Has True Blood Lost Its Bite?

I'm more than a little concerned about this season of True Blood. Something is missing. It seems that True Blood has lost it's bite. 4 episodes in and I have to wonder, where is the danger? This season's tag line is "Everything is at stake". Plot-wise this is true. I suppose. I don't know if it's any stakier than past seasons but yeah every character is heavily embroiled in some kind of southern fried supernatural trauma. But, I don't feel anything is at stake for me, the viewer. Not in comparison to seasons past. Word on the street is that Alan Ball will be leaving his show - runner duties for the next season. Part of me wonders if he hasn't already checked out

What Alan Ball has always done so terrifyingly well is to tap into our innermost, visceral places. In simpler terms, gurl knows how to portray how fucked up we can be. Six Feet Under still reigns (for me at least) as the greatest television show that has ever existed. In Six Feet Under, Ball balanced mortality with sexual exploration and angst. David's coming out in between embalming sessions and wakes, Brenda's sexual addiction (not to mention the weird ass tension between her and her own brother), Nate's womanizing and the seemingly frigid matriarch Ruth may have had more lovers than anyone else on the show.

Thematically, True Blood is a fun house mirror of Six Feet Under. It's life vs. death (or un-death in this case) wrapped up in a whole lot of sex, blood and leather pants.  True Blood is a show about desire... excessive desire. Like really, deep, dark, twisted desire. Although the incest on True Blood isn't nearly as unnerving as on Six Feet Under. I mean what's a little incest between vampires? And there is a little incest this season. But that is exactly the problem with this season. The most taboo element is neither here nor there and merely a characteristic rather than a storyline. 

True Blood has always engaged the viewer by presenting danger that excited us and that tempted us. Even when we knew it was bad for the characters in the end, didn't we all want to try V? Don't we all want to dabble in a little witchcraft? Didn't Maryann's cake and dirt eating fueled orgies seem kind of awesome? At least at the beginning? Don't we all want to have sex with Eric - a Vampire who could quite possibly suck all the blood out of us as we dig our fingers into his well formed cum drains? And most of all, don't we all more than sorta kinda want to be Vampires???

But that's all missing this season. The allure, the danger, the hurts so good -  it's just not there. It's all plot, swift action and rather disconnected or unsurprising sex. Bill and Eric and their "Vamps of Hazard" storyline is abysmal and SPOILER ALERT, Tara as a Vampire is not really all that different than Tara as a human. She still hates Vamps and herself, now just a little more than usual. It looks like Sookie might be headed towards my favorite place in the world (Alcide's arms) but let's face it, that's about as dangerous as Ross and Rachel.  


Oh sure there's the sociopolitical commentary / parable but without the danger, well, I'd rather just watch re-runs of The West Wing. C'mon Alan Ball, give us some V. Give us some sex. Give us some  sex on V. Make us feel dirty again.   

I Love Poppers and Spooning with Muscle Bears!

This morning at the gym, I was on the eliptical reading Entertainment Weekly. (What gayer sentence could start this posting other than, "This morning I was gangbanged while listening to the new Kylie") The recent issue features a cover story about gay celebrities coming out in a way that is not a big deal. So often when these celebrities have come out as gay it is riddled with statements like, "I'm gay, it's just a part of who I am." or "I happen to be gay, it's not a big deal" or my personal favorite "I'm gay, but it doesn't define who I am". 


I am so over these sentiments! Why did you secure an interview / hold a press conference / hire a social media expert only to go on and on about how it's just a not big deal - triple question mark, double exclamation point. For once for the love of Jean Tripplehorn, I would be thrilled if a celebrity gave a coming out interview in which they said "Yes! I am a great big 'Mo. It's a big part of my life! I love poppers, her MADGE-esty, spooning with muscle bears and shopping for teeny tiny bathing suits. It is a very big deal!"
I'm sorry but my being gay does very much define who I am. It is kind of a big deal as I am kind of a big deal. It is one great, big, awesome, mother fuckin' deal. Most of my favorite qualities about myself do seem to stem from my experience as a gay person. As a little boy as I was chased down the street to the taunts of "Dannygirl" and "faggot", I began to develop my well honed sense of humor and wit. This humor and wit has evolved from being a defense mechanism or even a weapon of sorts, to being a way to bring joy and laughter into the world. Cuz as it turns out... I am high-larious.

 I felt "other" and "different" growing up, (probably because I was a giant homogaysexual) and was always looking for a place to fit in. I found that place in books, in stories of magical lands and extraordinary people. This experience developed my imagination tremendously. It left me with the desire to bring such stories to life,  igniting  my passion for and commitment to live theatre. This might have something to do with me creating my very own theater company.

