Sure, it’s a little cheesy, but this video montage of beautiful scenes from around British Columbia produced for the Olympics gives me chills. I love it! And having Kim Cattrall — who few Americans know is from BC, and who was once sleeping with Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau — is just the icing on the cake!
I’m as big a salon snob as any urbanite, which I why I was so thrilled when I broke my big city-salon only rule and tried out Lunatic Fringe when I was recently in Salt Lake City.
From the second I stepped into the place, in the city’s gayish Sugar House section, I felt my stresses disappear in this oasis of clipping calm. After introductions more fitting for a first date (it’s that friendly Rocky Mountain way), I was whisked into the warm “Lather Lounge,” where my hair advisor Jon spent no fewer than five minutes rubbing all that ails my hair out of it with various tea tree potions.
Afterward a lengthy consultation on the merits of various styles, he sliced away, giving me a look certainly more fitting for NYC than SLC. And all it took to finish off was tonic lotion, thickening spray, and Surf Spray and Sumo Tech (whatever that is) from Bumble and bumble. I can’t recommend the place enough…(seriously.)
Absolutely brilliant…Party in the USA, Fire Island Pines version:
It’s been ten years since Adam Gopnik wrote “Paris to the Moon,” and I just finally got around to reading it. (I generally eschew any book that’s a bestseller until it begins collecting dust on bookstore shelves…) I have to admit that it was a pretty good read (one chapter aside, on sports, which I couldn’t manage to slog through). Gopnik’s tale of leaving New York and moving to Paris for a few years as correspondent for The New Yorker is every francophile’s fantasy. He writes, ”It’s true that you can’t run away from yourself. But we were right right: you can run away.”
If you’re not a Paris fanatic like me, you probably won’t enjoy the book and all its local references quite as much.
A Times reviewer explained, “The distinctive brilliance of Gopnik’s essays lies in his ability to pick up a subject one would never have imagined it possible to think deeply about and then cover it in thoughts, making connections with literature, sociology and philosophy — all treated in a highly readable way.” French fax machines, Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville, and chocolat chaud at The Ritz all get their fair share of ink.
Going into Gym Bar last night to watch the Vancouver opening ceremonies, I warned my friends that I would be insufferable all evening, peppering the historic night with useless trivia about my favo(u)rite city on the continent. And I didn’t disappoint, although my friends did humo(u)r me and let me explain every nuance of the evening. I have to admit it was one of the greatest joys of my (sad, sad) life to see Vancouver shown off to the world. I’ve been going there religiously for years and have both enjoyed — and tired — of people knowing so little about it. My friend Steve didn’t believe me. (Click that damn link, Steve!)
First off, I am thrilled that on TV they keep showing where Vancouver is on the map. Maybe fewer people will think it’s near Anchorage (I often get that), when in fact, it’s closer to New York than San Francisco is.
I had frissons from the first second of the broadcast, as BC natives Kim Cattrall and Ryan Reynolds and then Vancouver’s gleaming skyline flickered onto the screen…and then I teared up (true!) when Georgia walked in just hours after the sad death of one of its own on Whistler’s slicker-than-slick luge run. (For the record, I want to die in a place as beautiful as British Columbia – the license plate isn’t lying.)
But it was when Romeo Dallaire marched in that I really flipped! So cool to see him included in the ranks of Canadian celebrity (too bad no one at the United Nations took note back in 1994, but I digress).
Two fashion observations: I’m still wondering whether Pucci or Lily Pulitzer provided Azerbaijan’s outrageous yet quite chic costumes. Entertainment Weekly gave them the distinction of having the night’s Worst Outfit. And on the flip side, I thought Michaelle Jean looked positively dazzling in her silvery bronzy suit. Someone definitely made a run into Holts before hitting BC Place. And she looked a helluva lot better than Laureen Harper, who was seated next to her and who resembled a ketchup bottle (the squeezable ones, not the svelte Heinz ones).
The bottom line?
I haven’t talked to anyone who liked the opening ceremonies. The New York Times kindly called it “tasteful.” Let’s face it: Beijing was a tough act to follow, and in 2008 China had a lot more to prove to the world than Canada does today (they also spent 10 times more than Vancouver did). The show was beautifully done — malfunctioning caldrons notwithstanding — but I think the main problem was simply the fact that it was very Canadian, and Americans don’t know much about Canada. Anything Canadian state-side requires subtitles for people to understand what’s happening. Everyone was puzzled at how indian-heavy (that’s First Nations, people!) it was. Never mind that British Columbia is basically one big native land claim. Don’t even get me started about the questions about Who the hell is Stephen Harper? and What the hell is a governor general?
