There from Here

Please check out the new blog at Jenniferboylan.net

2009-07-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

Well friends, it's been lovely hanging with you here, but we're striking the tent at Blogspot and building a new civilization at the THERE FROM HERE BLOG at Jenniferboylan.net.

I began this blog in January because I liked the ease of the blogger software. At the same time, posting here marooned my extensive web site over at JB.net.

So after some thought, and a lengthy redesign, the old web site has been improved. And it combines the blog stuff I hope you've enjoyed here at blogger with the deeper-album-cut resources that were on the old web site.

This means that this blog HERE will essentially go into mothballs now, which is a shame in a way, but most of the highlights have been moved over to the new site.

All of which means, from here on out, please visit me at www.jenniferboylan.net; you'll find my resources there as well as the ongoing commentary you've read here, as well as comments from the generous followers and visitors to this site.

Thanks, and see you over there!

Jenny Boylan
July 2009

Crispy. Salty. Judicious

2009-06-01T05:35:00.000-07:00

Editorial Observer

The Lord Justice Hath Ruled: Pringles Are Potato Chips

from the New York Times

By ADAM COHEN

Published: May 31, 2009

Britain’s Supreme Court of Judicature has answered a question that has long puzzled late-night dorm-room snackers: What, exactly, is a Pringle? With citations ranging from Baroness Hale of Richmond to Oliver Wendell Holmes, Lord Justice Robin Jacob concluded that, legally, it is a potato chip.

The decision is bad news for Procter & Gamble U.K., which now owes $160 million in taxes. It is good news for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs — and for fans of no-nonsense legal opinions. It is also a reminder, as conservatives begin attacking Judge Sonia Sotomayor for not being a “strict constructionist,” of the pointlessness of labels like that.

More on politics and potato chips here.

Now what?

2009-05-25T16:17:00.001-07:00

What can I tell ya. I LIKE Tobasco.

Be that as it may: what next?

Grades filed, commencement done, boys guided through the Memorial Day parade, fiddle lesson, homework, and heaven knows what else.

Now? Well now, my friend, Professor Boylan spends some serious time chillin'.

Chillin, in my case meaning, writing as constantly as possible on Falcon Quinn Book 2, which I hope to have a rough draft of by summers' end. Book one will return to me in galleys and pages etc throughout the summer on its way to hardcover in 2010.

I'm also maybe writing a screenplay for my old friend Peter.

In the meantime, we'll be heading out to the lake place in a week or two, after Deedie/Grace returns from a week at my mom's house (watching the Devon Horse Show). Today I put Rustoleum on the outdoor furniture. In days ahead I hope to get our boat in the water, and then, oh please oh please, maybe I will just float around and catch some fish.

This summer looks to have our boys off at camp for quite a bit-- Zach is building a kayak and then sailing it, at the Chewonki Foundation in July, and Seanie is doing soccer camp, followed by French Horn camp, which we have promised to call "music camp" because "band camp" sounds bad. Anyhow, there's that.

Mostly I want to come to rest a little bit. Being me, "coming to rest" will mean writing a lot, two author appearances--the next of which is the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge, coming up on June 10. But there will be time for the Red-Sox Yankees game the following night, and lots of floating around on the boat. Drinking mojiotos. And yeah: tobasco.

Gay Scientists Discover "Christian Gene"

2009-05-21T16:51:00.001-07:00

May 17: Outwit, Outlast, Outplay.

2009-05-17T16:36:00.001-07:00

Jenny B., left, at Umass, delivering a short speech after receiving the "Continuing Stonewall's Legacy" award. Note the bright red academic robes, plus the small Aladdin's Lamp (a gift from Mom Boylan) on the dias. The wish is granted!

Well, here we are, back from Northampton and Amherst, grades lodged, hanging out on a summer night waiting for the Survivor finale. Somewhere I will write about the LOST finale of Thursday (although what is there, ever, to say about LOST except, Whoa, you're blowin' my mind, dude!).

The ceremony at Umass was truly lovely, and it was wonderful to see the graduates and the guests, some of which included some of our own JB.netters. I was taken by my hosts for a lovely dinner on Friday, which included pomegranite martinis and squid and gumbo and popovers and Belgian ale. Debuted the story "Trans" at the Pride n Joy bookstore in Northampton next day, including a few more old friends in the audience, and then screamed on home to Maine, where I have now come to rest for 2009 and am starting to look forward to summer.

I DO have a couple of events scheduled for this summer, atypically for me, but I'll be doing some readings for the anthologies I"m in-- the next of which is at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge, on June 9. But between here and there is mostly getting the boat in the water and writing Falcon Quinn II and starting the new grown-ups novel and CHILLIN.

I've been thinking a little bit about the thing I do: tell stories, and tell them usually from the first person as a transwoman. There are other people who write in the trans community-- Susan Stryker and Julie Serrano and Helen Boyd being three-- who might be better considered activists, or at the very least theoreticians. I have always been more concerned with Story than with Theory. And the Stories that I know are the ones that have happened to me. So what I tend to write about is my own life, and that of my family. This might make people think I'm narcissistic, or self-centered or something, but truly, my desire is not to talk endlessly about myself; my desire is to tell stories, since that is the only language I know, and my own stories are the only ones I feel confident about telling.

You're damned if you do, or don't, though: if you only write about yourself, people think you're self-centered; if you try to speak for others, well people rightly say, You don't speak for me.

Anyway, I have reached a resting point on this spring evening and will look forward to continuing to appear now and again to talk and to tell stories. And when I do, I hope I"ll run into some of you there. IN the meantime, sending everybody love.

Jenny B.

JB op/ed in New York Times, 5/11/09

2009-05-12T05:12:00.000-07:00

"Is My Marriage Gay?"
© 2009 Jennifer Finney Boylan

Op/Ed, New York Times, May 12, 2009

Belgrade Lakes, Me.

AS many Americans know, last week Gov. John Baldacci of Maine signed a law that made this state the fifth in the nation to legalize gay marriage. It’s worth pointing out, however, that there were some legal same-sex marriages in Maine already, just as there probably are in all 50 states. These are marriages in which at least one member of the couple has changed genders since the wedding.

I’m in such a marriage myself and, quite frankly, my spouse and I forget most of the time that there is anything particularly unique about our family, even if we are — what is the phrase? — “differently married.”

Deirdre Finney and I were wed in 1988 at the National Cathedral in Washington. In 2000, I started the long and complex process of changing from male to female. Deedie stood by me, deciding that her life was better with me than without me. Maybe she was crazy for doing so; lots of people have generously offered her this unsolicited opinion over the years. But what she would tell you, were you to ask, is that the things that she loved in me have mostly remained the same, and that our marriage, in the end, is about a lot more than what genders we are, or were.

Deirdre is far from the only spouse to find herself in this situation; each week we hear from wives and husbands going through similar experiences together. Reliable statistics on transgendered people always prove elusive, but just judging from my e-mail, it seems as if there are a whole lot more transsexuals — and people who love them — in New England than say, Republicans. Or Yankees fans.

I’ve been legally female since 2002, although the definition of what makes someone “legally” male or female is part of what makes this issue so unwieldy. How do we define legal gender? By chromosomes? By genitalia? By spirit? By whether one asks directions when lost?

We accept as a basic truth the idea that everyone has the right to marry somebody. Just as fundamental is the belief that no couple should be divorced against their will.

For our part, Deirdre and I remain legally married, even though we’re both legally female. If we had divorced last month, before Governor Baldacci’s signature, I would have been allowed on the following day to marry a man only. There are states, however, that do not recognize sex changes. If I were to attempt to remarry in Ohio, for instance, I would be allowed to wed a woman only.

Gender involves a lot of gray area. And efforts to legislate a binary truth upon the wide spectrum of gender have proven only how elusive sexual identity can be. The case of J’noel Gardiner, in Kansas, provides a telling example. Ms. Gardiner, a postoperative transsexual woman, married her husband, Marshall Gardiner, in 1998. When he died in 1999, she was denied her half of his $2.5 million estate by the Kansas Supreme Court on the ground that her marriage was invalid. Thus in Kansas, any transgendered person who is anatomically female is now allowed to marry only another woman.

Similar rulings have left couples in similar situations in Florida, Ohio and Texas. A 1999 ruling in San Antonio, in Littleton v. Prange, determined that marriage could be only between people with different chromosomes. The result, of course, was that lesbian couples in that jurisdiction were then allowed to wed as long as one member of the couple had a Y chromosome, which is the case with both transgendered male-to-females and people born with conditions like androgen insensitivity syndrome. This ruling made Texas, paradoxically, one of the first states in which gay marriage was legal.

A lawyer for the transgendered plaintiff in the Littleton case noted the absurdity of the country’s gender laws as they pertain to marriage: “Taking this situation to its logical conclusion, Mrs. Littleton, while in San Antonio, Tex., is a male and has a void marriage; as she travels to Houston, Tex., and enters federal property, she is female and a widow; upon traveling to Kentucky she is female and a widow; but, upon entering Ohio, she is once again male and prohibited from marriage; entering Connecticut, she is again female and may marry; if her travel takes her north to Vermont, she is male and may marry a female; if instead she travels south to New Jersey, she may marry a male.”

Legal scholars can (and have) devoted themselves to the ultimately frustrating task of defining “male” and “female” as entities fixed and unmoving. A better use of their time, however, might be to focus on accepting the elusiveness of gender — and to celebrate it. Whether a marriage like mine is a same-sex marriage or some other kind is hardly the point. What matters is that my spouse and I love each other, and that our legal union has been a good thing — for us, for our children and for our community.

It’s my hope that people who are reluctant to embrace same-sex marriage will see that it has been with us, albeit in this one unusual circumstance, for years. Can we have a future in which we are more concerned with the love a family has than with the sometimes unanswerable questions of gender and identity? As of last week, it no longer seems so unthinkable. As we say in Maine, you can get there from here.

Jennifer Finney Boylan is a professor of English at Colby College and the author of the memoir “I’m Looking Through You: Growing Up Haunted.”

I love you, Mom.

2009-05-10T08:37:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture of my mom, with her family (taken at Christmas, 07, i think, and wow, have the boys grown since then.) My mom, who, upon learning about me, said, "I would never turn my back upon my child. I will always love you. Love will prevail." My mom, who said, "It is impossible to hate anyone whose story you know." My mom, who said, "Jenny, you'd look so much better if you just lost five pounds." Mom, whom I love. Happy Day, Mom. I love you!

Stonewall, Monsters, Boats, Lobsters.

2009-05-09T06:29:00.001-07:00

What next for that Jenny Boylan?

Well, this coming Friday I'm receiving some kind of award at U Mass Amherst, something called "Continuing Stonewall's Legacy". I'll be giving a short talk as part of that-- this is for a pre-graduation celebration for the GLBT students there.

Next day, May 16th, I'm giving a reading at Pride and Joy bookstore in Northampton, at noon.

Then it's home to Maine, and summer. I'm back at work on Falcon Quinn, book 2. And shepherding my family through the final weeks of grades 7 and 9, respectively. And getting ready to put the boat in the water. And thinking about moving into the summer house. And contemplating a dinner of fresh lobster, and fiddleheads, and cold white wine, on the porch.

Next public performance after that's at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square, Cambridge (Our Fair City), on June 9.

Looks like there'll be another op/ed from me in the bloody New York Times this week, too, so, as Bettie Davis used to say, "Fasten your seat belts, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!" Actually, this ride will be smooth. I am feeling satisfied and happy with the writing, the teaching, the family, you know: the world. "O Earth, you're just too beautiful for anyone to realize you." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

JB piece in NYT: "Maddy Might Just Work"

2009-04-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

My story in the New York Times is up and online. The title they gave it is either, "Maddy Just Might Work," or "The Other Side of My Boyhood." The actual title is "The Sleepwalker." More on this piece is in the post directly below.