This experience of being "other" and "different" has made me a more sensitive, compassionate, empathetic person. I identify with those that are also different, other, forgotten, left out. This might explain why I have a bent for social justice and why I might also be a decent shoulder to cry on.

Being gay however,  has not made me particularly humble.

I would not say that "gay" is a defining characteristic for me. Humor, creativity, compassion - these, I would safely say are my defining characteristics. But all of these characteristics come from the same experience, the same root and that experience is being a loud and very, very proud Liza lovin', Golden Girl's watchin', man - marryin', disco dancin', cock smokin' queer. It's a big deal. A very big gay deal. 


Happy Pride Kittens!
Dan

Nobody Ought to Be Alone On Christmas

This Christmas Eve, fate has decided that I should be alone. Completely and utterly alone. I have not shared a gift, a toast or a warm hug on Christmas Eve for the first time in my life. I am never one to shy away from the unconventional but this experience, though not entirely my own doing, is taking it a bit far.

I've known for weeks that this somewhat solemn night was coming and I have consoled myself with the fact that as of December 26th my holiday time with friends, food and family will be fast upon me. However it hasn't made the day that much easier. Christmas is meant to be a time for miracles and magic. I have gone about my day as any other. I woke up, did some tidying about the apartment, went to the gym, ate lunch and headed to work. All the while, various, magical, made - for - TV inspired scenarios of how the day could turn out ran through my mind. I imagined that:

A) I'd meet the real Santa Clause on a bustling mid - town street corner.

B) While at work I'd make late night reservations for a handsome hotel guest who would invite me along with him and we'd fall madly in love.

C) Through a series of comical mishaps, I'd find myself at a homeless shelter only to learn the true meaning of Christmas while caroling with charming raggedy orphans, urchins, wenches and meth heads.

Of course none of this happened. But somewhere in there lies a little bit of Christmas magic in and of itself. Christmas is a time of year where we are all children, excited about the impossible whether it be mysterious stars that guide us through the desert, fat men in red suits who deliver gifts in the middle of the night or babes that will be born and change the world. Even in this, my worst Christmas ever, I can still imagine, hope and believe.

This sense of wonder despite the circumstances, is something of a small miracle all on its own. While I am not likely to repeat this experience, I am glad for it nonetheless.

As soon as I finish this second glass of burgundy and take in a little Peter Billingsly, I'll hunker down in my bed and enjoy my Christmas slumber. Who knows? Maybe there will be some spirits that plan on visiting me...

Merry Christmas. Keep Dreaming.

All my love,

Dan

FOR BIG HAIRY NIPS...

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I'm Back!

My favorite episode of Absolutely Fabulous begins with the absolutely hysterical Edina (Jennifer Saunders) getting ready for a busy day of whining, boozing and door handle shopping . She puts on a pant suit and then looks at herself and desperately exclaims "I cannot be this person... not this person". She then rushes over to her closet and grabs a divining rod to help her select which awful, designer bit of garishness she'll throw on herself.

That moment from the dearly departed AbFab has always stayed with me. I love that expression and so often identify with that sentiment - "I cannot be this person". While I don't wear pant suits or over priced silver spandex tops, I have felt those exact sentiments when I've sat down to write in my blog. I open my laptop and look over the previous entries and attempt to replicate the tone of the majority my writing. I try to find something off beat, charming and whimsical to say. I attempt to be my best self.

The problem however, is that so often, I am simply not my best self. I am often sitting down at my laptop at the end of a long, insufferable day of making reservations at "The Spicy Market" or "Peter's Lugers" for demanding and often rude European tourists. Or I sit down to write after a long day of rehearsal or auditions that has sapped me of all wit. Sometimes I sit down to write and i can't focus because I am hung up on that last sharp toned email I may have received. Or I sit down to write and I'm totally depressed because I've broken up with my boyfriend. Or I sit down to write and I'm just feeling bitchy, critical and judgmental. Or I'm feeling defeatist. Or I'm feeling too absurd. Or I'm feeling frustrated because I'm obsessing about what to write in a blog that nobody reads anyway! It's like I'm screaming into a vacuum!

So for several months, I said "fuck it". I am simply not this charming persona I set out to be and should not continue to force that ideal on myself.

This was the wrong choice, in part.

