Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft: Who Wore It Better, The Carpenters Or Klaatu?

Thirty years ago yesterday, Karen Carpenter died.

For better or worse, her voice defined my childhood. Though I loathe nostalgia, hearing her music brings back — not memories, but a sense of what that moment in time was like: the light in our living room on Saturday afternoons, the smell of the hallways in my elementary school, the sensation of laying in the sun in the back of an Oldsmobile station wagon and reading for hours while dad drove us to Disney World.

I don’t miss those moments, I certainly don’t long to relive them, but I feel like I understand that slice of time. I remember it at a sideways glance.

I love “Superstar”. It’s a haunting, beautiful melody paired with shockingly bleak lyrics. If you’ve never really paid attention to the masochism and desperation in her voice, have a listen:

But of all The Carpenters’ songs, the one that made the biggest impression on me is probably “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft”. It shows off Karen’s voice, which was simultaneously airy and powerful, and the jazz/pop break in the middle always makes me dance a little dance (on the inside). And as with “Superstar”, the lyrics are nine kinds of fucked up.

Straight People Are Weird & Heavily Airbrushed

Gillette is telling men to shave their beards, or else women won’t kiss them.

Clearly, the PR agent who sent me this infographic doesn’t know which team I bat for.

The UpStairs Lounge Tragedy: Now A Musical

Here is a conundrum: since fourth grade I’ve been involved in theatre, I have a degree in theatre, and I currently work with a theatre company in New Orleans. Some of the first shows I ever did in the theatre were musicals. And yet: I hate musicals.

“Hate” is a strong word. Let me rephrase that: I don’t hate musicals, I’m just very, very, very wary of them. And in fairness, it’s probably because I’m getting old.

As a kid, the premise of musicals — the literally fantastic idea that entire groups of people would suddenly break into song and dance — didn’t bother me at all. I mean, my parents took me to plenty of Disney movies. What was the difference between a pack of singing mice on screen and a posse of singing cowboys on stage?

With age, however, comes experience. More specifically: bad experiences. I’ve seen more terrible musicals than Rose Kennedy saw funerals. I’ve choked on plot twists more times than Lindsay Lohan has choked on ‘nads. (Then again, she’s surely developed a gag reflex by now.) I have been through some shit, is what I’m saying.

Comic musicals are a little easier to swallow because they don’t usually take things too seriously. Nine times out of ten, they’re more interested in entertaining audiences than getting all wrapped up in “art”. Dramatic musicals, on the other hand? Break out the Klonopin.

I mention this because someone in San Francisco is writing a musical about the fire at the UpStairs Lounge. And I am not entirely sure what to think.

Hints From A Homo: Things To Remember During Carnival & Mardi Gras

If you’re heading to New Orleans within the next few weeks, there are plenty of ways find Carnival-themed fun.* Gambit’s Best of New Orleans website is a great place to start your research, and if you like the printed word, every Walgreens in town has copies of Arthur Hardy’s Mardi Gras Guide.

I’ve also cobbled together a few Carnival pointers of my own, which should give you a sense of what to expect during your visit.

But beyond the basics, there are other Carnival rules to consider. Well, maybe not “rules” per se — more like “tips” that will make your trip much more pleasant.

Here are nine of my tips for having a successful Carnival. There are plenty more where these came from, so if you still have burning questions when you reach the bottom of the page, feel free to drop me a line.

Air-Sex Bear Hawks Kickstarter Project: Who Cares If It Makes Its Goal?

I have mixed feelings about the Kickstarter project to fund MonthlyWhites.com.

CON: The website is already up and running. And really, how many backers could a subscription service for tighty-whities possibly need?

PRO: The cheeky*, hipstery promo video is pretty damn good — if you like sweaty, bearded guys dancing around in their briefs. As perhaps some of you do.

But then, I rarely wear underwear at all, so why the hell should I care?

*Pun intended

Justin Bieber Hit This Guy, And I Would Too (But In A Totally Different Way)

A few things to note about the photo above:

1. The guy on the left is Moshe Benabou, whose previous job duties included “protecting Israel” and “protecting Justin Bieber”.

2. So far as I know, he did not carry out those duties at the same time. Though if he did, he clearly failed to protect Israel from Bieber Fever.

3. Presumably, Benabou first served in the Israeli army (as most citizens of that country must do), then moved to Hollywood and began hawking himself as a gun-for-hire.

4. Rumor has it that Benabou claimed to have worked for Justin Timberlake before being recruited by the Biebs. Rumor also has it that such claims are bald-faced lies.

5. Benabou no longer works for Bieber.

6. Bieber says that Benabou was fired for lying his pants off — for example, by claiming to have worked for Justin Timberlake.

7. Benabou says he quit because Bieber hit him.

8. Please look at that photo again.

9. I repeat: Benabou says he quit because Bieber hit him. He is suing the Biebs for assault, battery, and $420,000 in unpaid overtime.

10. Speaking of pants off: there’s only one litigious guy in that photo that I would do, though he would first have to remove his ill-advised swim trunks. My choice puts me at odds with several bajillion prepubescent girls.

