Summer, although lackluster this year, was upon me and I found myself frequenting the beach hanging out with the friends I have acquired there over the years. There is, in Chicago,a gay beach. Even though not officially designated as such, gay men are the predominant species there. Over the years we have managed to maintain our hold on this stretch of land. One way we have accomplished this is our choice of swim and sun wear. Bikinis and speedos abound. Sometimes even a thong or g string are on display. Sometimes these are sported by men with the appropriate physical attributes to suit this brief attire, sometimes not. I recall on the gay cruise on which I embarked and which sparked the formation of my blog, one particular man. He had to paraphrase Sondheim "A pauch and a pouch and a pension". He seemed to be always on the deck by the pool clad in a speedo style suit, his ample belly hanging over it's drawstring waist stretching it to it's maximum capacity. I found myself on that trip thinking that, although I admired his moxie, I did not particularly wish to see his moxie.
The men whose company I keep at the beach tend to be of my vintage. Some a bit older, some a bit younger. More that one has a past which includes children. It is always interesting to me to encounter men like these as I have been aware and open with my sexuality since the age of 17. We have discussed life experience, politics and theatre. We share thoughts and exchange ideas. I like to thing that at times we resemble a somewhat sandy Algonquin Round Table. One of the subjects we have discussed, presumably because the inspiration lies splayed about on the sand around us, is the evolution of men's "bathing attire."
In the early years of the 20th century tans were considered unfashionable bordering on vulgar. They suggested that one worked outdoors, a most ungenteel aspiration. Beach photos from that era show the women in long skirts, long sleeve blouses and hats designed to preserve their almost vampire like complexions. Men, when they were so bold as to don the swim suits of the day, clad themselves in modified tank suits. Although some of the racier styles bared the arms and shoulders, others had short sleeves and pants that came almost, if not below, the knees. In many of these photos this look is complemented by a boater as men were obliged, whenever practical, to wear a hat when out of doors; which was courteously removed when coming inside. As time passed the legs became shorter and bared arms became the norm. By the 30's as swimming developed into more of a sport, the chest was also bared and the brief style of bathing suit was born which allowed greater freedom of movement. These early suits were made of wool which was not only uncomfortably hot and itchy but also sagged and became heavy when wet.
As science evolved rubber was incorporated with other fabrics which not only made the suits more comfortable but also allowed a more tight fitting and sleeker silhouette. Nylon spurred development of lighter weight suits. The basic box cut style remained as a main stay of men's swim wear for several decades.
The 70's issued in the age of the speedo. Thanks to the miracle of spandex, tight, brief, form fitting swim suits could be spied on nearly every beach and around every pool in America. Short shorts and skimpy, sometimes even see through mesh, shirts were also in fashion as men appeared to revel in revealing the ultra thin physiques in vogue during that decade.
In the 80's, as more muscular bodies came into fashion, swim wear remained, thankfully, on the small side. One even encountered the occasional "Greek" or "Rio back" bikini. Street and club wear of the time clung to the new gym built bodies revealing every hard earned ripple and bulge. In one James Bond movie of the period the ubertall, uberblond villain sported, on his uberdefined swimmer's body, the tiniest of bright blue bikinis. This style continued into the 90's.
Then, for a reason I've never understood, a new male modesty began to take over. The bikini and boxcut gave way to the board short, long, almost to the knee and almost completely useless for swimming. Even the speedos, which made the Summer Olympics such a tantalizing feast of eye candy, were replaced with body covering "shark suits", which, although, giving the swimmer greater speed, made the observation of the swimmer lose much of it's allure. We were left with only the long rise, small, snug suits worn by divers and water polo players. The legs of wrestling singlets were lenghtened, against the objections of the wrestlers themselves who said the shorter legs were better suited to their sport.
This modesty has become enforced in certain situations. A friend of ours was informed at a water park that his suit was inappropriate. They made wear board shorts they kept on hand for scantily clad miscreants such as he. The women, meanwhile, slid down the water slides in the skimpiest suits imaginable. Men still daring to were speedos are called a variety of unflattering names.
By contrast, as men's beachwear has begun to cover more and more over the last 2 decades, the posing suits worn by competitive bodybuilders have grown smaller and smaller. Some are almost at the male stripper g string level. I have heard that in some European competitions, Europeans have always been less body phobic that Americans, posing suits have been done away with altogether, putting all of the gym built "assets" of the participants on full display.
Perhaps someday the pendulum will swing back and the heterosexual American male will once again move towards more revealing, and frankly, for swimming, more practical trunks. Then again, with the burgeoning obesity crisis in the U.S., some things might best be left as they are.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Rene Magritte Exhibit - The Aftemath
I left the exhibition my mind reeling with surrealism. I stopped in to pay a visit to Edward Hopper's "The Nighthawks", one of my favorite works in the Art Institutes's collection. I paused, allowing myself to be drawn into it's ambiguity. It does not tell a story so much as lets the viewer's imagination create it's own. Who are these people, captured in the harsh glare of the diner's lights? They seem almost to inhabit a world within a world, a place apart from the dark, deserted street outside. The only life depicted revolves around that counter.. Each of the characters has a back story, a life outside of this snapshot of time, yet we can only guess at what those are.