Several months later and I'm saying "fuck it" again. I am not always this charming persona but that should not stop me from writing. That should not stop me from the wonderfully creative activities of observing, analyzing and reflecting. I should not stop trying to put those observations and reflection into words that form sentences which in turn form paragraphs and ultimately result in some sort of cohesive essay. So I say fuck it. I'm not going to worry about which person I'm going to be today but I am still going to write. I'm a moody bitch and I'm just going to go with that. The best thing I can do for myself is to be honest; to write honestly. So love it or leave it, here we go... again. It may not be pretty, and I may offend one of my three readers every so often or at the very least bore them regularly but I promise... to simply be me.

Broadway Bares Vs The Black Party

This past Sunday, I attended my first Broadway Bares. For those of you who don't know, Broadway Bares is an annual 'Broadway meets Burlesque' event, raising money for Broadway Cares / Equity Fights AIDS. This year marked it's 20th anniversary. How I have never attended is a little beyond me as it is one of the gayest events of the year. And as we know... I'm like super, super gay.

Broadway Bares is held at the Roseland Ballroom. I have only been to Roseland for one other event - the infamous Black Party. Being in the space I couldn't help but compare the two events. Broadway Bares and The Black Party are oddly like twin cousins. The Black Party being the crazy Patty Lane who loses control at the sight of a hot dog and Broadway Bares would be the elegant, more refined Cathy Lane.

I am now going to break down their similarities:

• Both are held at the Roseland Ballroom drawing in over 4,000 people.
• Both bring together the gay community for an evening of sexual fun and bawdiness.
• Both in a way force their audience to embrace sexual energy that feels defiant and gives the finger to HIV / AIDS.
• Both involve a lot of scantily clad / naked men gyrating about Roseland Ballroom.
• Both have the same weird sort of retarded old drug dealer, wandering around mumbling "Coke, K, Ecstasy".

And now... for the differences

• Broadway Bares simulates water sports ; The Black Party's water sports seem a bit more... authentic
• Broadway Bares showcases a lot of glittered flesh; The Black Party showcases a lot of leathered flesh.
• Broadway Bares is a spectator sport; The Black Party requires a lot more participation
• Broadway Bares involved a lot of wax and spray tan. The Black Party involves a lot of body hair and "natural man smell".
• Broadway Bares costs about $55; The Black Party is a cool (and rough) $125.
• Broadway Bares this year, raised over $1,000,000 for HIV / AIDS services in the community - as I watched the show I could feel my T- Cells rising; The Black Party, a commercial venture, made scads of money for itself with I'm sure an "appropriate" amount going to some chosen tax shelter.

How amazing would it be if the two events could meet somewhere in the middle? What if an evening existed that was a bit dirtier and a bit crazier than what Broadway Bares currently offers, yet more socially and sexually responsible than the Black Party? What if we could gyrate in leather while raising millions of dollars for social causes? What if we were rolling our faces off on Ecstasy while dancing along to a sexy strip tease number featuring Kristin Chenoweth and Vanessa Williams followed by a hot threesome in the play pen?

Could you imagine? Nobody would leave the Roseland Ballroom for at least a week.

Love Me,

Dan

GORDO

There is a man who washes dishes at the hotel where I am employed. I am not kidding you, he is seriously one of the most unfortunate looking people I’ve ever seen. I am not writing this in retaliation to his estimation of my physical dimensions of which you are about to read. I just need to impart to you how absolutely crazy ugly this dude is so that there is no irony lost here.

For years I’ve seen him in the back of house hallways of the hotel and done my best not to avert my gaze. I’ve nodded quick hellos on the street on the way to or from or work. I’ve tried not to throw up in the locker room where I’ve seen him scratching his stomach and washing his feet. I’ve always thought, “that is the ugliest non-deformed individual alive”. He really looks like something that might have escaped from Middle Earth.

I don’t want to get into the particulars of his unpleasant visage and unseemly shape. I’ll let you form your own image in your brain. I simply do not have the literary prowess to do justice to this man’s ugliness.

So anyway, he’s ugly. Right? Well, we’re riding the elevator together. It’s late. We’re both leaving work. We’re alone on the elevator. We exchange the obligatory exchange about a long day and how leaving work is always nice. He has a thick Mexican accent with a voice that always sounds like he’s about to spew sediment.

Aside from my usual angst about being in elevators with people I don’t know, I am now wrestling with the guilt I feel about my sentiments towards this man’s mug. I am trying to be very casual, leaning against the elevator wall. Staring down at my totally uninteresting Converse clad footsies. As I stand there, leaning against the filthy metal of the service elevator wall, he points at my slightly protruding carrot top and asks “Whass going on Papi? You no make exercise?”

And yes folks... I've just coined the phrase "carrot top". I want credit. Something good has to come of this.

Love Me,

Dan