In the meantime, here's the beginning of the story as it appears in the "modern love" column, and a jump to follow if you want to read the whole darn thing:

"Maddy Might Just Work"
© Jennifer Finney Boylan
published April 26, 2009

IN the last year of my father’s life, he started to sleepwalk. I was 27, and back in my parents’ house to help with his care. In the middle of the night I’d hear his heavy footsteps coming up to the third floor, where I lived in a room locked with a deadbolt. He’d creep through the hallway and open the door to the spare room, diagonally across the hall from mine, and lie down on the guest bed.

After a while he’d start to snore, and I’d know he was O.K., at least until morning, when he’d wake up, confused and angry. “Where am I? What am I doing here?”

He didn’t know I was transsexual, or if he did, he never said anything about it. I doubt he even knew the words “transsexual,” or “transgender,” and almost surely could not have explained the difference between the two. But that’s O.K. For a long time I couldn’t figure it all out, either.

Once, though, when I was in high school...(to read on, click here)

"The Book of Dads": & JB in NYT this Sunday, 4/26

2009-04-24T04:29:00.001-07:00

An excerpt of mine from the forthcoming anthology, "The Book of Dads" appears in this Sunday's New York Times. The Styles section runs a weekly column called "Modern Love," and this week they're running "The Sleepwalker," which is about fathers, sons, daughters, and how being trans affects our families.

It's not the first time a trans person's life has been recorded in the column, but it's one of the first, and it's always good, I hope, to get work out there showing the complexity--and normality--of our lives. I've been especially interested in the relationships between transwomen and their fathers for the last few years--I'M LOOKING THROUGH YOU is, in large measure, about my relationship with my dad. Anyway, look for the story this Sunday. It had to be cut by more than half to fit into the space the Times has for the column, but I imagine you'll get the gist.

I'll also put in a good word for the anthology here. The book was edited by Ben George, and is full of interesting work by writers--all men, except for me--you'll either be familiar with, or will want to be. It's a collection of essays "on the joys, perils and humiliations of fatherhood." I think it'd be a good gift for fathers day, and if you're a trans person, or anyone struggling with difference, the wide range of experiences in the book--and, yeah, sure, the Boylan essay--might do well to send out a little bridge between your experience, and that of your own father's.

I'll be reading from the Book of Dads, along with several other of the authors from the anthology, at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square on June 9th. If you're in the Boston area, I hope you'll come check it out.

j

Us on Oprah

2009-04-21T14:31:00.001-07:00

The Boylans appeared on Oprah today, "Most Memorable Guests." You can read the online account of the appearance here.

The main thing is that my kids spoke: they wanted to advocate on behalf of families like ours, and other children like them. They did great-- as did Deedie/Grace, who shone.

You can draw your own conclusions about the context: the other memorable guests included the Texas Polygamist Wives, Ted Haggard, a 500 pound man, and so on.

Mostly, though, I am proud of my family. And yes, they showed the cover of She's Not There, which is a good thing. I'm hoping it's a good thing for there to be images in the public eye of families like ours, even if some the other guests were a little scary.

Zach had the best line of the show, though. Later he asked me, vis a vis the Texas Polygamist Wives: "Maddy, if you're going to have ten wives, shouldn't at least ONE of them be hot?"

18 Again

2009-04-19T17:10:00.000-07:00

I'm back from a swing through Connecticut, which took me to Yale on Thursday, and back to my alma mater, Wesleyan University, on Friday.

The reading at Yale University's Sterling library was a good and interesting event for me. Instead of my standard readings (usually stuff from SNoT or ILTY), I read a new and experimental story entitled "Six Graves for Seven Writers," which is set at the graves of six writers whom I have visited, including Melville, Dickens, Poe, Thurber, and Radclyffe Hall. The piece went over fairly well, although I learned that it's not exactly an easy sell to a crowd-- unlike, say, the thing i did in Seattle for the Richard Hugo house last month. It's a tremendous gift to be able to "road test" new work--the Marx brothers used to do this, back in the days of vaudeville-- and I heard all sorts of new things in the Yale piece that will help me as I go about revision, and possibily performing it again.

On Friday I got up and drove up to Wesleyan, where I was to see some old, dear friends, and also to serve as a guest at a dinner honoring the writer Edward P. Jones, whose "The Known World" won the Pultizer a few years back. There were lots of other writers and friends of the college there, and it was an honor to be part of the occasion.

But the thing I wanted to write about was the experience of being back on campus-- I graduated 1980, and did indeed love it at Wes. It was there that I was first encouraged by both faculty and other students to try to be creative, to consider maybe being a writer in this life. I still think of Wesleyan as a magical, odd, haunted, quirky place, full of eccentrics and geniuses and characters. I don't know of any other college like it in the world; I know that getting to go there, when I went there, was one of the great gifts, and turning points of my life.

Given all that, it was also a tremendously hard place to leave. IT's also true that when I think back of my Wesleyan days, I also think of how haunted I was then, as a young person-- trying so hard to "become" my magical creative boy self, but always held back by my secret self, by my knowledge that the thing I really needed to invent was my own self--and I knew that that invention could never be, or so I was convinced back then.

So when I go back to Wesleyan--which I do every four years or so-- I often encounter the ghost of my younger self, and that leaves me melancholy, feeling sorry for the weight I carried, feeling sad about all the lost time.

But this time it was different. I don't know why. But mostly, i felt grateful and happy to be there. IT was a beautiful day-- people everywhere, kids on the hill playing frisbee. As I first walked onto campus, i ran smack into a group of a dozen young women--were they dance majors?--all cavorting and chasing each other and doing somersaults and cartwheels. They were like a dance of spring joy, and all I could do was smile and watch them, and be glad. I kept that feeling the whole afternoon. I was glad to have come so far, glad to be back, glad for all the gifts of life. Above all, I did not want to be 20 again. I was glad I made it to 50 and that I have lived this life-- and look, here we all still are, dancing the dance of spring.

IN the morning I woke up and went to a diner breakfast with my friend and by noon on Saturday was heading back to maine, and home, and my family.

'This dream is short, but happy."

Why the Amazon de-ranking of GLBT books Matters

2009-04-13T06:25:00.000-07:00

The online universe is alive this morning with news of Amazon.com's move to remove sales ranks from so called "adult" themed books. This seems to mean gay and lesbian books, specifically. By the time you read this, this may all well be old news; my bunions tell me Amazon is going to fix this issue today, in response to the wild and rightful cries of outrages, particularly on Twitter. (if you Tweet, you can follow the ongoing debacle via the subject #amazonfail, although I also suspect that Twitter and #amazonfail may well crash this morning as the internet fire grows.)

I'm one of the banned authors, and it's probably worth mentioning why this matters. I noticed the change on Saturday, and thought it was just an odd "glitch" (as amazon is now claiming it to be). What happens, though, is that you can't find my books by searching for them by topic; (although this is inconsistent throughout the country, depending on what server you get). If you search for "homosexuality", though, you'll get a half dozen books about how to prevent it; you wont' get a single book by anyone who is actually gay.

She's Not There, as most of you know, was one of the first bestselling books by a trans American; the fact that it had "national bestseller" on the cover helped legitimize it for lots of people who might have been timid about reading it. (Which they shouldn't have been, but that's another story.) That designation as "national bestseller" was in part a result of its amazon ranking. It would not recieve that ranking now, as a result of this policy.

More importantly, readers looking for my book by subject might not be able to find it as a result of this policy.

Amazon should know better. They've de-ranked books by James Baldwin, Rita Mae Brown, Christopher Isherwood. Mein Kampf stays. AMerican Psycho stays. "Heather Has Two Mommies" is out.

As I said, my guess is that we'll see a quick retreat by Amazon on this, but this is another good reason why we should trust our local booksellers instead of mega-corporations.

More soon.

Us on Oprah, again.

2009-04-10T07:34:00.001-07:00

Today the Boylan family will tape, via Skype, a couple of segments for an upcoming Oprah Winfrey Show. This is an "update" show that will air either in May, or the summer. The agreement with Harpo asks that we not particularly talk about the show much at this point, but we're hopeful it will go well; our children will be on camera and are likely to be speaking for the first time about what they would like everyone to know is their good family.

As parents we have our fingers crossed. The Oprah show has been very generous to the Boylans in the past. On the other hand, there is always the possibility we will lose our minds on camera, and the whole thing wind up resembling the short video I post below:

-- 9 AM. Postscript below

PS. 4 PM. Well we're done with the show, and while confidentiality keeps us from being able to yammer all about it, I will say that I am very proud of my two boys, who were as eloquent as can be, not to mention Deedie, who is loving and proud of us all. We did NOT particularly get to talk about my writing, which discourages me a little, although they did show the cover of She's Not There. I'm hoping the show reaches people whom it may help, and as always it's a gift to be spotlighted by Oprah her self.

Will post the air date when we know it; last i heard was maybe May.

Photos from "My Avatar"

2009-04-03T17:01:00.001-07:00

Some photos from the My Avatar performance at Town Hall in Seattle. Photos by the sponsor, Richard Hugo House.

Below you will see: Jennifer Finney Boylan with a remote mike; the Maldives playing live; the three writers: Vikram Chandra, Christa Bell, and Jenny B.; a nice one of my old friend Vikram (who also appeared as a character in my performance piece); and a great one of Christa Bell, the High Priestess of Cootchie.

Coronet Blue

2009-03-27T11:20:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1967, I was totally entranced by this show, "Coronet Blue." The plot was about a fella who wakes up after an attempted drowning with no idea who he is. The only thing he remembers is the phrase "Coronet Blue." So he goes about trying to figure out who he is. Maybe you don't need to be Dr. Freud to figure out why this had particular resonance for me.

The thing is though, that CBS--which had filmed the show in 1965, then shelved it, thinking it was too "intellectual"--was essentially dumping the 13 episodes of this show in the summer, when they thought no one would be watching. Instead, it became a hit. But no further episodes were filmed, and the series ended at summer's conclusion, without anyone ever finding out what "Coronet Blue" really was.

Years later, thanks to the ever dependable internet, the full story is revealed-- apparently the hero was a Russian spy who was trying to defect to the US, and the Russians themselves tried to kill him to keep him from going over to "our" side.

So there's that mystery cleared up. In the meantime, here's this totally awesome opening title credit sequence, complete with go-go dancers, and the plaintive refrain, "I'm wondering who am I."

Seattle, 3/20/09: "My Avatar"

2009-03-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

Well, the piece rocked. This is going to be a quick summary, as I'm now back on crash deadline for the new book, but the event in Seattle was life-changing for me, and not only because i got to share the stage with two very cool performers and writers, Vikram Chandra and Christa Bell. INtegrating music and story into a single piece was really powerful for me, and the audience really seemed to groove on it. I would like to do more pieces like this in the future; I'm not sure how to go about that, but if I can, I will.

The night was filmed, and so far as I know, Richard Hugo house will be putting the tape up on their website in weeks to come. There will also be a readable version of the story online too. So I'll post links to all that soon. In the meantime, I'll say very briefly that I wound up, to my surprise, feeling very comfortable on stage. There was one moment while I was playing the harp that I just put my head down and kind of disappeared into the instrument for a little while and the audience vanished. in a good way, i mean. A friend sent me a photo of what I think was that actual moment, posted herewith.

More soon.

My Avatar: JB in Seattle, March 20-21

2009-03-18T04:38:00.001-07:00

It's off to Seattle for me this week, where I'll be doing two events for the Richard Hugo House, the city's center for the arts and a home for writers and artists of all stripes. Among the houses' many activities is staging various literary stunts from time to time, and this weekend, three writers, including me, will be performing work specially written for this event on the theme of "My Avatar." There will also be a band, the Maldives. The night gets underway on Friday at Seattle's Town Hall.