I gazed out a window at the sculpture court a floor below. My mind went back to my annual summer lunches there with my dear, late friend Kathryn. My theatre buddy, my occasional financial savior, as close a kindred spirit as one could ever be lucky enough to find. I remember our adventures together, our wide ranging conversations, sometimes serious, sometimes silly. I recall, after a wine spiced lunch, how she loudly proclaimed in a gallery filled with medieval crucifixes, "There's a penis in this picture", which, indeed the subliminally was. We began to survey the other works, seeing penises in several of the religious paintings displayed. I remember her undeserved end, violent and untimely. I hope her soul has found the rest and peace it deserves.
Leaving the museum I phone my friend in Phoenix, knowing he would most likely answer. I explained that I needed to reconnect with reality after the surreal exhibition. We talk for a bit. He is an excellent and dependable touchstone, solid, witty and intelligent. I could not hope for more in a partner for my friend of two decades. They have both become to me like brothers.
Even on this cool, cloudy day tourist throng Chicago's Millennium Park. They marvel at the flowing lines of the Frank Gehry designed bandshell and cluster around the reflective sculpture "Cloudgate", affectionately known as "The Bean". I head back to my neighborhood enjoying the opportunities my life in Chicago affords me. They are a privilege earned by living in the city I call home.
I gazed out a window at the sculpture court a floor below. My mind went back to my annual summer lunches there with my dear, late friend Kathryn. My theatre buddy, my occasional financial savior, as close a kindred spirit as one could ever be lucky enough to find. I remember our adventures together, our wide ranging conversations, sometimes serious, sometimes silly. I recall, after a wine spiced lunch, how she loudly proclaimed in a gallery filled with medieval crucifixes, "There's a penis in this picture", which, indeed the subliminally was. We began to survey the other works, seeing penises in several of the religious paintings displayed. I remember her undeserved end, violent and untimely. I hope her soul has found the rest and peace it deserves.
Leaving the museum I phone my friend in Phoenix, knowing he would most likely answer. I explained that I needed to reconnect with reality after the surreal exhibition. We talk for a bit. He is an excellent and dependable touchstone, solid, witty and intelligent. I could not hope for more in a partner for my friend of two decades. They have both become to me like brothers.
Even on this cool, cloudy day tourist throng Chicago's Millennium Park. They marvel at the flowing lines of the Frank Gehry designed bandshell and cluster around the reflective sculpture "Cloudgate", affectionately known as "The Bean". I head back to my neighborhood enjoying the opportunities my life in Chicago affords me. They are a privilege earned by living in the city I call home.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
A Rene Magritte Exhibit - The Main Event
My first stop, prior to the main attraction, were the galleries showcasing works on paper. The pieces in these galleries are rotated on a regular basis due to the fragile nature of the art. Most of the works are part of the Art Institutes's vast collection. Sometimes the exhibits can illuminate the work of familiar artists. For instance a quick sketch in pencil or charcoal of a landscape or figure, the artist may have used these as studies for later, more well known works. Sometimes they appear as exercises with the artist exploring and fine tuning line or shading, ground work of the craft of art, much like the scales performed by musicians and singers.
On display were a collection of Mexican prints. Tranquil scenes of village life were mixed with pieces containing political themes, some with violent overtones. They brought to mind my visit to the Diego Rivera murals in the city hall of Mexico City. Like those they represented the mixture of the history and anger of the Mexican people turning to pride in the act of freeing themselves from colonialism and establishing their socialist republic.
I moved on to the Magritte exhibit. He was an artist whom I was aware of, having seen several examples of his work over the years, yet not terribly familiar with. The exhibit focused on his work between the years of 1926 to 1938. Magritte's aim was to depict, through his art, the world of dreams. The galleries were dimly lit which accentuated the dreamlike images presented.
I soon came across a piece, "The Morning of Light", I have previously seen at the Menil Collection in Houston. It is an example of how a perception of a piece can be altered by it's setting. Standing alone I saw it as merely an example of surrealism; surrounded by other works by this unique artist it's dreamlike quality became apparent. The dream imagery continued as I moved through the exhibit. Legs replace heads, trees grow upside down, disembodied limbs grasped one another almost as if they were dancing. In one painting, an artist, a self portrait of Magritte, appears to be painting his nude life model, creating her arm with his brush and pallet. The life model is a portrait of his wife. In one slightly disturbing painting, not helped at all by it's title, "Rape", a woman's nude torso forms a face.
