Gay/Straight Comedy Debate: What Are You Laughing At?

Click to enlarge the graph.

Our stats showed a lot of traffic on our post earlier this week about Gay Guy/Straight Guy dessert faves. So here's another guy-on-guy . . . err. . . blogger-on-blogger . . . survey on a favorite topic for both of us -- movies.

Is it surprising that the results of the survey show that, if we've both seen it, we tend to both like it? No big surprise that we both love Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles. We never talked about it, but I'm not surprised that Spinal Tap is an SG fave, but would he have suspected that South Park would end up in my '"likes" quad?

We both have films to add to our NetFlix lists. Clearly there was about a decade where we did not cross paths in the movie theater.

Straight Guy and I don't make enough time to get to the movies together. Humpday is still hanging around, and maybe we can hit that. I know I couldn't drag you to Julie and Julia even with the promise of an extra large box of Milk Duds. But, a new version of Fame is due out in a month and we WILL be there.

--Gay Guy

Straight Guy's Mix Tapes: Goodbye to You

Gay Guy,

Sad times here at Casa del SG. I've been cleaning out the basement bit by bit over the last few weeks and have been trying to purge some of the stuff that's accumulated down there over the years. Most of it won't be missed. But, I'm having a hard time saying goodbye to my collection of cassette tapes.

I'm part of that narrow slice of Gen X: the cassette generation. Post LP but pre CD. Oh, how we were duped. Deprived of LP cover art and of the pristine sound quality of CDs, what did we get? Well, we were the first to enjoy the simple thrill of popping the music right into the dashboard (or walkman) and listening on the way home. And rewinding to just the right spot -- oops, wait -- there it is! -- and listening again. That's something, I guess. Otherwise it's just a lot of hiss and lame Dolby NR options that never really worked anyway. But I loved music and craved convenience, so did I really have any choice?

I still have hundreds of them, loosely organized in plastic bins. Some store-bought classics, many guilty pleasures, and a few selections best classified as "what the hell was I thinking?" (Looking at you, Shalamar.) Throw in a few cassingles from the one-hit wonders, just to round things out.

There's also a bin dedicated to mix-tapes, the hard currency of friendship in the 1980s. These might be the hardest to part with. Can't classify it as an art (a la High Fidelity), but making a tape for someone was a kind of craft. It took a whole afternoon or evening of selecting songs and carefully ordering the playlist, recording in real time, monitoring the levels, and stressing over the pauses between each selection. So, maybe we got a little conceited in the process. Our sensibilities were never as sophisticated as we thought at the time -- no minds were ever technically "blown" by my audio expertise, anyway. But we did it because we cared. I doubt many kids today would take the time to express themselves that way. Why would they, with blogs, facebook, and text-messaging at their disposal? They don't lack the tools to let everyone know what they think and how they feel. We had to be slightly more subtle, and let Lou Reed, Chrissie Hynde, James Taylor, and Stevie Wonder do the talking.

OK. Trying not to dwell, here. I don't have a tape deck anymore, and for the most part love my iPod lifestyle. Some of the artists have migrated with me, others have been left behind (where have you gone, Hoodoo Gurus?). The vast majority of those tapes have gone unused for over 10 years now. I'd like to find a good home for them, because it's hard to throw away Abbey Road, no matter what the format. But I also have a hard time believing that my local library would want a copy of the album where Eddie Murphy sings with sincerity.

Do I wish that timing had been better and all of my collection was on CD? Sure. The really sad part is that as the format loses value, all the tapes become equally worthless. On cassette, the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, and early Prince are dragged down to the level of Scritti Polliti, Billy Vera, and The Force MDs. Now that's a shame.

Even though I probably spent thousands of dollars building this now-worthless collection, it's the free mix-tapes that are hardest to let go. Any advice?

--Straight Guy

P.S. Check out this interesting NYT graphic on music format popularity, indicating cassette sales peaking in the late 80s, just when my appetite for music was also at its peak. As a tribute to those cassettes now headed for the dumpster, I'll finish with this nostalgically appropriate tribute... "such a pity to say goodbye to you..."

Gay/Straight Dessert Debate: Check Out Our Quads!

Click to enlarge the graph.