I will be doing a piece I've never done before, presented in an unusual format for me. Instead of the usual English teacheresque reading from published work, I'll be performing a series of pieces-- singing and playing piano, reading from interconnected stories, and picking autoharp. My own take on "avatars" is to talk about imagined selves, the tension between who we believe ourselves to be and who we actually are. The stories include the account of my own duel with a porcupine, which leads immediately to two days at the National Convention for Ventriloquists. One of the other presenters, novelist Vikram Chandra, also makes an appearance in one of the stories-- since Vik and I knew each other briefly back at Johns Hopkins in the mid 1980s. Put this together with a song written for the occasion, "My Other Self," as well as an old harp ballad, "There is a Reason We Carry Our Lunches," and you have a literary bloodbath of the very best sort in the making.

There will be some sort of party/reception thing after the Friday night performance, and while I'm unlikely to be able to hang out as much as I'd like with my friends on hand, I do hope I"ll get a chance to meet you.

There is also a smaller workshop on Saturday, "Stories that Feel Like Movies," which is a small craft class about how to utilize cinematic technique in story.

Hope to see you all there!

Even Watchmen Get the Blues

2009-03-16T04:39:00.000-07:00

So how about that big blue penis? According to a few of my children’s friends, the Watchmen movie gives new meaning to the phrase “weekend gross”.

At issue is the character of Jon Osterman, a physicist who, after a radioactive mishap, becomes a glowing omniscient demigod named Dr. Manhattan, who performs most of his business buck naked. As a result, many moviegoers have found themselves considering a fundamental philosophical question: Is a cinematic penis still obscene if it’s translucent and blue?

Dr. Ted Baehr, media critic at the Christian Film and Television Commission, has, perhaps not surprisingly, come out as anti-blue penis. On the site movieguide.org, Baehr says that the film deserves an X or an NC-17 rating, not the R that it received. “The motion picture industry keeps changing its standards,” he says. “No wonder the Motion Picture Association of America’s rating system confuses parents.” And why should the rating be changed? Because, “throughout most of the whole picture, one male character walks around completely naked, with his private parts waving in the breeze.”

True enough, except that the parts in question don’t actually belong to Billy Cruddup, the actor playing the good doctor. Apparently the blue meanie was generated by a team of computer graphics engineers. This raises an even more complex issue for parents to wrestle with: Is a translucent glowing blue penis still obscene if it’s not real?

Opinion, as one might imagine, is split. There was a fission of enthusiasm in the nerd world last October when news of the CGI-penis became official. “Three cheers for atomic blue penises!” began an article over at comicbookmovie.come. Conservative cultural critic Debbie Schlussel, meanwhile, wrote in her blog, “If you see it yourself, you’re also probably a moron and a vapid, indecent human being.” She has a whole host of complaints, but chief among them is Dr. Manhattan’s “swinging computer generated penis frequently in your face on-screen.”
Clearly there hasn’t been this much excitement about a penis in film since Bart Simpson bared all in 2007’s Simpsons Movie.

According to the MPAA, an R-rated movie “contains some adult material,” and may “include adult themes, adult activity, hard language, intense or persistent violence, sexually oriented nudity, drug abuse or other elements so that parents are counseled to take this rating very seriously.” An NC-17, meanwhile, “simply signals that the content is appropriate only for an adult audience. An NC-17 rating, meanwhile, can be based on violence, sex, aberrational behavior, drug abuse or any other element that most parents would consider too strong and therefore off-limits for viewing by their children.” The MPAA does note, however, that the rating “does not mean ‘obscene’ or ‘pornographic.’”

By my reading, the key concept separating the two ratings is the concept of “aberrational.” By that measure, a giant translucent demigod’s penis may be many things, but one thing it is not is an aberration, at least not on Mars.

Before taking my children—ages 15 and 12—to the Watchmen last weekend, the only R-rated movie they’d ever seen was Slumdog Millionaire. We had a good talk in the car about the violence in Slumdog, both the physical kind done to the protagonists as well as the spiritual kind caused by the jaw-dropping poverty of Mumbai. My boys were moved, and entertained by Slumdog, not least because it gave them occasion to think about their own relationship as brothers, and exactly what sorts of risks and sacrifices they’d be willing to make for one another.

They’d been looking forward to Watchmen for a long time, and had read Alan Moore’s original novel a year or two ago. That novel is every bit as violent as the film, and yes, includes Dr. Manhattan’s penis. I warned them that the film was rumored to be, a-hem, “loyal” to the book in this regard, but this didn’t dampen their enthusiasm. (This was something of a surprise, coming from two young men who on one occasion refused to go to the Guggenheim several years ago because “there might be paintings of naked people.” Score: DC Comics 1, Picasso 0.)
After the film, my boys admitted that a lot of the images in Watchmen had been a little much for them. But it wasn’t Dr. Manhattan that made them uneasy—it was the scenes of heads being whacked with meat cleavers, guys arms being bisected with circular saws; and, oh yes, the obliteration of most of Manhattan by some sort of thermonuclear device. My older son, who claims to be a pacifist, found that deeply disturbing, “even if it is based on a cartoon.”
As for Dr. Manhattan? My sons said, “Well, he’s slowly becoming less and less human, so clothes have just become kind of strange for him. You can sympathize with that.” And the blue penis that has caused all the trouble? “Normally, it would bother me, but with Dr. Manhattan, you know, it just seems kind of natural.”

There was also some surprise—I have to put this delicately—that the Doctor’s unit itself was of a size somewhat less than cosmic. After all, this is a guy who can change the pigmentation of his skin, teleport himself to Mars, and see the future. Is Watchmen really trying to tell us that size doesn’t matter? One of my boys wondered whether in days to come we might see one of those “Natural Male Enhancement” commercials on television, except that instead of “Whistling Bob” we’ll see a very satisfied looking Dr. Manhattan.

They also liked the sound track of the film, which features lots of Bob Dylan. The use of “The Times They Are a Changin’” as background to the opening montage struck all of us as particularly moving.

Whether the times actually are changing, and we’re now about to enter a new era of translucent penises in movies remains to be seen. In the meantime, I’m hoping that any Watchmen sequel might consider, in addition to Dylan, adding the music of Miles Davis to the soundtrack. Starting with “Kind of Blue.”

JB, The Opera: Part 2. "When I was a lad...."

2009-03-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

My life as Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta, part 2; part 1 is a few posts down...

When I was a lad I stole a bra
From my sisters drawer and I went Ta-Da!
I pranced all around and I went Boo-Hoo
And I stuck my giant foot into a size six shoe!

(chorus: )
She stuck her giant foot into a size six shoe!

I stuck my foot where it should not go
And now I am an author on the Oprah Show!

(chorus: )
She stuck her foot where it should not go
And now she is an author on the Oprah Show!

I went to college and became such a dork
That I got a degree and moved up to New York
I worked in an office and I swole up my glands
and I got the authors coffee when they clapped their hands!

(chorus: )
She got the authors coffee when they clapped their hands!

I drank so much coffee that I made some dough
and now I am an author on the Oprah Show!

(chorus: )
She drank so much coffee that she made some dough
and now she is an author on the Oprah Show.

I went to Dr. O for to shave off my ridge
Using all that cash from my male privilege,
I wrecked my family and I went all glam
And I wrote a little book about how sad I am!

(chorus: )
She wrote a little book about how sad she am!

Narcissstic? Me? Oh I just don't know.
Did I mention I'm an author on the Oprah Show?

(chorus: )
She's so narrcissistic that we just don't know
Why she mentions she's an author on the Oprah Show!

Now drag queens all, whoever you may be
If you want to rise to the top of the tree
If you want to know what I'd teach in school,
Just be careful to be guided by this golden rule:

(chorus: )
Be careful to be guided by her golden rule.

Please don't write a book! And never lift a toe.
And you may all be authors on the Oprah Show!

(chorus: )
Please don't write a book! And never lift a toe
And you may all be authors on the Oprah Show!

You Will Not Die; It's Not Poison

2009-03-09T14:47:00.000-07:00

A re-tweet (sic) from MHB and Helen B.'s Transgroup Blog. Worth repeating. This was in response to adiscussion of "What have you lost during gender transition?" The folks over there have a variety of experiences-- some of them appear to have lost nothing and improved their lives; others have lost family, jobs, homes, the Full Monty. My thoughts follow:

• Most people I know have lost something in transition.

• in my case, among other things, I lost a sister and a good friend.

• Although I do not know if that loss is forever.

• And the nature of my relationship with the woman I love has been altered. In some ways for better, in other ways, not.

• Trans people are often told they should EXPECT to lose many precious things.
Sometimes this happens.

• But it doesn't always happen. Often, the things that are lost--like the things you keep-- are not what you expect.

• But I get tired of the focus so often being on the bucket of blood which is loss of family, loss of jobs, loss of house, water on the knee, lockjaw and arthritis. It's not always that.

• To some degree, what you lose--or keep-- is a direct result of HOW you transition, and WHAT your expectations are. This is a fact that many trans people refuse to own up to. Here are some things that have been done by people I know who tend to have suffered the most losses: 1) starting a transition without consulting loved ones; 2) secretly sucking down hormones off the web; 3) expecting loved ones to be happy for you; 4) issuing ultimatums; 5) refusing to accept how hard a transition can be on those that love us; 6) being blind in so many ways.

• To some degree this is true at work as well. People that I know who have lost their jobs have done some of these things: 1) started surreptiously x-dressing at work on some level-- wearin' scanty underthings; wearing makeup or piercing the unexpected== all of this without a clear transition plan; 2) expecting people at work to be thrilled about it all for you. 3) Using the "new" restroom and being blind to how this might even give open minded people the creeps. In some circumstances. And so on.

• I think people frequently lose control of their transitions, and thus their stories, through their own indiscretions-- like "telling just one person" who winds up being a person who does not keep that secret for you. Next thing you know, the story is out all over town, and you're toast. Ask Susan Stanton about this. Better yet, don't.

• Having said that, the OPPOSITE is true as well: I know people who have lost their families and jobs no matter how carefully they planned; no matter how kindly, patiently, and competently they tried to share the news, spill the beans, bring people along. I know wise, sweet people who have bent over backwards in every way only to wind up flat on their faces, abandoned by exactly the people they reached way out for; fired by their so-called open minded bosses for reason oh-so-supposedly unrelated to trans stuff.

• And the opposite of the opposite is also true: People who have behaved like complete, thoughtless imbeciles at times have Done Very Well Anyhow. (And I would describe myself, and almost every trans person I know as at least occasionally falling into this category.) Sometimes this is dumb luck; sometimes this is because it's all actually less of a big deal sometimes, and in some situations, that we think; sometimes it's because people are given the opportunity, over time, to be forgiving. Sometimes it's because people's love turns out to be unconditional; or nearly so. Sometimes it's because It's Never Really Over; and life itself provides plenty of mulligans. Or, if you like, do-overs. And being Trans is not the most shocking mulligan that there is.

• the people who may have been most supportive of my transition are my nonagenarian conservative Christian mother and my then-tiny children; some of the people who have been least supportive have been politically liberal; some of the people grasping the issues least succintly are gay and lesbian.

• It is fair to want to wonder "are the losses worth it all?" And this is a Very Good Question to Ask. Too often, Trans People don't think about the consequences of their actions; they hurtle along like asteroids on fire, and as they fall they scream out, "Hey, I'm becomin' my true self! Be happy for me!"

• And yet at the same time, it's like asking, "if you'd known how much dialysis was going to suck, would you have CHOSEN kidney disease?"

• I can't make sense of all this but if there is any one thing I believe in,--and not only in trans matters-- it's "Be The Change You Wish To See."

• some of the people most annoying or draining or least insightful about the issues are other trans people.

Like me.

Respectfully submitted,

Jenny B.