Characters with cartoon bubbles coming out of their mouths reminded me of the later work of Lichtenstein and the superimposed words in the silent German expressionistic film "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari". In one work cartoon bubbles come out of a shotgun barrel containing the French words for sword (sabre) and horse (cheval). One piece features a seated portrait of a man, his head and torso depicted as a birdcage. In a group of collages figures are cut from pieces of sheet music. A nude portrait of a woman portrays the subject as part flesh, part wood.
There is wit exhibited in some works. A realistic depiction of a pipe has the words "This is not a pipe" painted, in French, underneath it. Magritte explained, "You cannot smoke it, therefore it is not a pipe." in "Clairvoyance" Magritte, in another self portrait, appears to be drawing a bird from life yet the model on the table is an egg.
The expert vision of the curators is shown not only in the dimly lit galleries but also in the area devoted to prints and illustrations. There the works are displayed, inexplicably, in cases that resemble packing crates. They allude to the misplaced, mangled realism realized by the artist.
Two works in particular reveal a tender nature to Magritte's creative mind. In one sleigh bells float in a cloudy sky. In another a nude bust, trombone and chair, all painted a gauzy white, float above a landscape. Both are meant to evoke memories of the childhood pastime of lying on one's back creating in our imaginations scenes and familiar forms from the clouds that pass by overhead.
The exhibition closes with a well know work from the Art Institutes's collection titled "Time Transfixed" in which a steam engine appears to be emerging from a fireplace. As in many artworks x-rays revealed that the canvas for this painting was reused by Magritte. A different, earlier work lies underneath it.
As I mentioned I was aware of, but not familiar with, the work of Magritte. This, truly once in a lifetime opportunity to experience this much of his work at one time gave me a deeper understanding of and appreciation for, this unique and unconventional artist.
On display were a collection of Mexican prints. Tranquil scenes of village life were mixed with pieces containing political themes, some with violent overtones. They brought to mind my visit to the Diego Rivera murals in the city hall of Mexico City. Like those they represented the mixture of the history and anger of the Mexican people turning to pride in the act of freeing themselves from colonialism and establishing their socialist republic.
I moved on to the Magritte exhibit. He was an artist whom I was aware of, having seen several examples of his work over the years, yet not terribly familiar with. The exhibit focused on his work between the years of 1926 to 1938. Magritte's aim was to depict, through his art, the world of dreams. The galleries were dimly lit which accentuated the dreamlike images presented.
I soon came across a piece, "The Morning of Light", I have previously seen at the Menil Collection in Houston. It is an example of how a perception of a piece can be altered by it's setting. Standing alone I saw it as merely an example of surrealism; surrounded by other works by this unique artist it's dreamlike quality became apparent. The dream imagery continued as I moved through the exhibit. Legs replace heads, trees grow upside down, disembodied limbs grasped one another almost as if they were dancing. In one painting, an artist, a self portrait of Magritte, appears to be painting his nude life model, creating her arm with his brush and pallet. The life model is a portrait of his wife. In one slightly disturbing painting, not helped at all by it's title, "Rape", a woman's nude torso forms a face.
Characters with cartoon bubbles coming out of their mouths reminded me of the later work of Lichtenstein and the superimposed words in the silent German expressionistic film "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari". In one work cartoon bubbles come out of a shotgun barrel containing the French words for sword (sabre) and horse (cheval). One piece features a seated portrait of a man, his head and torso depicted as a birdcage. In a group of collages figures are cut from pieces of sheet music. A nude portrait of a woman portrays the subject as part flesh, part wood.
There is wit exhibited in some works. A realistic depiction of a pipe has the words "This is not a pipe" painted, in French, underneath it. Magritte explained, "You cannot smoke it, therefore it is not a pipe." in "Clairvoyance" Magritte, in another self portrait, appears to be drawing a bird from life yet the model on the table is an egg.
The expert vision of the curators is shown not only in the dimly lit galleries but also in the area devoted to prints and illustrations. There the works are displayed, inexplicably, in cases that resemble packing crates. They allude to the misplaced, mangled realism realized by the artist.
Two works in particular reveal a tender nature to Magritte's creative mind. In one sleigh bells float in a cloudy sky. In another a nude bust, trombone and chair, all painted a gauzy white, float above a landscape. Both are meant to evoke memories of the childhood pastime of lying on one's back creating in our imaginations scenes and familiar forms from the clouds that pass by overhead.
The exhibition closes with a well know work from the Art Institutes's collection titled "Time Transfixed" in which a steam engine appears to be emerging from a fireplace. As in many artworks x-rays revealed that the canvas for this painting was reused by Magritte. A different, earlier work lies underneath it.
As I mentioned I was aware of, but not familiar with, the work of Magritte. This, truly once in a lifetime opportunity to experience this much of his work at one time gave me a deeper understanding of and appreciation for, this unique and unconventional artist.