(One minor post-script: Where on earth was NBC broadcasting from? In the pre-opening broadcast, one could only presume they were on a barge in Coal Harbour — perhaps at the float plane gas pumps? — if the backdrop of the Vancouver Convention Centre was to be believed. Clearly they were not.)
Vancouver’s coming out party, the 21st Winter Olympics, is just about to begin! The Times has a great piece on the city, calling it “among the best eating towns in the history of the Winter Games.”
“Poised geographically and psychologically between Asia and Europe, running on reserves of Hong Kong cash and American corporate interests, on surpluses of immigration and dreams, Vancouver is what the novelist William Gibson, who lives here, calls ‘radically multicultural.’ That is excellent for food.”
But all is not perfect in Vancouver, that’s for sure. While The Times touts the merit of Vancouver’s dining scene, this week it also offered up a good piece on the blighted Downtown Eastside, Canada’s skid row. The DTES is the first place I ever saw someone shoot up and pass their needle to another person in broad daylight!
I was re-reading old blog posts when I came across this one, in which Anderson Cooper talks about his brother’s suicide in an essay on CNN.com. The piece is rife with fascinating quotes and observations on life and death and is a must-read! The ending zinger is rather profound:
I used to think suicide was a conscious act. A plan made, then carried out. I know now it’s not always like that.
My brother was a sweet young man who wanted to be in control. In the end, he simply wasn’t.
None of us are. We all dangle from a very delicate thread.
The key is not to let go.
The town of North Haven, Maine is a quirky place. There aren’t many places that boast so many churches (3) for such a small population (350) — nor many places where the churches actually change denomination depending on the season.
The tiny year-round community can support just one year-round church, the North Haven Baptist Church. In the summer, a simple clapboard Episcopal church opens its doors on the opposite side of the island, as does a century-old shingle-style Catholic church at the crest of Kent’s Hill on the way into town.
For those two months each year when droves of wealthy Bostonians and New Yorkers descend on the island (and Episcopalians outnumber Baptists by a wide margin) the Episcopalians don’t actually ever move into their own church. In fact, I’m not sure if any of the churches have ever been consecrated. Baptist parishioners head up-island, swapping spaces with the Episcopalians and leaving them to worship in the larger village Baptist church. Twice a year, the faithful join together in a union service at one or other of the churches. The Catholics host Sunday services most weeks during the height of the season.
The shingle-style Catholic Church, which was dusty and mysterious each time we would sneak into as kids, is the only local church that retains its religion all year long (even if it only opens for a few weeks each summer):
Just saw “500 Days of Summer,” a cute boy meets girl, boy falls in love, girl doesn’t kind of film. My friend Brian said I HAD to see it, describing it as a perfect depiction of my life. I have to admit it DID feel a bit like I was watching my life flash before me on the big screen. My BFF Joseph Gordon-Levitt does a good job playing “me.”
The zinger at the film’s end, after Tom and Summer have split and she has gotten married, is so simple and so profound. It’s like Brian said to me one day: “How can two people have so much fun then one completely disappears?”
As I swooped into the Salt Lake Valley the other day, I was shocked to see how bad the air quality seemed as soon as we got below the peaks of the Wasatch Front. Turns out it was pretty bad — everyone I spoke with in Salt Lake commented on how bad the air quality was, and the AP reported that it was some of the worst air quality conditions in years. Who knew the inversion effect was so bad in Utah?
“She’ll only break your heart, it’s a fact. And even though I warn you, even though I guarantee that the girl will only hurt you terribly, you’ll still pursue her. Ain’t love grand?”
(Great Expectations)
I’m in the middle of transitioning my blog from one service to another. Please bear with me while I slowly bring the site back online!
All 2006-2010 entries are back. Entries from 2003-2005 will be back soon!
Please note this site is looking funky in Internet Explorer 6.0 — please try Firefox or Safari instead. It seems to prefer Macs for now (don’t we all).
Help me out by emailing me if this site looks out of whack to you!
As the sun sets on another year, best wishes to all!
My annual list of some of my favorite memories from the past year:
• Speed dating in Paris on the eve of Valentine’s Day
• Celebrating my birthday on an Etihad flight from New York to Abu Dhabi
• Celebrating the 4th of July at the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá
• An autumn afternoon running the carriage trails of Mount Royal with my friend Jeffrey
• Riding a public bus across the United Arab Emirates
• Seeing Dreamgirls at the Apollo Theater with my friend Andy
I’m way behind in my book reviews, so I’ll be brief here to catch up and blurb a few recent-reads…
Saudi Arabia Exposed (John Bradley): Sounds like it was written by a Republican, but it was actually a very fair and balanced English journalist. A fascinating look at the world’s most closed country. It was my first book on Saudi Arabia and now I’m hooked. I recommend it — even if you don’t care about Saudi Arabia.