I Am the Very Model of an M to F Transsexual

2009-03-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

I am the very model of an M to F Transsexual
I've changed my sex in Canada and Belgium and in Mex-u-al
Each day I read my Vouge and Cosmo and my Glamour-y
I've silicone and saline in my most expensive mammary.

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters theoretical
I find J. Michael Bailey and his ilk so damned heretical
Just like Judith Butler, Helen Boyd and Betty I''ve a lot o' news
With many cheerful facts about my hypothalmuse.

Chorus:
She's many cheerful facts about the transgal hypothalmuse!
She's many cheerful facts about the transgal hypothalmuse!
She's many cheerful facts about the transgal hypothalmuse!

I had my forehead bonked and shaved and shaped by Dr. Oesterhut
I drink my whiskeys neet and up on pink and girly coasters but
I've been to Neenah, Scottsdale, but my wife she still suspects you all
I am the very model of an M to F Transsexual!

Chorus:
She's been to Neenah, Scottsdale but her wife she still suspects us all!
She is the very model of an M to f Transsexual!

I drive a hybrid, 'lectrocar that thrives on zero octane
I take Premarin and Estrace, Asprin, gin and Spirolactane,
I like arguing on line with wackos, wimps and get analysis
I paint my toenails pink for electo-rolysis.

I told my wife I loved her then I got myself a double D,
I'm still the same except my narccissitic personality,
I shop at Target, T.J Maxx and steal my skirts from Hit or Miss,
And I spent my children's college fund on spongecake and a clitoris.

Chorus:
She blew her children's college fund on spongecake and a clitoris!
She blew her children's college fund on spongecake and a clitoris!
She blew her children's college fund on spongecake and a clitoris!

I'm just the same as other women cept when I decide I'm not,
I'm half a Jezebel and half a not-forgotten Hotentot,
I've been on Larry King but Larry says he just rejects you all
I am the very model of an M to F Transsexual!

I spend my time with Helen, Betty, Chloe and with Sarah Lake
I love Lyn Conway just for her I baked myself a Tasty-cake
I yelled at Pregnant Man and unwise online-ordered hormone use
Did I say I'm well acquainted with the transgal hypothalamuse?

Chorus:
Yes, you said you're well acquainted with the transgal hypothalmuse!
Yes, you said you're well acquainted with the transgal hypothalmuse!
Yes, you said you're well acquainted with the transgal hypothalmuse!

I wrote She's Not There I read My Husband Betty I read Second Serve,
Connundrum, Wrapped in Blue, I love Calpernia and her bosom's curve,
(suddenly bursts out with: )
I--uh--had sex with Donna Rose!!!
(looks mortified!)
Do I detect a pall?
(proudly: )
I am the very model of an M to F transsexual!

Chorus:
She is the very model of an M to F transsexual!
She is the very model of an M to F transsexual!
She is the very model of an M to F transsexual!

(she bows)
Thank you.

Shillington's Favorite Son

2009-03-04T04:35:00.000-08:00

A fond, short remembrance of John Updike by Charles Osgoode.

The After and the Before Pictures, Venetian Edition

2009-02-24T05:08:00.000-08:00

High above the Pallazo San Marco, Venice, Italy, spring of 2004, on assignment for Conde Nast Traveler magazine. The Italians thought I was German. Two different fellas greeted me with, Buona sera, Fraulein, which is a mouthful.

Venice is probably my favorite city in the world, and I am spending all my days and nights trying to figure out a way of spending the rest of my life there. Nothing's come to mind yet, but I'll keep you in the loop.

Interested observers of these phenomena can contrast this with Picture B, taken in the same spot five years earlier. That's himself looking at the world through his John Lennon glasses, once more above the Palazzo drenched in sunlight, and feeling, as Evelyn Waugh wrote of Venice, like I was "drowning in honey," which is not at all a bad feeling if you are in love. I hope to drown in it again some day.

Anyway, found these while cleaning up the ol' hard drive and thought they'd be interesting to share. I'm reminded of Groucho Marx's observation: "Outside of the improvement you'd never notice the difference."

Two Women of Vastly Differing Sizes

2009-02-22T08:01:00.000-08:00

Herself and Barbara Walters. December 2008.

Of all the media stuff I've done, nobody came to an interview having done more homework than BW. She treated me with respect and intelligence. Way cool.

Alas the only photographic record of the encounter, outside of the 20/20 episode itself (largely consumed by the insatiable and ever-ravenous Pregnant Man ©) is this snapshot hurriedly taken on someone's cheesey cell phone. All the retouching tricks in all of iPhoto's great empire can't transform this into a portrait that is flattering to either one of us, alas. Still, you know how it goes. We'll always have Paris.

Branded

2009-02-21T13:29:00.000-08:00

This is fairly self explanatory.

Richard Hugo House interviews Jenny Boylan

2009-02-17T09:20:00.000-08:00

JB to perform at Richard Hugo House in Seattle on March 20 & 21st; here's an interview Hugo House did with me in advance of the performance, which will be at Seattle Town Hall, and which is on the subject, "My Avatar."

Hugo House: In a couple of months you will debut a brand-new piece at Hugo House; have you started working on it yet?

Jennifer Finney Boylan: Yes, I’m right in the thick of it. I have lots of ideas for this, and the hard part is keeping the whole thing short, and making the parts fit together. I’m not going to write about “avatars” as computer-world images; and I don’t know anything about the sense of the word as Hindu “incarnation.” What interests me is the difference between the face we show to the world and the face we have in our private hearts. For transgender people the division between public and private selves can be profound, although I’ll also say that you don’t have to be trans to feel a conflict between your secret self and the face, as Eliot wrote, that you prepare “to meet the faces that you meet.” It’s that conflict between inner and outer selves that interests me, so that’s what I'm working on.

A long time ago, when I was a boy, I went as a journalist to do a story on the National Ventriloquists’ Convention, which was in Kentucky, of all places. At first I thought this was the most ridiculous story I’d ever tried to do—the place was literally overflowing with dorky guys and their dummies. But as time went by it was hard not to find something touching—and occasionally heartbreaking—about the ventriloquists and their figures. Some of these guys, maybe it goes without saying, had dummies that looked almost exactly like themselves.

And then, amazingly, I went back to the ventriloquists’ convention as a woman, 25 years later. The ventriloquists all seemed the same to me, but I had sure changed. And it occurred to me that back in the day, when I was walking around as a guy, and no one knew my secret heart, that I’d kind of been my own dummy.

Again, maybe this seems too idiotic or bizarre for most people to connect to, but I guess that’s what I’m thinking about as I write “My Avatar.” All of us are our own dummies.

HH: What were your first thoughts on receiving an invitation to write on an assigned theme? Any regrets on having said yes?

JFB: I have to admit that the theme of My Avatar gave me trouble, since (as I said above), I don’t really have any interest in the online world and I don’t know much about the Hindu religion. So I’ve had to find a corner of this avatar business—the negotiation between public and private selves—that I can feel comfortable talking about.

HH: Could you tell us a little bit about your process—how you approach writing something new?

JFB: In this case, I have about a dozen different stories; I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to weave them all together. I guess it’s sort of like making a stew with a slow cooker. I’m just going to throw everything in there and leave it on low for a couple months, and see what it turns into.

HH: If you could create an avatar for your work as a writer, what would it look like?

I’d look just like me, only younger and more beautiful.

HH: In “Snow Crash,” Neal Stephenson writes of the “metaverse,” a user-defined world that was the inspiration for “Second Life.” Describe your metaverse for us.

JFB: It’s not the metaverse I have trouble imagining, it’s reality. My friend Richard Russo once read something I’d written and he said it was “wonderfully strange”; I just looked at him blankly and said, but this is the world I live in. He just laughed and said, “Boylan, the thing is, you write in this surreal, fantastical mode. You only think it’s realism.” Whether this is my great failing as a writer, or my great strength, I guess I’ll leave it up to readers to decide.

Loss & Love

2009-02-11T05:20:00.000-08:00

Two different events are in my heart today, one happy, one sad. The sad news is that the economic worldwide meltdown has hit very close to home-- yesterday, HarperCollins publishers fired 100 people, including the editor of my new book, Brenda Bowen, and everyone who works at her imprint, Bowen Books. It was a truly horrible slaying, a kind of "get your stuff and leave the office by five" thing.

I'll quickly add that my new book, Falcon Quinn, will be reassigned to a different editor and will probably be published right on schedule, so fans of my writing need not immediately drape themselves in black.

But Brenda Bowen-- a graduate of Colby College, 1980!--an English major!-- was the one who called me on the phone on Halloween 2007, after seeing a piece of mine in the New York Times, and who asked, have you ever considered writing for young readers? Together we worked out the plot and the plan for Falcon Quinn, which just last week went in its new draft to HarperCollins, and this week we have been looking at covers together. Brenda is a legendary editor, and a lovely person. And is now the latest casualty of the ongoing financial bloodbath.

I've had, so far, a dear friend lose her job at AT&T (to be saved by her union at the last second, thank goodness), and another have to take on a second job to stay afloat. Our children's college funds, carefully tended these last dozen years are worth almost half of what they were worth last year. All around me now I see the fires spreading.

Tempermentally I like to think I am full of devotion and love and compassion, but the rising tide increasingly fills me with fear and sadness. I do not know what the future holds, but the clouds keep gathering. The end is nowhere in sight.

Last night my younger boy said something that made my throat close up. I told him about Brenda losing her job, and he, being a big fan of "the monster book" said, thoughtfully, "Well, maybe if the monster book does really well, we could maybe-- do something for her?"

I nodded. Yes, I said. That'd be nice.

Unbelievable, I thought, the generosity and love of children. Would that this were enough to roll back the darkness of the world.

Speaking of children-- that's the other thing. Today, this very day, my older boy, Zachary Owen Boylan, is fifteen years old.

One and a half decades ago, on a cold February night, Deedie and I were watching "Brideshead REvisited" on VHS. There's a scene with Charles and Sebastian and all their friends at Oxford having a feast. Charles reached forward to taste "the egg of a wild plover." Deedie said, "I think we have to go to the hospital now." I put the VCR on "pause," and the image of Charles' hand reaching for the plover egg was frozen, forever. And the life that we had known came to an end, and a new one began. The next day-- February 11, 1994, a baby cried out loud in a room filled with light and Deedie's face opened up like the sun and she said, "That's--- amazing!"

It has been amazing, these last 15 years. Now Zach is the lead in his 9th grade play, is learning how to fence with foils; has a big head of curly blonde hair; likes incomprehensible 'death metal'; plays Irish fiddle tunes on his violin; loves his brother and his mother and his maddy and his two goofy black dogs.

The light which began to shine from Deedie fifteen years ago today is brighter than ever.

This light is not strong enough to roll back the darkness of the world, from all the terrible things that seem to keep accumulating. But it's enough to cast a warm glow on the members of this family, these boys and women and dogs, and for this I give thanks.

JB at Ursinus College: February 13th, 2009, 7 PM

2009-02-07T09:44:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody. I wanted to note I’ll be doing three readings this spring, the first of which is this coming Friday, Feb. 13, 2009, at Ursinus College, in Collegeville, PA, which is just over the city limits of Philadelphia, I believe. Their web site is here, and I presume contains information on how to get there.

The reading is at 7 PM, in something called Bomberger Auditorium. The presentation will be akin to my standard reading, which means about an hour of excerpts split about equally between I’m Looking Through You, She’s Not There, as well as a little Trans 101 to start the evening off with (briefly), and some tired old jokes, some of which I have been using since mid 2003. I will also, I think, be unveiling at this reading, for the first time, some of the material for the new and upcoming FALCON QUINN AND THE BLACK MIRROR, which will be published about one year from right now, a young adult series about “monsters.” This sneak-peek will just be a quickie, though, and might not involve anything more than my singing a song entitled “I Wish They All Could Be Zombie Mutant Girls.” and possibly reading a poem written by a teenage Frankenstein called “Monster a Person,” the first 2 lines of which are,

Monster a person though monster not human.
Monster like music. Like Wagner! Like Schumann!