Here's a little gayguystraightguy survey data. Nothing universal, just me vs him. I guess it's no surprise that GG's refined palette appreciates tiramisu, creme brulee, and Godiva chocolates. I, however, am easily satisfied by selections available at the boardwalk, ballpark, and/or county fair.

Can't we all just get along? Yes. We found common ground (and cost-effective satisfation) in Snickers candy bars. Apple and key lime pies were also more than acceptable to both of us.

Cheesecake is lonely in the middleground. No love, no hate. Neither gay nor straight.

Readers, where do you fit in this tasty mix? Are you craving flan or Little Debbie? Anything we forgot?

--Straight Guy

Things Straight Guy Hates Immediately: The Sun Road Dance

Gay Guy,

Just yesterday we were talking about the blog and I commented that I had to write some fun-loving, positive posts. That maybe even I was tiring of the grumpy character that I often fall into. Yeah, I'm honest (mostly) about how I feel, but it's also easy... easier to snark on the annoying than to really open up about something that inspires or delights (wow, almost NEVER use that word).

I promise I'll work on that. Soon. But not right now.

What the hell is this?

Supposedly, this is the "Sun Road Dance," part of a performance series "intended to capture the spirit and essence of our great national parks through the arts."

This is the essence of Glacier National Park? Not even close. I can tell from a single pose that I don't like it, and am guessing I would be irked rather than entertained by the whole number.

No. No. No. Don't tell me that the incongruity IS the point. That's not going to cut it. He can wear his tuxedo in the desert, jungle, and ocean too, for all I care. It won't work. The mountain views in Montana are beyond beautiful. There is no need to sprinkle our creative impulses from peak to valley to try to make it more so. That's just noise at best, and at worst, another kind of pollution.

The emotional and intellectual impact of visiting a remote national park is in stripping yourself of pretense and ego. To appreciate nature on its terms, not your own. And to feel small and insignificant, which, surprisingly, is a great way to let the worry and drama of your day-to-day fade away.

I've been to Montana many times. I've hiked some of these trails. Often, when struck by the profound beauty of the vistas and animals, I recognize that I am in a moment that could be a million years old. That I am the most "unnatural" thing to pass that way in a long while.

I've never thought: Where's my red cummerbund? I'm holding in a dance that needs to be released and recorded!

I'm a liberal and an arts lover. Hey, I found this in today's Style section before I even opened the news and sports pages. But I've admitted that I'm not much for modern interpretive dance. Maybe I'd have more of an open mind about it, if it weren't for stuff like this.

Look, I know that to have a vibrant arts scene, there has to be room for the experimental, the un-understandable, and, at times, the offensive. I don't want to strip this guy of his grants. I want more than celebrity dance-offs and MTV hip-hop dance crew battles. So, here's my problem: I can't define the line between "interpretive" and "indulgent" dance, but for me, it's clearly been crossed in the photo above.

Choreographer, dancer, and cinematographer Trey McIntyre, of the Trey McIntyre Project (did I say self indulgent or self important?) claims that he was initially skeptical of the concept, but charged ahead anyway. "There is a certain absurdity, not meant to be comic, about somebody in a tuxedo in the middle of the woods," he says, "I wanted to find out what it means when those two elements coexist, what that struggle means."

Wow, I agree with him. It's not comic. Too bad. I would have given funny a chance. Elements struggling to co-exist? Whatever, dude. Otherwise, this exercise only "means" that a few hikers came upon this nonsense and were denied, however briefly, the opportunity to see Glacier on its own terms.

Wonder what the bears made of this. Were they entertained by dancers in red? Or appetized by brightly wrapped snacks?

--Straight Guy

P.S.: GG, I realize that, because you have tickets to just about everything, you might be in attendance. If so, I hope my uninformed pre-review enhances your evening, and that I'm wrong about everything.

Readers, I'm trying to avoid dance-related sexual stereotypes, so I'll ask this way: Is there something about interpretive dance that (many? most? some?) straight guys just don't "get"?

GAY GUY RESPONDS:

SG:

Wonder what the bears made of the interpretive dance performance? Sadly, not lunch. Apparently, they were insufficiently hungry, excessively polite, or just overwhelmed. The mean part of me says, "Please DO feed the bears."

I know I should be an equal opportunity arts lover, but no go here. I'm ready to partake in just about anything, look at photography and painting, listen to a lot of music, but, counter to expected stereotypes (gay = gotta dance!), draw the line at performance art and dance, especially interpretive dance.