A Rene Magritte Exhibit - Getting There
At least our winter weather had been consistent, bitter cold occasionally interrupted by massive amounts of snow. Our summer, by contrast, seemed to have trouble making a decision. Mid eighties, upper eighties, pouring rain, upper sixties. So, I found myself with a day off which featured gray skies and cool temperatures. A new exhibit on the work of Rene Magritte had opened at the Art Institute. Even though it was running through a portion of the fall I decided that day would be a good a day as any to pay it a visit. After all, weather being what it was, it's not like I was going to the beach.
On public transportation you are treated to bits and pieces of a multitude of stories. The hearse and cars with their orange funeral banners lined up in front of the Greek Orthodox church. The cute boy with the trendy long sideburns in a suit and tie, the collar of his shirt a little too large. Where was he going so dressed up on a Tuesday in mid morning? There was the overburdened young man in the baseball cap moving down the sidewalk, groceries in each hand, backpack on his back, his baseball jersey with it's long sleeves pushed up stretched tight across his strong chest. Joggers and bikers along the lakefront trails, showing more fortitude than I, braving the elements on that exceptionally cool and overcast summer day.
Sets of stadium chairs painted by various artists, this summer's public art exhibit, a tradition begun with a display of decorated fiberglass cows almost a decade ago, line Michigan Avenue. One of the drawbridges that cross the Chicago river is up to allow construction of another portion of the riverwalk, a years long project being completed in a seemingly endless number of stages. Stepping off the bus I was enveloped by the noise of the city. Cars, trucks and jackhammers, the hum of a thousand conversations. In a restaurant a waiter with a patch of white in one of his dark eyebrows takes as order. I walk towards my destination sharing the sidewalk with office workers and tourists on this unseasonably cool, cloudy day.
On public transportation you are treated to bits and pieces of a multitude of stories. The hearse and cars with their orange funeral banners lined up in front of the Greek Orthodox church. The cute boy with the trendy long sideburns in a suit and tie, the collar of his shirt a little too large. Where was he going so dressed up on a Tuesday in mid morning? There was the overburdened young man in the baseball cap moving down the sidewalk, groceries in each hand, backpack on his back, his baseball jersey with it's long sleeves pushed up stretched tight across his strong chest. Joggers and bikers along the lakefront trails, showing more fortitude than I, braving the elements on that exceptionally cool and overcast summer day.
Sets of stadium chairs painted by various artists, this summer's public art exhibit, a tradition begun with a display of decorated fiberglass cows almost a decade ago, line Michigan Avenue. One of the drawbridges that cross the Chicago river is up to allow construction of another portion of the riverwalk, a years long project being completed in a seemingly endless number of stages. Stepping off the bus I was enveloped by the noise of the city. Cars, trucks and jackhammers, the hum of a thousand conversations. In a restaurant a waiter with a patch of white in one of his dark eyebrows takes as order. I walk towards my destination sharing the sidewalk with office workers and tourists on this unseasonably cool, cloudy day.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Smell This Dear...Has This Theatre Gone Bad?
Several years ago during the Tony awards Steve Martin did a bit about how to behave when going backstage to see a friend after they have appeared in a production that stinks worse than a combination of wet cat and old cheese. Despite my love for theatre and the theatre going experience the medium is capable of creating some pieces which are, to be kind, unredeemable.
This hard lesson was learned in my teens during a jaw dropingly horrible production of Shakespeare's "Richard the Third" presented by the Tony winning, highly respected American Conservatory Theatre based in San Francisco. Richard's hump was so enormous it resembled a scale model of Mt. Everest and the costumes, heavily reliant on studded black leather, appeared to have been inspired by the notorious nocturnal activities of the play's director the aptly named William Ball. In the final moments of the play our S & M fetish clad Richard runs to the front of the stage and recites the famous lines "A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse." Behind him appears the plays "good guy" clad in nothing but a pair of white tights, one leg bent, his powerful rippling arms curled before him in imitation of a horse reared up on it's hind legs. Inappropriate but understandable laughter filled the theatre. Later the assumption around town was that the strikingly handsome large muscleboy in the white tights, new to the acting company, was the latest addition to the director's offstage stable of studly stallions.
There are a number of other examples. After sitting through the theatrical abomination of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Sunset Blvd." I managed to stammer out, as my partner and friend gushed about it, "The set was nice."
I am not above leaving at intermission if I feel that my time is being wasted. "The Graduate" lost my interest after the infamous full frontal nudity sequence, which was dimly lit and occurs quite early, not to mention gratuitously, in the play. So to, did I leave and catch a bus home after the overlong tedious first act of the Goodman Theatres production of August Wilson's "Gem of the Ocean". By intermission it had run a full hour and 45 minutes. Unashamed, I threw in the towel, feeling I had given it the "old college try".