Following this, there’ll be Q’s and A’s and then a book signing. I think there is a reception after THAT, but we’ll just have to see won’t we.

I probably will NOT be able to hang out with people after the reception, because I expect to be tired and enfeebled, but I do hope anybody interested in my stuff in the Philly area will feel invited.

There will be two other readings this spring (I’m trying to keep appearances to a minimum after last year’s all-book-tour–all-the-time experience). In mid March I”ll be at the Town Hall in Seattle; and in mid-April I”ll be at the Yale University LIbrary. HOpe to see you there.

The Day the Gazungas Died: True Story of Boylan, Buddy Holly, Don McLean, and Rick Russo

2009-02-03T05:06:00.000-08:00

A true story about a party at Don McLean's house this fall. I was there with a bunch of other Maine writers; Don and his wife were hosting a benefit for the Maine Writers & Publishers' Alliance. I made smalltalk with our host and he was generous and pleasant in every way. At the end of the evening, I went inside (it was a garden party) to use the bathroom, and en route snooped around the incredibly beautiful house. (The McLeans live on top of a mountain near Camden, Maine, one of the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous places I have ever been.) Anyhow, there in the living room, among other cool objects d'art, was a bust of the songwriter himself.

Later, Deedie and I went out to dinner with our friend Rick Russo. I told him about what I'd seen in the parlor, and started giving Rick a hard time about how he ought to have a statue of himself in his house. "Maybe not today, Russo," I said, "But one of these days, you're going to turn to yourself and say, 'Man, I just GOTTA get a BUST!"

Without missing a beat, Russo just smiled and said, "Well, Boylan. You did."

Anyhow: R.I.P, Buddy Holly, whose plane crashed 50 years ago today.

That'll be the day.

Jenny Boylan nominates Randy Newman, American composer, for Man of the Hour

2009-02-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

Jenny Boylan's Man of the Hour for February 2nd, 2009 is American composer Randy Newman. Born on November 28, 1943, Newman has written great rock and roll tunes, not to mention providing the scores for dozens of films.

My favorite aspect of Newman's work is the way he assumes a persona other than his own in so many of his songs. Once, when asked what he was most proud of about his songs, Newman replied, "All the lies." This makes his songs particularly elusive; some times it's a safe bet to assume that Newman believes exactly the opposite of the thing he's actually singing.

I love that manipulation of the truth; it makes me think of the lovely quote by Oscar Wilde, "Sometimes we tell the truth best when we wear a mask."

And then, in the scores for movies, especially, say, Ragtime, or Toy Story, the songs seem so close to the heart, so honest and vulnerable, that I always assume that these are the "real" Randy Newman. But I know better.

A youtube in which Randy Newman talks about his writing style:

and one of my favorites, Louisiana 1927:

Randy Newman, American composer, is Man of the Hour!

R.I.P., John Updike

2009-01-28T05:03:00.001-08:00

From his expression and the pitch of his voice, the boy is shouting into a fierce wind blowing from his father’s direction. “Don’t die, Dad, don’t!” he cries, then sits back with that question still on his face, and his dark wet eyes shining like stars of a sort. Harry shouldn’t leave the question hanging like that, the boy depends on him.

“Well, son,” he says, “all I can tell you is, it isn’t so bad.” Rabbit thinks he should maybe say more, the kid looks wildly expectant, but enough. Maybe. Enough.

--Rabbit at Rest, John Updike

Tim Kreider, Funniest Man Alive, presents "All Yours": Bush to Obama

2009-01-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

Artist's Statement by Timothy Kreider

(The reduced image at left hardly does Tim's work justice; and you surely should click here to see the piece in all its glory.)

If all goes according to plan like it never does, this will be my last overtly political cartoon.

I just got back from Inauguration last night. That crowd you saw on TV, filling the Mall from the Capitol to the Washington Monument? That was me! Through her unparalleled interpersonal and bartending skills my friend Melissa scored tickets to the inauguration for our whole group of friends. We left our HQ in Maclean, Virginia (thanks, Kristie and T.L., for your extravagant hospitality) at 5:15 A.M. to get the Metro into the District, and it was a good thing we did--we later ran into people who’d gotten into D.C. at 5 AM and still didn’t get into the inauguration. We spent several hours trapped in a vast, immobile crowd, waiting to get into the designated gate for purple tickets. At one point we saw Jesse Jackson and his entourage up ahead of us, trying to make their way through the crowd, on foot and just as fucked as the rest of us. I remembered then how he’d been overheard saying he was going to “cut [Obama’s] balls off” during the campaign, and I thought, Well, that’s what you get for talking shit about Obama—the same color ticket as Tim Kreider. (I read later that Jackson never got into the inauguration at all. Neither did Mariah Carey.)

Later an ambulance needed to get through the intersection, and the crowd, already packed as densely as a New York subway at rush hour, was pressed even more tightly against the barricades that hemmed us in. This was the only point at which we felt there might be even the slightest possibility of being maybe a little bit crushed to death. It was then that Melissa, who was raised to believe that there is always a way to sneak around the rules and avoid getting screwed along with the rubes, struck out away from the crowd and led us all to another approach to the gate, one where the crowd, though just as dense, was indeed shuffling slowly, intermittently forward. Despite the interminable wait, the frustrating absence of any communication or direction from anyone in charge, the agoraphobic closeness and toe-numbing cold, the people in D.C. that day were (a little halfhearted and desultory chanting aside) not ill-tempered or impatient but calm and friendly and humorous, joined together in a spirit of commiseration and fellow-feeling. I heard later that even with a crowd of almost two million people—the largest assembly in the history of Washington, D.C.—there was not one arrest. Melissa gave our extra ticket to a guy hawking Presidential T-shirts.

We did finally get into the Inaugural area, where every monument was coated and dripping with people. [Photos of the event, courtesy of Sarah Glidden, are posted on our photos page.] The trees were full of people, too, at whom the cops would periodically yell to get down. And the tree people would sullenly clamber down only to be replaced by more climbers five minutes later. I was reminded of Zacchæus, the short tax collector who climbed a sycamore to see Jesus preach. Never in my lifetime have I seen so many people strain with such intensity and passion to see a single man. (And when have you ever seen sportswear emblazoned with the name and face of a U.S. President?) It was a racially mixed, polyglot crowd, like a New York City street scene, strikingly unlike the homogenous mob of cruel-faced, desiccated coots in cowboy boots and their powdered, mink-enshrouded wives I saw at Bush’s first inaugural. Older black women were weeping openly, their faces embarrassingly beautiful to see; happy Asian couples were taking photos of themselves against the background of the crowd. All our trials were worth it to me to know that one of the millions of boos George Bush heard when his name was announced was my own. The most air-stillingly beautiful moment of the day was Aretha Franklin’s “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.” When she sang the line, “Land where our fathers died” a voice behind me shouted, “Yes, they did!” in churchly call-and response. Melissa and Sarah were weeping. I kept laughing for happiness. Obama’s speech was the only one we could hear well, so clear and resonant was his voice. I uttered a feeble “h’raay” when he mentioned “non-believers” (despite the incorrect nomenclature—we prefer to be called “The Damned”). It was a gesture of inclusion as unexpected and as moving, in its way, as his speaking the word “gay” in his acceptance speech. In the pause after an especially welcome or inspiring line, because of the sheer expanse of the crowd and the slow travel time of sound, you could hear the roar of cheers and applause rolling in oceanic waves two miles down the mall, like thunder or the sea.

After the inauguration I retreated to a mobbed and raucous Irish bar catty-wampus from Union Station where Van Halen was playing real loud and I scarfed down a plate of chicken wings and drank Jack Daniels out of a plastic cup for the first time in many years. It was there that I watched George W. Bush leave Washington, D.C. in disgrace. When he ascended the stairway to his plane the whole bar erupted with jeers and hurrahs. Everyone waved Good riddance, fuckboy, and raised their beers in ferocious toast. I gave the finger to the screen.

That night my friends and I retired to my Undisclosed Location on the Chesapeake Bay, well north of D.C. I built a fire in the woodstove and we all drank wine and made baked brie and salad and mushroom risotto. Late that night I put an episode of The Shadow on the turntable and we all passed out within minutes. The next morning, after breakfast, we all went for a walk on the beach, where we saw a couple of bald eagles flapping over the frozen cove. I played the Star-Spangled Banner on my pump organ before we left the cabin and headed back up 95 to New York City and home.

This morning I overcame my post-election indifference to politics, which borders on an active antipathy, and forced myself to read the Times, figuring that after eight years of relentlessly ghastly and depressing affronts to human decency I owed myself a little good news. I almost couldn’t take it. Already President Obama has signed executive orders closing down Guantanamo and the CIA’s secret prisons and overturning Bush’s efforts to block access to government records. Dennis Blair, Obama’s appointee for national director of intelligence, called for oversight and transparency in intelligence and said that counterterrorism must be consistent with American law and the Geneva conventions. He actually used the phrase “speak truth to power.” It is such a profound and pathetic relief just to hear anyone in the government say anything sane or reasonable or obviously true. Can it all really be this easy? As my cartoon illustrates, I know that the Bush administration has left the country a shambles, and it’s not just a matter of repair but of rebuilding, from the ground up, and it’ll take a long time. But it means so much just to know that the people in charge are smart and responsible and in touch with reality, listening to their soldiers and their spies and their scientists instead of plugging their ears and praying, that they respect the law and believe in democracy. It feels like the Dark Tower toppling, the statue of the Emperor pulled down, the snow melting and rumors of Aslan returned.

Most amazing of all, in a way, was the simple photo of President Obama sitting at the desk in the Oval Office. I looked at it for a long time.

You can see all of Tim's many perverse and wonderful cartoons, and/or make a donation to The Pain comics by clicking here.

Hot Pockets!

2009-01-22T16:09:00.000-08:00

After last nights' season premiere of LOST, I was put in mind of Jim Gaffigan's classic bit:

Hope and Change: "LOST" Season five

2009-01-22T06:03:00.000-08:00

This week has been a dramatic and historic moment in the life of our country, with change and hope at large in the land. I refer of course to the Season 5 premiere of LOST last night.

My favorite blogger on all things TV is Alan Sepinwall of the Newark Star Ledger-- who got his big break as the go-to guy in the press for The Sopranos. Here's his review of the two hour season opener last night, and a link to his blog, which contains all sorts of smart things.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Lost, "Because You Left" & "The Lie": Uh-oh, Zoot skipped a groove again! by Alan Sepinwall

Spoilers for the "Lost" season five premiere coming up just as soon as I heat up a Hot Pocket...

"Everyone I care about just blew up on your damn boat. I know what I can't change!" -Sawyer

"Look, everything's going to make sense. I promise." -Hurley
"It better!" -Hurley's mom

If, as with "The Wire," the opening scene of each season tells you all you need to know about what's to come, then the series' pentultimate season is going to be about time travel, and about what happens when a beloved old record starts skipping a few grooves.

When Daniel Faraday invokes that old-fashioned needle-skip phenomenon, he explains what's happening on the island in layman's terms, as well as providing greater symbolic weight to the way three season (including this one) opened with characters listening to their favorite vinyl selections. In this case, what Dr. Chang (aka Marvin Candle / aka Mark Wickmund / aka Edgar Halliwax) is playing Willie Nelson's "Shotgun Willie," but these episodes as a whole play a little like "Lost's Greatest Hits."

Not only does the time-travel phenomenon lead to return appearances by Ethan, Yemi's plane (and its cargo of dope-filled Virgin Mary figurines) and a younger version of Desmond still waiting for his replacement to arrive ("Are you him?"), and not only does the second episode feature a ghostly (or hallucinatory) appearance by Ana-Lucia and the return of Desmond's time-travel guru Ms. Hawking, but the two episodes are filled with all of the things that can make "Lost" so addictive -- and, depending on your tastes, maddening.