Bobos in Paradise: The new upper class and how they got there (David Brooks): LOVED IT! A very good read for anyone who has lived in civilization for the past decade or two (small town America doesn’t count unless it’s Missoula or Burlington).
Brooks devotes much of his book to self-conscious wandering AND the idea of venturing further and further afield in search of spirtual or emotional fulfillment. He writes,
But the ultimate problem with spiritual freedom is that it never ends. As [the American philosopher Richard] Rorty points out, it widens endlessly, Freedom means always keeping your options open, so it means you never settle on truth, you never arrive, you can never rest. The accumulation of spiritual peak experiences can become like the greedy person’s accumulation of money. The more you get, the more you hunger for more. The life of perpetual choice is a life of perpetual longing as you are prodded by the inextinguishable desire to try the next new thing. But maybe what the soul hungers for is ultimately not a variety of interesting and moving insights but a single universal truth.
Crescent & Star: Turkey Between Two Worlds (Stephen Kinzer): Best book on Turkey I’ve read yet — and I can’t stop reading about Turkey. Very easy to digest for anyone not already into the history of Turkey.
The Turks Today (Andrew Mango): Not quite as good or as flowing a read as Crescent & Star, but I still recommend it to any Turkophile. The book traces the republic’s history since the death of Ataturk — quite interesting.
The older I get, the less into Christmas I get. Although I enjoy the hunt for the perfect gift for special people in my life, I am admittedly uncomfortable receiving gifts anytime of the year. I’m too modest — really! I think there are far too many good causes that are worthy of our money. A few for your consideration:
At a recent benefit in the West Village (hosted by Tom Fontana at his spectacular former New York Public Library-turned-apartment), I discovered that I’m not the only young New Yorker who is obsessive about Buffalo’s park system (though I may be the only one who didn’t grow up in Buffalo). The Buffalo Olmsted Parks Conservancy is a great, little-known cause that is working to restore the grandeur of Frederick Law Olmsted’s parks, a comprehensive system first proposed for Manhattan that was never carried out here — Olmsted reportedly said New York didn’t have the vision for it, so he went to Buffalo to work his magic. The Conservancy is not only returning parks to their original state — how they looked and flowed before urban renewal destroyed many of them — but they’re doing it all while running the day-to-day operations of the city’s parks after Buffalo transferred stewardship to them. Turns out a private group can do it better — and more cheaply than the city government. Imagine that.
I can’t think of a better cause in New York than the Ali Forney Center, the shelter for homeless gay teens. (Even Golden Girls diva Bea Arthur thought so: she left Ali Forney $300,000 in her will earlier this year.) The issue of homeless gay teens is huge — and largely flies under the radar in Chelsea, the center’s home base. I’ve been stirred by the issue ever since reading an incredible New York Times article on Ali Forney a half decade ago. As Carl Siciliano, director of the center told the paper, “I think it’s shameful that these kids are out there alone and in danger, in a city where gay men have so much money.”
Related:
Helping them make it through the night [NYT]
For Young Gays on the Streets, Survival Comes Before Pride; Few Beds for Growing Class of Homeless [NYT]
Thousands of New York’s homeless teens live with violence and despair. Ali Forney was one of them [LAT]
What a whirlwind of a week! Wednesday night I had the good fortune to see Jude Law in Hamlet on Broadway — a seriously hot ticket. While I tend to avoid anything associated with big name celebs, on the grounds that they must be over-commercialized, I was hugely impressed by Jude Law’s performance. (Ben Brantley at The Times wasn’t so effusive in his praise.) So many famous – and fabulous – lines in popular usage originated from Hamlet: “Brevity is the soul of wit,” being my simple favorite (and of course Hamlet’s cry to Ophelia to “Get thee to a nunnery!”). While Jude’s performance was spectacular over the 3 1/2-hour performance, it was the realer-than-life lighting design that stole the show and the contemporary touch in the costuming that tied it all together. No wonder this show’s taking in a $1 million haul each week.
From high brow Shakespeare I went a little downscale to see Rihanna at Hammerstein Ballroom. The babe of Barbados performed a quick 45-minute free promotional show that was sponsored by JetBlue and Barbados Tourism. She was actually quite a good performer, though her quick appearance seemed to miff quite a few of us (OK, so it was free…!). The best part of this show was certainly Rihanna’s clothing, which the Daily News called a “revealing outfit that didn’t quite qualify as a dress.” One less centimeter of fabric and the world’s her gynecologist.