[via The Superficial]

7 New Year’s Day Superstitions For 21st Century Gays

1. Do not unsubscribe from email lists
You will be “unsubscribed” from a potential lover’s heart.

2. Do not change your Netflix password
Maggie Smith will be dropped from the next season of Downton Abbey.

3. Do not transfer money from PayPal to your bank account
You will find yourself stuck in line eight times this year, waiting for a Walgreens manager to approve a check.

4. Do not use an odd number of tags on Instagram
The photo of your once-in-a-lifetime encounter with Anderson Cooper will come out blurry.

5. Do not “woof” at a former hook-up on Scruff
He will ignore your advances and make a snarky Facebook post about all the “desperate, pushy bottoms looking for New Year’s dick”.
Alternate fate: MUDSLIDE.

6. Do not change out your last incandescent bulb for a compact fluorescent bulb
A true friend’s duplicity will be revealed.

7. Do not watch an all-day marathon of America’s Next Top Model
Because that shit got ridiculous after Cycle 7. Also, Tyra Banks ain’t nice.

I Went To Church With Jimmy Carter, Or, An Atheist’s Guide To Surviving Sunday School & Christmas Dinner

A couple of weeks ago, I drove over to Columbus, Georgia to visit my birth mom, Callie. As always, we had a great time.

She and I don’t see one another as much as we’d like, and we’ve only known each other for 11 years, but our relationship is as simple and easy as those I share with lifelong friends — and much less strained than the relationships I have with some of my adoptive family.

(Topic for future discussion: if kids avoided meeting their parents until they were adults, would family get-togethers be less awkward?)

Anyway, during my visit, Callie proposed that we drive down to Plains, Georgia to meet Jimmy Carter. I thought, “Sure, who wouldn’t want to do that?” There was just one catch: the meeting would take place at a church, after we’d sat through Sunday school and a church service.

Ugh.

I don’t mean to be one of “those people” — those people who go on and on about how the church has scarred them for life. But I freely admit that my adolescence would’ve been way more enjoyable if I hadn’t spent one-seventh of it sitting in small-town Baptist churches, listening to fire-and-brimstone speeches about homosexuality and other alleged ills.

College saved me. Not only did I have great teachers who broadened my perspectives on history, literature, religion, and countless other topics, but I was no longer obligated to attend Sunday services. I got over fiery, bigoted Baptist rhetoric simply by turning it off. And I’ve never looked back.

So, when I heard Callie’s suggestion, I was of two minds: on the one hand, I thought, “Oh, this ought to make for an interesting adventure”, and on the other I thought, “But do I really have to go to Sunday school?”

Is Fighting Back Really The Answer?

I grew up surrounded by the white, middle-class Southern trinity of god, guns, and golf. Before finishing grade school, I’d been baptized; I’d been taught to drive, chip, and putt; and I’d been trained to use hunting rifles, pistols, and shotguns. For my 12th birthday, I got a 20 gauge of my very own.

I don’t think I’ve fired it since. It’s still locked up in my daddy’s gun cabinet, and that’s probably where it’ll stay.

I don’t really have anything to add to the discussions surrounding last week’s school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut. I agree with my fellow progressives that there’s a huge problem with assault weapons in this country. I don’t think anyone involved in drafting the second amendment envisioned a day when Americans would have easy access to cheap guns capable of killing dozens of people without reloading.

I also strongly agree with LZ Granderson‘s response to those on the right who wonder what might’ve happened if someone at Sandy Hook had been armed on Friday. Arguing that the problem of guns can be solved with more guns is at best ludicrous, and at worst, dangerous, bordering on criminal.

However, I also agree with gun-rights advocates who insist that limiting access to guns won’t solve the problem. It may curb the problem, but it can’t resolve it altogether. People who want to do harm to others will find a way.

And of course, there’s no consistent way to spot the warning signs. I grew up around a few people with mental conditions who occasionally made me worry about my own safety and that of others. But so far, my fears have been misguided.

The UpStairs Lounge: Now A Movie

As a moment in LGBT history, the tragedy at the UpStairs Lounge seems finally to be getting its due.

Though it affected far fewer people than the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and it has never been seen as a defining moment in our struggle for equality, the fire that ravaged that French Quarter bar in 1973 and the public’s reaction to it encapsulates the tone of LGBT rights at that time in U.S. history.

Now, Tragoidia Moving Pictures is taking that story and turning it into a feature film — not a documentary, as far as I can tell, but a fictional narrative that springs from the drama and sorrow of that event.

[NOTE: This is where I’d originally embedded a trailer for the film, but the producers have apparently pulled it. In the meantime, you can follow updates on the Southern Nights blog.]

I’m not bowled over by that clip. It doesn’t pack the wallop that, say, Skylar Fein’s “Remember the UpStairs Lounge” installation had. But I’m certainly willing to give it a chance. And I’m hopeful that it will draw attention, not just to the deaths and tragic circumstances of the fire, but also to its aftermath — an aftermath marked not by outrage or public demonstrations, but by silence from the media, the church, and the families of victims.

People can be terrible when they want to be.

[via JMG]

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Author: Richard