These episodes offered up cool action, like Sayid having a brawl involving pots, pans and a rogue dishwasher, as well as the harrowing sequence of Sawyer, Juliet and the remaining Lostaways trying to survive a flaming arrow attack. They offered strong character moments, like Sawyer's confession of just how much he's hurting, or Hurley finally coming clean to someone about the island. (Much more on both of those in a bit.) It offered more clues -- and, in some cases, plain answers -- about what's going on on this bizarre island, as well as tantalizing new questions like... soldiers? With flaming arrows? And British accents?

But back to that opening sequence, set in the glory days of the Dharma Initiative, before The Others took over, before Chang/Candle/Wickmund/Halliwax lost his arm, before all that unpleasantness -- what is Faraday doing there, and how did he get there? Is this another instance of the current time-skipping problem, and he just happened to wind up temporarily stuck in the island's Dharma era, or does this tie back into his own time travel experiments and the fact that Desmond is supposed to be his Constant?

Whatever he's doing there, it's clear that twitchy Dan is going to be a crucial part of this season, and that Desmond (who really only appears for a few minutes in both these episodes combined) could be almost as important, as the show finally makes explicit what's been speculated on for years: among the unique properties of the island is an ability to bend the laws of physics to send people, things, and even the island back and forth through time. If that's really happening, then not only will the Lostaways need a quantum physicist and an unstuck-in-time Scotsman to save them, but we'll need Dan just to put things in layman's terms, which he does quite nicely with the record analogy.

Now, are the Lostaways moving through time (and possibly space) or is the island? That may be an issue of semantics, or it may be the key to all of this. To get my full comic book geek on, I think of Guardian from Alpha Flight, who had the ability to make himself immune to the Earth's rotation. The planet would keep moving, and Guardian would stay in the same place, but to the observer (who was, in fact, moving right along with Earth), it looked like he had flown away at an astonishing speed. We know that it looked, from the Oceanic Six's perspective, like the island blinked out of existence, and maybe it did. Maybe it goes from place to place, time period to time period, and that's how Yemi's small plane made it all the way from Africa to the South Pacific (and seems remarkably well-preserved years later), how the Black Rock wound up at the center of the island (and how the ship's first mate's journal wound up in Madagascar, how the polar bears wound up in Tunisia, etc. Maybe, in fact, none of these things would have wound up on (or off) the island if Ben hadn't moved the frozen donkey wheel and made the record start skipping. Maybe Locke didn't travel back in time to witness the moment when Yemi's plane crashed, but rather was there at the moment (in relative island time) when it originally happened.

And now as I re-read that paragraph, I wonder if I'm just writing in circles, which is always the danger of time travel stories: even when they make sense to the quantum physicists like Faraday, or the comic book nerds like me, they can still make your head hurt. And to someone without a PhD or a bookshelf full of sci-fi paperbacks, it can be a complete turn-off.

But what made all the time-bending of "The Constant" work so brilliantly, and what makes these two episodes work almost as well (they're trying to move forward a lot more plot than "The Constant" had to deal with, so the focus is by nature not as tight) is that they never lose sight of the human element. Yes, insane things are happening, some of which make sense if you stop to explain them, many of which don't make any sense at all, but there are recognizable characters at the center of them, reacting in a way that seems right to them, and that's moving in some way.

Sawyer's stuck on the island as it skips from era to era (or as he skips from era to era, or however you want to parse it), but he's also trying to process what he thinks is the death of Kate and Hurley and his other friends -- and maybe, though it's never said outright, the guilt that if he hadn't jumped out of the helicopter ("for her"), it might have gone in the ocean (where they could have swam away) instead of landing on the soon-to-explode freighter. Sawyer was pretty marginalized last season, but as Sawyer tries to deal with all the time jumps and his own grief, Josh Holloway does an outstanding job of reminding us why he was such a vital character from the start, and of making Sawyer's anguish clear well before he comes right out and says it to Dan.

Hurley, meanwhile, is on the run from the cops, and Ben, and whomever's been following him and Sayid, and maybe from ghosts (or else just more examples of his own mental problems). As the alliances in the real world ebb and flow and threaten to become as cryptic as the time mess on the island -- What did Ben do to make Sayid break away from him? Does Sun really only blame Ben for Jin's death, or is she plotting some righteous vengeance on Kate and Jack as well? -- Hurley, as he so often, blessedly does, brings it all back down to earth.

Despite his mental problems, Hurley has always been one of the most rational characters "Lost" has. (Ditto Sawyer, which makes them appropriate centerpieces for these first two episodes.) Hurley's the only one who sees from the start that the Oceanic Six lie is going to be more trouble than it's worth, and as we saw when he charged through a mine field to ask Rousseau about the numbers, it matters an awful lot when he can find people who believe him when he speaks the truth. So the scene where he finally comes clean to his mom and gives her a summary about what happened on the island -- sounding totally insane even to those of us who watched all this stuff go down -- and she believes him because he's her son and he wouldn't lie to her... well, that provided more than enough emotional ballast to the rest of it. It can never be said enough how wonderful Jorge Garcia is at showing Hurley's vulnerability, and how valuable Hurley's perspective on things is to keeping this whole bizarre enterprise from flying off the rails.

With these episodes -- really, going back to last year's three-hour finale -- the show has changed up its narrative format once again. Rather than the simple structure of intercutting events on the island with one character's flashback, or flashforward, we now have two parallel narratives -- one on the island at the end of 2004 (or did the new year begin before the freighter blew up?), the other in the real world in 2007 -- that are both constantly moving forward. This late in the series, this kind of global plotting is necessary, as it allows all of the stories to advance each week, rather than waiting for, say, Kate's spotlight episode to fill us in on what's happening with her and Aaron and these shady lawyers (working for Claire's mom, maybe?) who want a blood test to prove maternity. Yet despite having much more forward momentum than all but a handful of episodes from previous seasons, both "Because You Left" and "The Lie" still manage to find an emotional anchor (first Sawyer, then Hurley) so that they can feel like original-recipe "Lost" while dabbling in time travel, espionage, mergers and acquisitions, and all these other new elements.

Needless to say, I am very, very happy with where we're at with the new season. And next week's episode, which I got to see on a big screen back at press tour, may actually be the best of the three so far.

Some other thoughts and questions to ponder:

• In case you missed it yesterday, I did a long interview with Damon Lindelof when I was in California last week. In it, we discuss not only the new time travel theme, but key elements from season four and from the series as a whole. If you don't have time for the whole thing, I'd suggest scrolling down to the parts about "Stranger in a Strange Land" inadvertently saving the series, and about how the master plan relates to Michael Emerson being promoted from day player to central character.

• Another link you might have missed: Isaac Spaceman's recap of the previous four seasons. It's a bit longer than Hurley's, and doesn't have the pathos, but it's wicked, wicked funny.

• Interesting that, in the end, Hurley takes Sayid's advice (no matter what, do the opposite of whatever Ben suggests) over Ana-Lucia's (no matter what, don't let the cops catch you). Given what we know about Ben, Sayid's was probably the wiser piece of advice, and it's rare to see Ben as thoroughly foiled as he is in that moment -- which only made my Hurley love grow more.

• What exactly is going on with the pendulum in Ms. Hawking's office? And why does she have a computer that looks to be the same vintage as the one from the hatch?

• In addition to the Willie Nelson song, the most notable tune playing over these two episodes was Cheap Trick's "Dream Police," which was the Muzak playing as Hurley bought a t-shirt at the gas station.

• One more thing to ponder about what's moving and why on the island: The Others -- at least, the native Others (as opposed to an immigrant like Juliet) -- don't seem to be traveling when the Lostaways do. One minute, Locke's in the jungle with his flock, and the next he's in the pouring rain by himself.

• And speaking of The Others, one of the benefits of the deal to end the series after next season was it gave Cuse and Lindelof the ability to sign people like Nestor Carbonell to firmer deals. We don't need to worry anymore about Richard disappearing again from the narrative because Carbonell (who apparently is not wearing eyeliner) got cast in another series.

• The compass Richard gives to Locke -- to give back to him at their next meeting in Locke's future and Richard's past -- would seem to answer the question of which item the young Locke was supposed to recognize that he already owned during the '60s flashbacks from "Cabin Fever," right?

• While Dan has jumped to the center of the narrative, the other surviving freighter folk are still around to varying degrees. I'm not sure if we'll be seeing Frank again past the flashback to the origin of the Oceanic Six lie (which was hatched while he was still hanging with them and Desmond and Penny), but Miles gets to prove that Locke isn't the only guy on the island who can catch boar (though, admittedly, John had the tougher task of doing it with living ones, where Miles just uses his psychic powers to find already dead ones), and Charlotte appears to be more profoundly affected by the time travel than the rest of the gang, judging by her nosebleeds, memory loss and Dan's obvious concern for her.

• Carlton Cuse has brought in a bunch of supporting players from his "Nash Bridges" over the years, whether it's Cheech as Hurley's dad, Daniel Roebuck as the amazing exploding Arzt, and now Mary Mara as Jill, Ben's contact at the Others-run butcher shop. (Those Others, always diversifying: they run a butcher shop, and a biotech firm, and a time-traveling island, and...)

• Like father, like son: Cheech also enjoys the occasional episode of "Expose."

• Between Keamy's assault force, the explosion of the freighter and now the fire arrow attack, Cuse and Lindelof have now gotten rid of most of the anonymous remaining passengers (or, as the producers call them, The Socks) of Oceanic 815. As Lindelof put it, half tongue-in-cheek, at a press conference last week:

The last character that anyone ever asked us about was Frogurt, and you saw how we dealt with his reintroduction. The show is now moving into a phase where the presence of The Socks was no longer directly necessary. So we killed them with arrows. And that’s just what you do.

• Getting back to the rules about time travel, how do you feel about Dan's assertion that Desmond is "special," and therefore immune to all the rules? Interesting idea that makes one of the show's most popular characters even more important, or a magical get-out-of-jail-free card for whenever the writers paint themselves into a corner over these last two seasons?

What did everybody else think?

Why We Will Miss the Idiot, George Bush

2009-01-19T04:38:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of the Bush Administration. Two cheers! Still, as our man sets about the business of screwing up whatever he has possibly still left unscrewed in these last twenty-four hours, I can't help but suspect that we will come to miss the man, this poor, hapless imbecile.

For the last twenty-eight years-- virtually all of my adult life--the country has been ruled by a conservative ideology. Reagan said it himself: "Government is not the answer to our problems; government is the problem." Bill Clinton, beset by a Republican revolution in the Congress, had to go along: "The era of big government is over."

And so for twenty-eight years, the Republicans, sometimes aided by Democrats, have set about dismantling the government, replacing experts with hacks, scientists with creationists, administrators with political cronies. Wasn't it the famous "Brownie" of the New Orleans disaster, whose previous qualification was directing the "Wild Thoroughbred Horse Association."? Oh, and being a Republican fundraiser.

The Republicans were lucky in having a genial, television-friendly Ronald Reagan for eight years to make it seem like they weren't slowly wrecking the government. Still, the record deficits (records then, anyhow) ought to have given people a clue. But the luck ran out with George Bush, who managed, in his twinkling time as President, to make a disaster out of virtually everything.

There is not a single thing one can think of that is not worse than it was in 2000. And not just like, a little bit worse, but, say, oh, a hundred times worse. This is not some crazy accident, a bit of bad luck for George W. Bush. It is the direct result of a quarter century of giving the Republicans everything they could ever have possibly asked for.

A better spinmeister-- Reagan, say-- might have somehow managed to make Americans blindly find someone other than the Republicans to blame. Not so with George Bush. The man had the Midas Touch in reverse: everything he touched turned to crap. And finally, at last, even people who'd gone along with the whole Republican tidal wave of lies began to notice that the entire country is broken.

