gay men and women paved the way for me, making it possible for gay people to live bourgeois, middle-class lives. But speaking as a bourgeois, middle-class gay person, I would never, ever, ever want to have sex in a bush! What about Lymes Disease, was all I could think about! What about fleas and mosquitoes and sharp, pointy sticks! Why would anybody want to have sex anyplace without central air and heat! Much less indoor plumbing and, hopefully, room service. The whole thing is simply beyond my comprehension.

This aside, there is something deeply charming about FI. And dare I say it, innocent, in a way that’s difficult to reconcile with its well-deserved reputation for wildness. Fire Island is, in its own lascivious way, the enchanted forest. It feels worlds away from the huckster world of New York. There’s a summer egalitarianism about the place—a sort of hide-out democracy, straight out of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Or, more to the point, EM Forster’s Maurice.

The island functions as a sort of gay homeland, with its own right of return, and you don’t realize how at-risk you feel in the daily world (even in Manhattan!) until you arrive somewhere that feels so utterly safe. Somewhere that feels, moreover, as though it’s always been safe to the boys like you, who’ve always gone there. “Look,” our host said, “that’s where Auden lived! Over there, that’s where Jerry Herman wrote La Cage!”

The ferry ride that connects the main land to Fire Island travels more than geography—it’s a journey to a decidedly second-star-to-the-right-and-straight-until-morning coordinate.