There is one particular playwright however who so far in my experience almost guarantees a grueling night in the theatre. Regina Taylor is an artistic associate at the Goodman Theatre. Having success early in her carrear as an actress, garnering a Golden Globe award and two Emmy nominations, she decided to turn her attention to playwriting. To date I have seen, at least in part, 3 of her works. First off, were she not a black woman, her plays would seem almost offensively racist, filled as they are with black stereotypes. If this is a case of Ms. Taylor writing what she knows perhaps she needs to step out of her comfort zone. The one piece I have seen in it's entirety, "Crowns", kept me in my seat only because of the gospel music infused through it. There was also no intermission, therefore no opportunity to make an inconspicuous escape. It, like Chinese food, was o.k. while it lasted but left little behind afterward. Then there were the series of 3 interconnected one acts. All three used the same set which was so well executed that the audience members were commenting on it before the house lights dimmed as there was no curtain and the set was in full view. After the first of the one acts I was unimpressed but not yet defeated. After the second I got on the train and headed home. First, you need to have 3 hours worth of things to say to expect an audience to stick with you for 3 hours. Second, she had, somewhat miraculously, managed to make the themes of rape and incest tedious and boring.
Next season one of the Goodman's productions is written and directed by Ms. Taylor. Generally speaking the words "written and directed by" are harbingers of doom, unless the names that follow are the likes of Woody Allen, Mel Brooks or in the case of the film "Nine to Five" the late Colin Higgins. Still, ever the eternal optimist, and since I have already paid for the ticket, I shall attend and see how far I get.
Yet it was during my first experience with this playwright when life took on comic overtones almost worthy of the stage. My seat, for reasons that escape now, had been moved closer to the stage for this performance. Often this is a good thing, on this occasion, not so much. The play was a retelling of Chekhov's "The Seagull", set inexplicably among the people of the Gullah culture on the islands off of North Carolina. It was, to be kind, completely unredeemable. The rambling script and poor acting were mixed with a lame, uninspired set and costumes that made each member of the cast look as if they had gained 10 pounds between the final fitting and the opening performance. To fix the play one would have had to wipe the slate clean, then burn the slate to ash.
There is a scene in the original movie version of "The Producers" which scans the audience as they watch the musical number "Springtime for Hitler". Their faces reflect a mixture of shock, disbelief and disgust. As I looked down the row of seats next to me I beheld expressions on the faces of my fellow theatregoers which greatly resembled those of the theatregoers in the movie. One fellow had fallen asleep, I considered him fortunate.
By intermission I decided I had suffered enough and rose from my seat to leave the theatre. As I was about to exit the lobby I turned around. It looked as if someone had yelled "Fire!" People were stampeding towards the doors. Outside a block long line of cabs stood waiting. I imagined the call that had gone out. "Bomb at the Goodman. Please report to Dearborn Street at once to assist in the evacuation."
One of Chicago's major newspapers listed the play as "recommended". This led me to assume one of two things. Either the critic did not wish to be viewed as a misogynistic racist for giving a negative review to a play written by a black woman, or they had not actually seen the play they were paid to review.
Some time later while chatting with a customer at the jewelry counter where I worked at the time the subject of the play came up. When I asked her "So you saw it?" She replied, "I saw part of it."
This hard lesson was learned in my teens during a jaw dropingly horrible production of Shakespeare's "Richard the Third" presented by the Tony winning, highly respected American Conservatory Theatre based in San Francisco. Richard's hump was so enormous it resembled a scale model of Mt. Everest and the costumes, heavily reliant on studded black leather, appeared to have been inspired by the notorious nocturnal activities of the play's director the aptly named William Ball. In the final moments of the play our S & M fetish clad Richard runs to the front of the stage and recites the famous lines "A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse." Behind him appears the plays "good guy" clad in nothing but a pair of white tights, one leg bent, his powerful rippling arms curled before him in imitation of a horse reared up on it's hind legs. Inappropriate but understandable laughter filled the theatre. Later the assumption around town was that the strikingly handsome large muscleboy in the white tights, new to the acting company, was the latest addition to the director's offstage stable of studly stallions.
There are a number of other examples. After sitting through the theatrical abomination of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Sunset Blvd." I managed to stammer out, as my partner and friend gushed about it, "The set was nice."
I am not above leaving at intermission if I feel that my time is being wasted. "The Graduate" lost my interest after the infamous full frontal nudity sequence, which was dimly lit and occurs quite early, not to mention gratuitously, in the play. So to, did I leave and catch a bus home after the overlong tedious first act of the Goodman Theatres production of August Wilson's "Gem of the Ocean". By intermission it had run a full hour and 45 minutes. Unashamed, I threw in the towel, feeling I had given it the "old college try".