Nothing made a case for the Democrats like George W. Bush. Every time he opened his imbecilic, simian mouth, he drove home the point once again that the nation was being run by an orangutan. It was all summed up by a fine bumper sticker: SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS, A VILLAGE IS MISSING ITS IDIOT.

Now that he's gone--is he really gone?-- the business of repairing the country will go on, and on, probably for years. We will have to face serious choices and sacrifices, and some of these problems will probably not be solved in my lifetime; a quarter century of wrecking the government and handing everything over to Jesus will probably take more than a quarter century to fix.

My guess is that we will miss having George Bush to kick around, that soon enough people will look at the disaster we are in and begin to blame Barack Obama for it. Without George Bush we will lose a daily reminder of what happens when the country we love attacks other nations without just cause; when we trample upon the Constitution; when we turn to torture; when we make whipping boys and girls out of gay, lesbian, and transgender citizens; when we spend and spend without ever raising taxes to pay for it all.

In short; we will miss having a leader quite so stupid.

Oh well. There's always Sarah Palin.

"I Want to Wake Up."

2009-01-14T04:47:00.000-08:00

“I Want to Wake Up”
A Speech to the National Press Club
By Jennifer Finney Boylan

The upcoming combination of MLK Day and Obama's inauguration made me think about this speech, originally given at the National Press Club in May 2007. Hope you'll forgive the re-tweet (sic) but these words mean a lot to me. The text is © 2007 Jennifer Finney Boylan.

Thank you. Look at you all. It’s very cool to see all of you
gathered in one spot, all these trans people and their allies.

There are a lot of things I don’t know, but I know this:
Tomorrow is going to be a great day.

One night recently, my children and my partner and I
were talking about the usual stuff at dinner—about whether
bloodhounds drool too much, about who would win, The
Incredible Hulk, or Abraham Lincoln? At one point we even
fell into the classic discussion of what makes the best
superpower? While I argued for super-speed, my children
tried to make the case for Time-Travel, and Flying, and
something they called Super-stickiness, which might be the
thing that enables Spiderman to climb walls, or which might
be something else entirely.

My son Sean was doing a book report on Martin Luther
King at the time. And in the midst of our conversation,
Sean suddenly looked up at Grace and me and said, “Why
did Martin Luther King say he wanted to dream?”

And we said, well, it’s good to dream.

My son said he understood that. But why, he asked, didn’t
Martin Luther King want to wake up? And step out into a
world where those dreams are at last coming true?

As I think about all of us—transgendered Americans in this
room and across the country, I can’t help but think that my
son is right. While our dreams give us courage and hope, it
is also surely time that we all wake up, and enjoy our rights
as American citizens, in a country that respects our diversity,
our courage, and our strength.

And so I say to you:

I want to wake up in a country where transgendered people
are seen as human, where our curiously gendered lives are
seen as one more variation in the rich tapestry of experience,
as something not to be shocked by, but as something to be
celebrated, and honored, and understood.

I want to wake up in a country where Americans
understand that transgender people come in all shapes and
sizes and embodiments, where to be a cross dresser or a
transsexual or a drag queen or trans man or genderqueer is
seen as simply another way of being human, a person
endowed by the creator with certain inalienable rights, and
that among these rights are life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness.

I want to wake up tomorrow.

I want to wake up in a country where coming out as
transgender is not seen as the end of the world, but as a
beginning, where the lives of people such as ourselves are
celebrated, where we are seen as precious, vital parts of a
democracy, where we have the right to earn a living without
fear of being fired for what we are, where we have the right
to get married to the people we love, where the President of
the United States will reach out and shake our hands and
say that he is proud of everything we bring to the American
experience. I want to wake up.

I want to wake up in a country where qualified,
hardworking Americans will never be denied job
opportunities because of the sexual orientation or their
gender identity or expression, a country where every
individual will have a fundamental right under Federal Law,
to be protected from discrimination. I want to wake up in a
country in which the thirty-three states at present where a
person can be fired because of her sexuality have to change
their laws. I want to wake up in a country in which the forty-
two states in which a person can be fired because of her
gender identity have to change their laws. I want to wake
up in a country in which men and women are judged not by
what they are wearing, or whom they love, but by the
content of their characters. I want to wake up.

I want to wake up to a county in which crimes against
transgender people will never be excused by anybody, ever,
for any reason.

Tomorrow morning, when you open your eyes, you will
wake up into a country which is changing, one human face

at a time. And in so doing, you will also answer for my
family another one of those questions we ask around the
dinner table, namely, who is the best superhero?
Wolverine? Spiderman?? Thomas Jefferson? And what
exactly does it mean, in the end, to be a hero?

If you ask me, the best superheroes are the transgender
people in this room and all across America. In your grace,
your courage, in your unquenchable desire to make this a
better country, you are all heroes.

It is an honor to be here with you all, fighting this fight.
With all our super powers tomorrow—super love, super
compassion, and yes, even a little bit of super-stickiness--I
know that in the morning, we are all going to wake up to a
better country, and to a better future.

Tomorrow is going to be a great day.

Thank you.

Protest the Paritioning of Mordor!

2009-01-12T05:07:00.000-08:00

MINAS TIRITH (A.P.) – August 28. United States Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice today announced a plan for the partition of Mordor.

The U.S. led invasion, which led to the toppling of the Dark Lord, Sauron, has been bogged down since the liberation of the Land of Shadow, as insurgent orcs, Balrogs, and Fighting Uruk-Hai continue to battle American forces, and drink each others’ blood out of soup tureens.

Sauron, the one-time supreme leader of Mordor, has been awaiting trial since his capture by U.S. forces last year. At the time of his capture, the Dark Lord was found crouching in a hidey-hole eating beef jerky, apparently unaware that he was no longer supreme ruler of the Land of Shadow. “Hey,” said Sauron. “I’ve got Joe-mentum!”

The plan which the Secretary of State announced today calls for dividing Mordor into three “realms.” The northernmost land, stretching from the Dead Marshes to the far-off Sea of Nurn, would be renamed “Freedomville,” and administered by the majority orc population, and backed by troops from the European Union. The southern realm, renamed “Libertytown,” would be run mostly by cave-trolls, wicked Southron men, and a special “all drunken” brigade of the Russian Army.

The middle realm, “Happy-stan,” which includes the former site of the Dark Tower, Barad-dur, as well as fiery Mount Doom, would be turned into one giant Wal-mart, run by surly teenagers who have to “change the tape” whenever you approach the register.

At the time of the initial cease-fire in Mordor, it was hoped that the freed hobgoblins and giant spiders would “welcome U.S. troops as liberators.” Several years into the conflict, however, hope seems to be dimming for the transformation in Mordor that neoconservatives had hoped for, particularly along the firey plains of Gorgoroth, where the roads still have potholes filled with molten lava and these really creepy dudes with tentacles.

The problem was well summarized by a Mordor insurgent named Ugluk: “We don’t want democracy. What we really want is to drink blood from a giant soup tureen.”

The Bush foreign policy team seems caught off guard somewhat by the reluctance of the population of Mordor to embrace democracy.

“We figured once Sauron had been overthrown, the orcs and trolls would pretty much be ready for the American way of life,” said the U.S. Secretary of Defense. “Instead all they want to do is hit each other over the head with clubs and ride around on giant elephants. Quite frankly we’re a little baffled. We’re like: hello? Don’t you want to eat at an Arby’s instead? Become a contestant on ‘Mordorian Idol?’”

Meanwhile, in Washington D.C., President Bush announced today that the “war on Mordor was going really, really well.”

“These giant spiders and cave troll guys, they hate our freedom,” said the President. “They hate our country music and pork chops. Go figure.”

Elf Queen Galadriel dismissed this thought angrily. “It’s not about pork chops. It’s about dudes with tentacles.”

The U.S. led alliance, “Operation Mordor Happiness” has been precarious since the start.

In Gondor, King Elessar, Aragorn son of Arathorn was reported to have thrown up his hands at the whole mess. “Mordor, Mordor, Mordor,” said the King. “That’s all I ever hear about. What about my new health care plan? ”

King Eomer, over in Rohan, was said to be reconsidering his commitment of two thousand armed men on horseback to the fighting in Mordor, in response to criticism of the alliance with Gondor. “What,” said Eomer. “The Riders of Rohan are supposed to just keep riding around in a circle until a bunch of cave-trolls embrace democracy? Does that sound like a good idea?”

In Lothlorien, Elf-Queen Galadriel denounced both Sauron as well as the Bush policy. “Nobody hates the Dark Lord more than we do,” said the Queen. “But those who seek to control a place like Mordor will, in time, be turned to evil themselves. “ The Elf-Queen sighed. “Like Johnny Damon.”

Meanwhile, in the Land of Shadow, the war drags on.

America's New-boyfriend Troubles....

2009-01-08T15:27:00.001-08:00

I was excited last week when I got an invitation to a party over at America’s house. For one thing, I was looking forward to seeing what the new place looked like. She has lived in a LOT of houses, over the years, and some of them you wouldn’t wish on Antarctica.

Not like Antarctica was invited, of course. Everyone knows if you ask Antarctica anywhere she just starts up with the business. Oh, my ice sheet is melting, oh I keep shedding chunks of my shelf, blah blah blah. Whenever I see Antarctica, I just want to say, girlfriend: you’re a wreck.

When I first met America, she was living in a teepee. Seriously. You should have seen the clothes. Beads and fringe and feathers. She was like, I’m going over to the Pilgrims’ house! And we were like, You’re wearing that?

Then she moved in with England for a while, but surprise, surprise: they had this BIG blowup. After that, she moved out west. This was a very difficult period, and when I say difficult I mean: chaps and leather. Ten gallon hats. It was rough.

This was when I lost touch with America for a while, which I feel bad about, but then you know the old saying: History is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

So imagine how delighted I was when I heard she’d been to Europe—not once but twice! Apparently there was this big crisis over at Germany’s house and she organized an intervention. Germany went on this twelve-step plan and came back all buff. First time I saw him, in fact, I was, like, whoa, who is that? Holland’s little brother?

We were close, America and me, when I was growing up. To be quite honest, I looked up to her. She’d been through a lot of changes, but you had to respect her. At long last she seemed to have found herself.

Which was why we were all so surprised when she took up with Iraq. Not that I have anything against Iraq, but he’s so immature! Still, she saw something in him. She’d gone out with him before, back in 91, but this time it seemed serious.

And for the first few months, it seemed like it was all going to work out for her. She lost weight. You’d see her jogging in the morning with her torch and that crown with the little spikey things on it, which I know seems so totally 1770s, but what can I tell you: somehow she made it work.

Then we started hearing rumors about her war, how Iraq was secretly seeing some theocracy behind her back.

And so, as we sat around her new house, me and all her old friends, we had to ask. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted?

America started crying. I don’t know! She said. It was nice at first, but now it’s just—a quagmire!

She looked at us in desparation. I feel so alone! She said.

And all her old friends were like, of course you’re not alone. Why do you shut us out? Why do you always have to do everything on your own?

We all had a big cry, and then we all hugged, and then we opened up the presents. Kenya brought some coffee. Belgium brought waffles. Ireland brought some whiskey, same as always. “Hey,” said Ireland. “Is it okay if we open this now?”

I don’t know what’s going to happen with Iraq, but I’m hoping America will realize we love her. There’s nothing she could do that would change that. But I don’t know. Sometimes she troubles me.

We were all about to leave, when who comes bursting through the door but Antarctica, drenched and frosty, and in two seconds she starts up with the business. “I’m melting!” she wailed, dropping an ice shelf in the foyer. “I’m coming to pieces!”

Well Jeez, Antarctica, I thought. You’re not the only one.