For a few months a few years ago, I dated a guy who booked dance groups for arts centers. Big name groups. So, I was (fortunate enough) able to see a lot of famous dance groups. It was sometimes painful. I'd like to think I appreciate all art forms, but dance usually makes me uncomfortable. There is something that doesn't feel natural about it. I can admire some of the technical athleticism in it, and can certainly admire the physicality of the dancers -- at least those who don't like like they won't break in two before my very eyes. There's just something about it that feels indulgent.

Does this make me a bad arts lover? What's my problem?

I'm sympathetic to your argument that other artists can take something from nature, distill it, and then create something that presents a point of view informed by memory. This dance project and projects like Christo and his bed sheets across the country don't work for me.

I just came back from hiking in the Redwoods. Early this summer was Virginia's Shenandoah, last year was Yosemite. Next year I hope for Yellowstone, Glacier or Zion. What makes those trips so compelling his how those place -- I might even say sacred places -- have an impact ON me, not how I have an impact ON it. Being reminded that I am but a blip in the span of the world is freeing, not discouraging.

Remember the park Golden Rule: Leave only footprints, take only memories and photos.

I guess that interpretive dance is like my question about Mt. Rushmore: Who looks at a gorgeous, sacred place and sees the heads of presidents?

As a final note, a friend of mine had a free spirit of a dad. At the dad's funeral one of the prayers was performed through interpretive dance. It took some strengths to keep my lips from twitching. At the post-funeral reception, I asked the deceased's sister, a 70-something year old woman renowned for her mercilessly honest observations of things, what she thought of the dance. After a thoughtful pause, she answered, in a deadpan, somewhat world-weary voice: "Well, HE would have loved it."

The perfect answer is also a thing of beauty, and needs no interpretation.

--Gay Guy

Dog Days of Summer: Gay Guy Bites off More Than He Can Chew?

Straight Guy,

I had an embarrassing incident at the gym last evening, an incident that took me right back to the sixth grade. No, not that embarrassing moment -- this was long before I hit the shower.

I got scared and skulked around the gym hiding from this guy to avoid getting his fist in my face. If that doesn't send ya back to middle school, nothing will.

The back story: A few weeks ago I went up the street to lunch a little after noon. I passed the fancy gym next door where everyone is beautiful (not the back-to-basics gym that I belong to), where a dog was tied up on the terrace outside the gym, barking his heart out. An hour or so later, I passed by on my way back from lunch; same dog, same constant barking. An hour or so after that, I stepped out again to get some stamps or something. Dog. Barking. Add that it's July so it's hot.

I'm not really one to get into other people's business, so don't count on me to spearhead an intervention. Nor am I the Patron Saint of Puppies. But I told myself that if the dog was still there on my way back from the post office, I'd have to do something.

The short story is that I screwed up my courage, asked the fancy man at the fancy desk at the fancy gym if he knew who the dog belonged to. After some ridiculous verbal shell game at the front desk, dog owner appeared, mad as hell at me. Steam coming out of his ears. The synopsis of the point-counter point of our terse, tense, short conversation was that I need to learn how to mind my own business and that he needs to learn how to take care of an animal. He said that the dog had only been out there for an hour, I said I begged to differ and promised to provide my lunch mate to prove it.

I said my peace and left. He shouted at my departing figure that if I did anything about the dog, like call the SPCA, he'd "sue me."

To which I responded, "Bring it on."

The point of the story is not just that some people don't know how to take care of a dog, but that I felt very manly man in a way that I don't often feel. I felt that I had participated in a cave man-like primal altercation. It felt scary but thrilling at the same time. For once, I was the gay guy asking for trouble.

I figured that I'd probably never see the dude again. But, who do I see out of the corner of my eye when I entered my regular gym but Dog Man. I can't tell if he sees me, but I figure there's a 50-50 chance that his peripheral vision is as good as mine. I piled up some free weights in a corner, made myself immobile, tried to work out, and generally speaking, tried to be invisible. And felt miserable.

Don't try to use this expression, I felt like a sissy. A grown man skulking around to avoid getting what at worst would be a verbal rematch. Finally I couldn't take anymore, and decided to walk by him. Not to have a conversation or a confrontation, but to let him know I saw him and that I knew that he was there. That would be good enough.