There is one particular playwright however who so far in my experience almost guarantees a grueling night in the theatre. Regina Taylor is an artistic associate at the Goodman Theatre. Having success early in her carrear as an actress, garnering a Golden Globe award and two Emmy nominations, she decided to turn her attention to playwriting. To date I have seen, at least in part, 3 of her works. First off, were she not a black woman, her plays would seem almost offensively racist, filled as they are with black stereotypes. If this is a case of Ms. Taylor writing what she knows perhaps she needs to step out of her comfort zone. The one piece I have seen in it's entirety, "Crowns", kept me in my seat only because of the gospel music infused through it. There was also no intermission, therefore no opportunity to make an inconspicuous escape. It, like Chinese food, was o.k. while it lasted but left little behind afterward. Then there were the series of 3 interconnected one acts. All three used the same set which was so well executed that the audience members were commenting on it before the house lights dimmed as there was no curtain and the set was in full view. After the first of the one acts I was unimpressed but not yet defeated. After the second I got on the train and headed home. First, you need to have 3 hours worth of things to say to expect an audience to stick with you for 3 hours. Second, she had, somewhat miraculously, managed to make the themes of rape and incest tedious and boring.
Next season one of the Goodman's productions is written and directed by Ms. Taylor. Generally speaking the words "written and directed by" are harbingers of doom, unless the names that follow are the likes of Woody Allen, Mel Brooks or in the case of the film "Nine to Five" the late Colin Higgins. Still, ever the eternal optimist, and since I have already paid for the ticket, I shall attend and see how far I get.
Yet it was during my first experience with this playwright when life took on comic overtones almost worthy of the stage. My seat, for reasons that escape now, had been moved closer to the stage for this performance. Often this is a good thing, on this occasion, not so much. The play was a retelling of Chekhov's "The Seagull", set inexplicably among the people of the Gullah culture on the islands off of North Carolina. It was, to be kind, completely unredeemable. The rambling script and poor acting were mixed with a lame, uninspired set and costumes that made each member of the cast look as if they had gained 10 pounds between the final fitting and the opening performance. To fix the play one would have had to wipe the slate clean, then burn the slate to ash.
There is a scene in the original movie version of "The Producers" which scans the audience as they watch the musical number "Springtime for Hitler". Their faces reflect a mixture of shock, disbelief and disgust. As I looked down the row of seats next to me I beheld expressions on the faces of my fellow theatregoers which greatly resembled those of the theatregoers in the movie. One fellow had fallen asleep, I considered him fortunate.
By intermission I decided I had suffered enough and rose from my seat to leave the theatre. As I was about to exit the lobby I turned around. It looked as if someone had yelled "Fire!" People were stampeding towards the doors. Outside a block long line of cabs stood waiting. I imagined the call that had gone out. "Bomb at the Goodman. Please report to Dearborn Street at once to assist in the evacuation."
One of Chicago's major newspapers listed the play as "recommended". This led me to assume one of two things. Either the critic did not wish to be viewed as a misogynistic racist for giving a negative review to a play written by a black woman, or they had not actually seen the play they were paid to review.
Some time later while chatting with a customer at the jewelry counter where I worked at the time the subject of the play came up. When I asked her "So you saw it?" She replied, "I saw part of it."
Monday, July 14, 2014
Right or Wrong
A city in Colorado, in recognition of Gay Pride Month, replaced the POW flag outside one of it's civic buildings with a rainbow flag. Veteran's groups were up in arms proclaiming that the removal of the POW flag violated their "rights". To quell the disturbance the POW flag was moved to another civic building where it was flown, for the month of June, directly beneath the U.S. flag. I have heard religious groups state that the legalization of same sex marriage violates their "rights" as Christians. Some speak of the "rights" of illegal immigrants. The notion that those who have broken the law to immigrate have legal rights to stay is akin to the nonsense voiced by the King, Queen and others in "Alice in Wonderland".
There are rights granted to citizens in the U.S. constitution. Among these the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness", excepting, of course, the slaves owned by the founding fathers, but that is a story for another day. We are granted the "right to bear arms". What many seem to forget is that this right was given "in order to maintain a militia". Citizen militias are no longer necessary. It is time for the granting of the right to bear arms to be revisited. This "right" results in handgun deaths in the U.S. numbering in the tens of thousands. In other countries the number is counted in the dozens.
There are scores of laws and amendments granting and defining various rights. Many of these would be unnecessary if we were to focus on one simple, yet apparently hard to master concept, respect. Laws determining the right to a minimum wage would not be needed if corporations and business owners respected the work and dignity of their employees. Some complain of gays desiring "special rights". We merely ask for equal rights. We respect your right to marry who you please and not to have your home or employment threatened by an integral element of your nature. Our request is that those who oppose this for us do the same. As with the civil rights struggles of the 1950's and 60's if discrimination was not initially written or implied in the law an amendment to the law banning it would not be necessary.
With immigration the culture, civil procedure and laws of the country one wishes to move to needs to be respected. Those who break the laws fail to respect those that went through the proper channels to immigrate. While pride in ones native culture can be celebrated one also needs to respect the culture in which they have chosen to live. Were I to make the choice to move outside the U.S. I would learn the common language and not behave in a manner that would offend the place and people where I would chose to settle. I would treat my host with respect.