Twelve Sounds of Maine Winter

2009-01-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

One is the woomph of a frozen pond. The water moves beneath the ice and the whole lake goes werrrp, a deep, warping groan, like something from outer space. The dogs stand at the edge of the ice, snow on their black ears, and growl at it.

Two is the plow guy, doing the driveway in the middle of the night. The heavy blade scrapes against the asphalt, the tires spinning around as our man revs his engine high enough to push the snow. I think about our plow guy, Jared, when the snow is deep, how he spends hour after hour in that truck, driving around from house to house when everyone’s asleep. I feel bad when there are two storms right in a row, and Jared has to get right back out on the road and do the job all over again. There are some winters when I think he never sleeps at all.

Three is the sound of a frozen stream, the merry sound of cold water rushing against ice, like some strange music, full of motion and hope. A strange contrast to the ice-bound world.

Four is the shush of skis against new snow as the cross country skiers glide through woods, across fields, down hills. Their heaving breath comes out in clouds.

Five is a car stuck in a snowbank, the tires spinning around and around. Car doors open, and close. There’s cursing.

Six is the sound of Storm Center on television, early in the morning, from a room downstairs. There’s a sudden cheer, followed by the patter of young feet on the stairs. The kids run into the bedroom and announce, “No School!” Then the parents sit up in bed and groan as they imagine every last thing they had planned for that day instantly disappearing.

Seven is a maul chunking against the top of the log as the wood splits into two nice even pieces. I usually split wood in the basement, so sometimes the tip of the maul ticks against the cement floor in the follow through. Then I split the two pieces I just made into four, and sometimes the four into eight. The smaller the piece of wood is, the higher the pitch as it falls to the floor. Clunk.

Eight is the birds, the few of them that remain. I hear them in the morning as I go down the dark driveway to get the newspaper: black-capped chickadees, northern cardinals, ruby crowned kinglets, Bohemian waxwings. They sound cold.

Nine is a car left car outside. Return to the car to find a crust of ice on the windshield. So out comes the scraper. Sometimes—on a good day-- the crud slides right off. Other times you have to get serious, prying off that ice like you’re scraping burnt chocolate off a frying pan with a spatula. How big does the hole you chop have to be in order for you to drive the car? Sometimes I see drivers peeking through tiny portholes, like they’re driving a tank.

Ten is a snowmobile, heading across Great Pond, here in Belgrade Lakes. Sometimes there’s a whole group of them, making a sound like a swarm of angry bees. Other times it’s just one guy. Late in the day I see them all parked outside the Sunset Grill in Belgrade, a basketball game on the TV, glasses of Irish coffee lined up on the bar.

Eleven is an icicle falling off the rain gutter and shattering on the driveway in a thousand pieces. Once, one fell on my head, and I looked upwards, angrily, and cursed the sky.

Twelve: In the middle of the night the power goes out and I’m suddenly woken by the shocking sound of nothing at all. I’m warm beneath the covers, though, and the family is safe beneath our roof, the two grownups, the two boys, even the wicked oscars swimming in the fish tank. While we were sleeping, the dogs have jumped up in the bed again. All warm and soft, the younger dog barks at some imaginary cat, in some dog dream.

I lie there for a while in my dark house, in a sleepy kind of wonder, and listen.

Tell Me What I Say...

2009-01-06T05:47:00.000-08:00

I got "What'd I Say" by Ray Charles on the box here, early morning Maine. Bright sunshine, house empty but for me, D. at work, boys to school. Today Thing One (who gets to choose the music on the way TO school) introduced me to "Scars on Broadway," which would be the solo album of two refugees from "System of a Down," and if this means nothing to you, then you too might be fifty years old like herself. IT is brain-rattling, scream-o "death metal," which does wake one up. I can tell you that a) yes, the music does fill me with horror, and b) the musicians seem smart and somewhere behind the noise is a dedication to, as Zach put it, "Saving the earth and smashing stereotypes."

This music made me smile, partly from the sheer go-to-hell-noise of it, and part of it because its heart is sincere, and I thought about what my mom must have thought of Frank Zappa and the Grateful Dead, back in 1974, when I was the one who got to choose the music "on the way to school." On the way home, of course, it was mom's call-- WFLN, Philadelphia's then-classical station. Of course, WFLN went belly up, as a classical station, anyhow, a few years ago, and now THEY play death-metal too.

And yes, I do recall one time at my friend Kenny's house, when we were listening to Zappa's composition, "Weasels Ripped My Flesh," his mother came into the room unexpectedly. She said, "Oh, I'm sorry. From the sound of it, I thought someone left the vacuum cleaner on in here."

Tell your mama, tell your pa
I'm gonna send you back to Arkansas
Oh yes, ma'm, you don't do right, don't do right

Tell me what I say!

Counting the Days...

2009-01-05T06:17:00.001-08:00

MAN OF THE HOUR for January 4, 2009: BUSTER KEATON

2009-01-04T07:45:00.000-08:00

Jenny Boylan's MAN OF THE HOUR for January 4, 2009 is Buster Keaton, American actor and director, a.k.a. "The Great Stone Face."

Born October 4, 1895, his career lasted into the early 1960s, with a cameo in "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World."

But his greatest films are the early silents of the 1920s, including The General and Sherlock, Jr.

At the grimmest turns of my life, I have found Keaton's films an irrepressible source of joy. There's a lot to love about Keaton, but for me the greatest gem is that prune face of his, calm on the surface, but with the tenderest emotions flickering just beneath. He does more with a single gesture than most actors do with a page and a half of dialouge.

Here's the opening of Sherlock, Jr., which includes an amazing scene involving a dollar bill found in the trash.

There's lots of Keaton stuff on the web, the coolest of which might be Juha Takkinen's list of Keatonia.

BUSTER KEATON, Old Stone Face, is the MAN OF THE HOUR!

Everybody Sing:

2009-01-03T18:37:00.001-08:00

New Years Day: There's No Business Like Show Business

2009-01-01T18:21:00.000-08:00

Jenny near the summit, 1/1/09. Of particular note is the nine layers of coats, fleece, long underwear &etc that gives the author that perfect whole-honey-baked-ham shape.

I woke up on this the first day of the year, went downstairs and made pancakes for me, Deedie/Grace, my boys, their friends (who'd stayed the night). Then I put on eighty-five layers of clothes and, per our annual tradition, we climbed up a mountain here in Maine in the snow with a crew of other friends who do this each year. Outside temperature was ten degrees, with the wind chill, negative 16.

Sometimes New Years is hard for me; I think it's a time I feel emotionally raw. Some years I climb that mountain, lagging behind everyone else, singing a song of woe-is-a-me-bop.

This year I felt okay though. Strangely warm, for how cold it was. Still, got to the top last of the group, then looked around at the cold, frozen world. A friend gave me a tangerine and I ate it and tasted the fresh, bright citrusy taste which smoked open my head in the cold white wind.

Ten years now we've climbed this mountain on new years day. Since our children were toddlers, since one of them at least had to be carried.

Following tradition, I gathered some loose snow in my hand and stood at the edge of the precipice and made a wish. Then I threw the snow into the air and watched it twinkle in the sunlight as it sparkled and fell.

I thought of a few other stories from the last couple weeks, as I stood there.

Like: my boy Zach and I went down to New York City by train before Xmas, and saw the doomed "Young Frankenstein" on Broadway. Which is pretty much the best show in the world if you're fourteen. Went back to the hotel and watched the Wizard of Oz on TV. IN the morning: room service breakfast! Then we walked out into midtown, and nipped into Sam Ash music on 48th street, where the kid tried out electric violins. Then we got on the train and rode down to Philly and on to mom's good old haunted house.

the kid on broadway

That night, as grandmama and Zach and I ate dinner, zap, the lights went out. So we lit a buncha candles and built a fire in her "library" and the room flickered and glowed. And Zach got out some old carolling books from the piano bench and we sang carols in the dark, for an hour and a half. My old mom has a lovely voice, doesn't she. When we finsihed the books, we ad libbed-- and as Zach sang, "May your days be merry and bright," the lights came back on. We stood in a circle, the three of us, by the fire, and hugged. And finished the song.

Deedie and Sean joined us a couple days later, in time for us to have our traditional Xmas eve feast of Maine lobsters. Xmas morning I made a big heart attack breakfast: bacon and eggs and scrapple and sausage bread and salmon.

Zach and my mom (H.S. Boylan), who has a chicken tea cosy on her head.

We saw A Chorus Line in Philly one day, which made me think for days. I'd never seen it before, believe it or not, and I was curious about this alleged greatest of all musicals. I was deeply moved by it. But I also felt like it was a period piece, a very interesting piece of 1970s life. IN particular, the lives and stories of the gay characters felt like a whole other generation ago.

And took in Marley and Me one day, with Mom-- interesting that we got her out of the house-- that was the cool thing. I didn't have high hopes for this, but was very pleasantly surprised-- it felt like the real life of a family not unlike our own, and the dog is simply present. It was NOT the kind of mid-60s Disney film about the Funny Antix of the Bad Dawg. When the couple is fighting and in the turmoil of having very young children, that really hit home, felt real. And yes, when Marley kicks the bucket, we all wept and wept and wept. It was like Hamlet in there. A splendid time was guarantted for all.

Being in that old haunted house is weird for me,, after all these years. The two nights before D. joined me, I tossed and turned in my high school bedroom, had scary dreams all night long, listened to the steam raditators hiss. After D. arrived, I slept like a baby.

We drove the ten hours north back to Maine on Tuesday, D. at the wheel as always. And as we drove I signed up for Facebook via my iPhone and I was pleasantly surprised how much fun it is-- and how I immediately found about 25 dear friends, some of whom I thought I'd lost forever. MOre on that elsewhere.

New Years Eve D. cooked indian food all day, filling the house with the smells of cardamom and curry and turmeric and black eyed peas (for luck!) Dinner with friends at our house and the kids stayed up. But D. and I hit they hay early, and the last thing that happened was, I hit the TV on and there was "Annie Get Your Gun" and everybody singing:

There's no people like show people! They smile when they are low!
Even when you're in a turkey that you know will close,
And leave you standing out in the cold,
Still you wouldn't trade it for a heart of gold!
Let's go on with the show!
Let's go on with the show!

And it was to this that my thoughts returned at last, today, as I stood by that wintery precipice. And I turned back and hugged my family and friends and we began to descend the mountain, and I raised my voice in song:

There's no business like show business! Like no business I know!

On the way back down, again I was last in line, and watched the people I love move on ahead and away from me. I paused for a moment, and looked back over my shoulder, at the bright sun, and the frozen, glittering world, and the places I have been.

What is this world? What is this life?

Jenny and Deedie (Grace), New Years Day 2009, French's Mountain, Belgrade Lakes, Maine

PS: A big shout out to Richard Russo, Chloe Prince and Donna Rose, who reached out to me this holiday season and checked to make sure I wasn't falling into my traditional Yuletide flump. Their love and friendship lifted me up, up, up, way high in the air.

A Very Boylan Somethingmas.

2009-01-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

Here we are with a short Boylan family holiday greeting; you can almost see Deedie in the background there making dinner. This is part of this ongoing test to see whether we feel like setting up camp here at Blogger and moving ourselves away from WordPress. So this is mostly a test to see what video uploading is like here.

Speak No Evil.

2009-01-01T12:31:00.000-08:00

In this lovely image, Jennifer Finney Boylan contemplates the wisdom of keeping one's mouth shut, and wonders whether it would be better if she began to sing at the top of her lungs.

This is also a good occasion to remember the story of Bob Dole, who allegedly saw Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, and Gerald Ford all walk into a room, and he said, "Look, it's See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Evil."

2009-01-01T12:26:00.001-08:00

This is a first, experimental posting to see if we feel like moving some part of Jenniferboylan.net/blog/ over here. So let's check this out and see what we think.