We passed in the hallway. He gave me a weird smile, and I nodded my head. That was all.

One detail: He had an odd looking pink scratch from his eye down his cheek. My petty self hopes his dog sharpened his doggy digits there.

--Gay Guy

Go, Daddy, Go!

Gay Guy,

A local group has started a father/infant running group, baby-on-board jogging strollers required. From today's Washington Post website:

The group we formed -- DC Dads on the Run -- meets every Sunday... Our goal is 3 plus miles of Daddy time. Time to discuss sports, work, marriage, child milestones, funny stories or anything else that comes to mind.... And finally... to add a little daddy bonding time to our lives as we share in the Dad journey.

It sounds so good-natured, healthy, and responsible that I'm reluctant to share my gripe, especially because I'll never have my act together like these guys do. But here goes.

I'm a father, but I have no idea what "daddy bonding time" is all about. "Daddy time" I get. Quality time with my kids is important. But bonding with other dads over developmental milestones? Meh, not so much. And don't get me started with the capital-D "Dad journey." Ugh. Are we really that reflective now?

Anyone on these jogs drift off the road while gazing down at their own navel?

Isn't there any nobility in struggling in silence with our responsibilities as men, even if we are stretching and growing to share more and more of the parenting with our wives?

Gay Guy, I don't know about your dad, but mine worked hard, parented, volunteered, and had a social life. If he was introspective about the transitions of his life, he kept pretty quiet about it. He was just a good dad. He didn't go on the capital-D "Dad journey," because it wasn't all about him. I'd like to stick to that selfless model as much as I can. But it's hard. Really hard. So who am I to judge? I'm certainly no expert on fitness or parenting. If these guys can recharge their parenting batteries by sharing their stories with each other, more power to them. They're more proactive than I am, for sure.

Well, here I am blogging about it, so major points off my stoic score as well. Mea Culpa.

Another confession: As those runners were warming up last Sunday, I was enjoying some Count Chocula and cartoons with my kids. And as they were sprinting for the finish, I had my kids out for lunch at Ben's Chili Bowl for hot dogs and chili half smokes. Before anyone calls an abuse hotline -- or Mrs. Straight Guy -- know that we had fruit (and Pepto) and exercise (and Pepto) for the rest of the afternoon.

Look, I celebrate the concept, Dads on the Run. Get out there. Enjoy your friends and make new ones. Tune your bodies. Model that behavior for your kids. All good stuff. But maybe, just a marketing suggestion here, we could substitute some healthy "bullshitting" for all that therapeutic "bonding." Hey, maybe this is just semantics and by "funny stories" you really meant "filthy jokes." If so, I'm in. Especially if this route circles by Ben's (and then an EMT station).

--Straight Guy

Big Gay Ice Cream Truck

Straight Guy,

I love this story about the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck.

I will make an exception for my annoyance at the GLBT rainbow symbol to get rainbow- colored jimmies on my cone.

--Gay Guy

Wake the Eff Up, Dagwood! A Continuing Saga...

Oh, I get it. It's funny because Dagwood would rather eat Domino's chicken wings than have sex with Blondie. You see, he's completely dead down there. Hi. Lar. I. Ous.

Dagwood, your straight guy street cred is nada.

Yes. I realize that manipulating your sexual relationship into a reward system for completed chores is not a benchmark of a healthy marriage. But since it's not working anyway, we'll have to forgive Blondie.

I think it's high time we get some kind of crossover going on with the writers of Judge Parker. Yowza. I never know exactly what's going on in that strip, but those characters are... um... healthy.

I know. Some folks love these old strips because they never change. But notice that Dagwood has a new-fangled, flat-panel TV. Welcome to the modern world. He can't be missing all those annoying "Viva Viagra" ads, though. Can he? I don't care how long you've been married, Dagwood, that's friggin Blondie. Wake up.

--Straight Guy

Straight Guy Hall of Shame: Wrong Tool for the Job

Maybe I came off as unnecessarily judgmental in my recent post on ball caps, and the absolute correctness of keeping them at 12 o'clock. But maybe not.

Thank you, failblog.

--Straight Guy

Back to the Blog

Straight Guy,

Back in town. Thanks for carrying the blogging load.

Have a bunch of posts swirling in my head. Looking forward to some writing.

--Gay Guy