From Mr Blue Eyes and Miss Barbados the cultural tour of New York this week proceeded uptown to the famed Apollo Theater, where my friend Andy somehow managed to get us 7th row center seats to the last weekend of Dreamgirls. It was quite simply the best show I’ve ever seen (thanks, Andy!). Not only were the singing and acting talents pretty spectacular, but the stage and lighting (if maybe a little over-the-top) combined with the most indescribable costumes and an electric crowd to produce one spectacular evening on the town. The star of the show was surely the costumes — some 580 of them, created by William Ivey Long. If he doesn’t get a Tony for their not-so-subtle contribution to an incredible show, I’d be shocked.
On the night my brother died, I was half a world away, wandering the cobblestone streets of Prague’s Old Town on a drizzly night. It was a perfect evening: the cobblestone slick in the light rain, the streets shiny under the glow of gas lamps, the muted clop of a woman’s heels the only sound in the world. It was a perfectly unremarkable evening, too, until my phone rang and another brother told me the news.
Life froze.
In that moment, thousands of miles away, my little brother (well, he always towered over me, but I always thought of him as my little brother) lay lifeless.
Joan Didion once observed that when tragedy strikes, we fixate on the normalcy of the moment.
The light. The sounds. The air. The calmness.
“Confronted with sudden disaster,” she wrote, “we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred.”
“Life changes fast,” Didion said. “Life changes in an instant.”
After my brother died, a higher-up at my office offered to buy me an early plane ticket home. Another friend took me for Long Island Iced Teas when I returned. Long lost friends appeared at his burial. Each outpouring, in its own way, represented to me the true kindness of people — and the clarity of true friendship that emerges in times of chaos.
My brother and I were not best friends, but the truth is, we were accidental companions. Our age drew us together — we were probably closest to each other, among our family of five kids. We went on wild excursions through the back-of-beyond (dans les concessions, as they say in Acadian French), where he taught me how to successful make a car do a recreational 360-degree spin on snowy roads; he introduced me to my future obsession, Sarah McLachlan; he taught me how to shoot a gun (indeed); we even went on a particularly embarrassing double date or two (ditto).
The experience of his death taught me a few things: we all grieve in our ways, and in death, we often remember people differently — sometimes quite differently — from the reality of how we knew them in life. Varying versions of history and memory emerge posthumously, though perhaps none is more or less valid than the others.
But mostly, I was struck by the profundity and simplicity of one curious line I discovered.
“The timing of death,” writer Mary Catherine Bateson once said, “like the ending of a story, gives a changed meaning to what preceded it.”
It’s been a week of gay events in New York! Last night I went to the annual NYC PFLAG Annual Dinner at Tribeca Rooftop — our table was, of course, quite good looking, as were the views from the roof. The highlight of the night was not the PFLAG mom who told the sad and predictable tale of her son’s spiral into crystal meth addiction and HIV (As my friend Andy observed afterward, “You know, I was so expecting her to go to the HIV place in that story that I found the meth revelation to be a nice palette cleanser.”), but Bishop Gene Robinson, the first openly gay bishop in the Episcopal faith, and the subject of worldwide anguish by some (well, many) Church faithful…and a very impressive performance by Barbara Cook, who has been singing her heart out for decades, if not centuries.
There’s no nonprofit group in New York I’m as obsessed about as the Ali Forney Center. Not since I read an amazing article in the New York Times way back in 2004 have I felt so moved by an issue: gay teen homelessness. In New York, the problem is epidemic, and AFC is on the frontline tackling this huge problem.
Every fall they host a benefit, “A Place at the Table,” and last week’s event was superb, what with Mayor Bloomberg, City Council Speaker Chris Quinn, and celebs Sandra Bernhard and Rufus Wainwright on hand to show their support for the Chelsea (and now Queens and Brooklyn) shelter.
As The Times explained back in 2004, “There is no official count of those who are homeless and gay in New York, but Carl Siciliano, who runs the city’s largest shelter for gay young adults, puts their numbers in the thousands. Most national studies estimate that as many as half of all homeless youth are lesbian or gay, many of them tossed out by parents who scorn homosexuality for a variety of reasons.
“As director of the Ali Forney Center in Manhattan, Mr. Siciliano can shelter only 12 people at a time and wring his hands as the waiting list grows beyond 100. He seethes with indignation when talking about the teenagers who are forced onto the streets, where they quickly become acquainted with drugs, hustling, violence and the virus that causes AIDS. For many, he says, suicide becomes the only way out.”