We will not agree, that is outside the basics of human nature. However we can respect one another. I do not request that you agree with or understand my views, opinions or lifestyle, that too goes against the sometimes headstrong nature of the human being. I do ask that my views, if they differ from yours, and do not cause harm to others, be respected, as I, if your views do not cause harm to others, will respect yours. Your "rights" do not include denying others that which you possess. We share the earth. On occasion, as some move forward within the boundaries of their self involved bubble, they seem to forget that.
There are rights granted to citizens in the U.S. constitution. Among these the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness", excepting, of course, the slaves owned by the founding fathers, but that is a story for another day. We are granted the "right to bear arms". What many seem to forget is that this right was given "in order to maintain a militia". Citizen militias are no longer necessary. It is time for the granting of the right to bear arms to be revisited. This "right" results in handgun deaths in the U.S. numbering in the tens of thousands. In other countries the number is counted in the dozens.
There are scores of laws and amendments granting and defining various rights. Many of these would be unnecessary if we were to focus on one simple, yet apparently hard to master concept, respect. Laws determining the right to a minimum wage would not be needed if corporations and business owners respected the work and dignity of their employees. Some complain of gays desiring "special rights". We merely ask for equal rights. We respect your right to marry who you please and not to have your home or employment threatened by an integral element of your nature. Our request is that those who oppose this for us do the same. As with the civil rights struggles of the 1950's and 60's if discrimination was not initially written or implied in the law an amendment to the law banning it would not be necessary.
With immigration the culture, civil procedure and laws of the country one wishes to move to needs to be respected. Those who break the laws fail to respect those that went through the proper channels to immigrate. While pride in ones native culture can be celebrated one also needs to respect the culture in which they have chosen to live. Were I to make the choice to move outside the U.S. I would learn the common language and not behave in a manner that would offend the place and people where I would chose to settle. I would treat my host with respect.
We will not agree, that is outside the basics of human nature. However we can respect one another. I do not request that you agree with or understand my views, opinions or lifestyle, that too goes against the sometimes headstrong nature of the human being. I do ask that my views, if they differ from yours, and do not cause harm to others, be respected, as I, if your views do not cause harm to others, will respect yours. Your "rights" do not include denying others that which you possess. We share the earth. On occasion, as some move forward within the boundaries of their self involved bubble, they seem to forget that.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
The Curse of Civic Duty
In my mail was the only thing I dread more than my post Christmas credit card bill, a jury summons. It was for a period of time when I would be visiting friends in Texas. I called and got a 3 month delay. When the new summons came it was for a courthouse whose location would require me to travel 2 plus hours EACH WAY!!!The other problem was that the courthouse is located in a dangerous, crime ridden area. It was also not outside the realm of possibility that I would be the only person of, well, shall we say Western European ancestry for miles in any direction. I called and got a change of venue. That was why, on an overcast Wednesday, when I would normally be attired in my black suit, dress shirt and tie, I was comfortably dressed in jeans, G star tennis shoes, a Christmas gift from my partner after I had to throw out an over worn favorite pair of foot gear and a fleece jacket picked up in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Although the bus line from the train to the courthouse has a stop by my workplace, so I travel it regularly, I had never taken it past that stop. I was therefore going to head into what, for me, was virgin territory. It was a nightmare of a public transit trip which proved Murphy's Law and took much longer than it should have. I passed by a bit of forest preserve I never knew existed and the headquarters of PEAPOD, the online grocery delivery service, finally arriving at the Skokie Courthouse, which, incidentally, should go down in architectural annals as one of the most non descript buildings in world history. Inside further blandness assaults the senses,, beige walls, beige floors and mud colored upholstered chairs which were surprisingly and thankfully comfortable. I would be spending a long amount of time in them that day.
A court employee, whose announcements sounded disturbingly like those of a flight attendant, welcomes us and introduces a video instructing us as to what we should expect during our jury service. A judge, whose delivery was so wooden I feared he would go up in flames any moment, is joined by a semi celebrity local newscaster to explain why the hell we are there and the procedures of a trial. We were then informed by the court employee/flight attendant that these is only one jury trial scheduled for that day. If we are not picked we will be dismissed. We sat, a morning talk show droned, I read.
One of the unpleasant parts of jury duty is the tedium. If I were to be released early I could return home, cook, clean, perhaps visit the gym, I could do SOMETHING! If I am picked to sit on the jury, although depending on the case that could become a multi day process, I would still be doing SOMETHING! We sat, a morning talk show droned, we waited. Except for the T.V. the place was not unlike the D.M.V.
In the one jury trial the defendant pleaded guilty, however.....in this state someone can ask for a jury trial even if one has not been scheduled for their case. We were told to amuse ourselves for an hour and a half then return. I pulled out my sandwich and snacks thinking that perhaps between them, writing, reading and my phone I could stay diverted for that length of time.
As I walked down the hall past the doors of the courtrooms with their long glass windows my mind pondered what personal dramas were being enacted behind each one. Child custody cases, workers comp issues, perpetrators and victims of minor crimes confronting one another, maybe one neighbor suing another over their level of unneighborlylessness.The law, the search for a pat, written solution to the ills of the human race. Many of these ills are part of human nature. They cannot be tethered by the written word. They must be experienced, dealt with, learned from and moved past. Only one law should be necessary, look out for and be concerned for one another, essentially the Golden Rule of the Bible. But people and society seem more complicated than that. Our brains and emotions seem to crave the clutter of detail.
A father and daughter team of lawyers entered the lunchroom discussing various cases, loudly. I would have loved to seek solace in the forest preserve across the street but I could see no trail head and a busy road, sans stoplights, created a barrier between it and me. A song from the 80's stated "nobody walks in L.A.". The same could be said about the Chicago suburbs.
I walked back through the bland, beige interior. Couldn't they at least hang a painting or two? Create a high school mural competition. Allow the taggers of our subway system access to ply their craft? Anything would help!
After our break we returned to the waiting room. I had bought a book in January in anticipation of this day, "A Single Man" by Christopher Isherwood. An early openly gay author he wrote "The Berlin Stories" which was adapted for the stage into "I Am A Camera" which was the basis for the musical "Cabaret". The relative quiet of the room was a good venue for poring through Isherwood's dense, imagery filled prose.
Finally we were told that all cases on the docket that day had been settled and we were free to go. It was my good fortune to find a bus idling, waiting to depart as I left the building. Settling into my seat I reflected on the day. It wasn't a total waste, I got a good read in.
Although the bus line from the train to the courthouse has a stop by my workplace, so I travel it regularly, I had never taken it past that stop. I was therefore going to head into what, for me, was virgin territory. It was a nightmare of a public transit trip which proved Murphy's Law and took much longer than it should have. I passed by a bit of forest preserve I never knew existed and the headquarters of PEAPOD, the online grocery delivery service, finally arriving at the Skokie Courthouse, which, incidentally, should go down in architectural annals as one of the most non descript buildings in world history. Inside further blandness assaults the senses,, beige walls, beige floors and mud colored upholstered chairs which were surprisingly and thankfully comfortable. I would be spending a long amount of time in them that day.
A court employee, whose announcements sounded disturbingly like those of a flight attendant, welcomes us and introduces a video instructing us as to what we should expect during our jury service. A judge, whose delivery was so wooden I feared he would go up in flames any moment, is joined by a semi celebrity local newscaster to explain why the hell we are there and the procedures of a trial. We were then informed by the court employee/flight attendant that these is only one jury trial scheduled for that day. If we are not picked we will be dismissed. We sat, a morning talk show droned, I read.
One of the unpleasant parts of jury duty is the tedium. If I were to be released early I could return home, cook, clean, perhaps visit the gym, I could do SOMETHING! If I am picked to sit on the jury, although depending on the case that could become a multi day process, I would still be doing SOMETHING! We sat, a morning talk show droned, we waited. Except for the T.V. the place was not unlike the D.M.V.
In the one jury trial the defendant pleaded guilty, however.....in this state someone can ask for a jury trial even if one has not been scheduled for their case. We were told to amuse ourselves for an hour and a half then return. I pulled out my sandwich and snacks thinking that perhaps between them, writing, reading and my phone I could stay diverted for that length of time.
As I walked down the hall past the doors of the courtrooms with their long glass windows my mind pondered what personal dramas were being enacted behind each one. Child custody cases, workers comp issues, perpetrators and victims of minor crimes confronting one another, maybe one neighbor suing another over their level of unneighborlylessness.The law, the search for a pat, written solution to the ills of the human race. Many of these ills are part of human nature. They cannot be tethered by the written word. They must be experienced, dealt with, learned from and moved past. Only one law should be necessary, look out for and be concerned for one another, essentially the Golden Rule of the Bible. But people and society seem more complicated than that. Our brains and emotions seem to crave the clutter of detail.
A father and daughter team of lawyers entered the lunchroom discussing various cases, loudly. I would have loved to seek solace in the forest preserve across the street but I could see no trail head and a busy road, sans stoplights, created a barrier between it and me. A song from the 80's stated "nobody walks in L.A.". The same could be said about the Chicago suburbs.
I walked back through the bland, beige interior. Couldn't they at least hang a painting or two? Create a high school mural competition. Allow the taggers of our subway system access to ply their craft? Anything would help!
After our break we returned to the waiting room. I had bought a book in January in anticipation of this day, "A Single Man" by Christopher Isherwood. An early openly gay author he wrote "The Berlin Stories" which was adapted for the stage into "I Am A Camera" which was the basis for the musical "Cabaret". The relative quiet of the room was a good venue for poring through Isherwood's dense, imagery filled prose.
Finally we were told that all cases on the docket that day had been settled and we were free to go. It was my good fortune to find a bus idling, waiting to depart as I left the building. Settling into my seat I reflected on the day. It wasn't a total waste, I got a good read in.
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