Eugene Robinson on Nominee Obama

Putting aside, reader, whether you are liberal or conservative, Democrat or Republican, or even if you supported Hillary Clinton, the nomination of Barack Obama is an event that has stunned me and moved me beyond anything I can describe. It's historic in ways that make me so proud to live right now.

I can never claim to know what it feels like to be Black in this country, but I came face to face with racism when our family moved to the piney woods of east Texas when I was in the 10th grade.

I had actually grown up in Southern California when my family moved out West when I was five. Anaheim, in the mid-60s, was White. I don't recall that we ever even discussed race in America. Except once. It was in the bedroom I shared with my brother. Something must have happened to precipitate his action, but my dad came in and I remember he denounced racism in no uncertain terms. It was a moment that branded itself in my psyche.

So, when we moved to southeast Texas, a low income, rural, forgotten corner of backwoods America where integration had only recently been accomplished, I came face to face with my first real intimate friendships with African American persons and, frankly, I didn't think anything of it.

Not until the day I was called a nigger lover, anyway.

But things were already changing in the South. Even as the racism scared me -- and yes, I did see a KKK storefront a couple of town over -- it felt to me that the people of my generation were finally beginning to understand, identify and question their own bigotry -- even if in baby steps.

But it was real and it was pervasive and the word "nigger" was said a lot when it was just White people standing around talking. That's why the Barack Obama nomination has just astounded me. No matter whether he wins the election or not, or whether you support him or not, I think every American can take this moment in time and just celebrate that it's happened at all.

Link to Eugene Robinson's editorial.

What He Overcame

By Eugene Robinson
Friday, June 6, 2008; A19

There will be plenty of time to chart Barack Obama's attempt to navigate a course between the exigencies of the old politics and the promise of the new, between yesterday and tomorrow, youth and experience, black and white. For now, take a moment to consider the mind-bending improbability of what just happened.

A young, black, first-term senator -- a man whose father was from Kenya, whose mother was from Kansas and whose name sounds as if it might have come from the roster of Guantanamo detainees -- has won a marathon of primaries and caucuses to become the presumptive presidential nominee of the Democratic Party. To reach this point, he had to do more than outduel the party's most powerful and resourceful political machine. He also had to defy, and ultimately defeat, 389 years of history.

It was in 1619 that the first Africans were brought in chains to these shores, landing in Jamestown. That first shipment of "servants" did not include any of Obama's ancestors; it's impossible to say whether some distant progenitor of his wife, Michelle, might have been present at that moment of original sin. Ever since -- through the War of Independence, the abolitionist movement, the Civil War, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the great migration to Northern cities and the civil rights struggle -- race has been one of the great themes running through our nation's history.

I'm old enough to remember when Americans with skin the color of mine and Obama's had to fight -- and die -- for the right to participate as equals in the life of the nation we helped build. Watching Obama give his speech Tuesday night marking the end of the primary season and the beginning of the general election campaign, I thought back to a time when brave men and women, both black and white, put their lives on the line to ensure that African Americans had the right to vote, let alone run for office -- a time when Democrats in my home state of South Carolina were Dixiecrats, and when the notion that the Democratic Party would someday nominate a black man for president was utterly unimaginable.

Tiresome, isn't it? All this recounting of unpleasant history, I mean. Wouldn't it be great if we could all just move on? Bear with me, though, because this is how we get to the point where, as Obama's young supporters like to chant, "race doesn't matter." No one will be happier than I when we reach that promised land, and we've come so far that at times we can see it, just over the next hill. But we aren't there yet.

This is a passage from an e-mail I received in April from an Obama volunteer in Pennsylvania: "We've been called 'N-lovers,' Obama's been called the 'Anti-Christ,' our signs have been burned in the streets during a parade, our volunteers have been harassed physically, or with racial slurs -- it's been unreal."

Yet the amazing thing isn't that there were instances of overt, old-style racism during this campaign, it's that there were so few. The amazing thing is that so many Americans have been willing to accept -- or, indeed, reject -- Obama based on his qualifications and his ideas, not on his race. I'll never forget visiting Iowa in December and witnessing all-white crowds file into high school gymnasiums to take the measure of a black man -- and, ultimately, decide that he was someone who expressed their hopes and dreams.

When historians and political scientists write books about this extraordinary campaign season, surely they will seek to assess what impact Obama's race had on his prospects. But they will also devote volumes to exploring how he put together a fundraising apparatus that generated undreamed-of amounts of cash, and how his organization drew so many new voters into the process, and how his young supporters made use of social-networking Web sites such as Facebook and MySpace, and how his delegate-counting team managed to consistently outthink and outhustle everyone else. It will be written that Obama's nomination victory owes as much to adroit management as it does to stirring inspiration.

Will Americans take the final step and elect Obama as president? Should they? Is this first-term senator up to the job?

We'll find out soon enough. At the moment, to tell the truth, I don't care. Whether Obama wins or loses, history has been made this year. Maybe there's more to come, maybe not; but already -- after 389 long years -- it's safe to say that this nation will never be the same.

eugenerobinson@washpost.com

The World is Mixing! (A little comedy)

Sunset on Mars

Blogged with the Flock Browser

My Ear Cleaning.

This is a slightly gross medical entry. So, read at your own peril.

I've been having a little problem with my right ear. It was clogging up at night or anytime I laid down on that side. And it popped all the time. My mom sent me a note saying that she was having an ear problem but it didn't quite sound like my problem.

My doctor had told me a couple of months ago that I have a lot of waxy build-up in my ears, so I've been using ear wax drops, and then flushing my ear gently with a big blue bulb filled with water called an ear syringe. But I couldn't tell if it was helping or not. And now, with this new blockage, I needed to do something.

So, I made a quick appointment, fearing the worst about my ears. I was treated by the nurse practitioner who told me the build-up was really bad and that they could do a cleaning. He put drops in my ear, covered them with cotton and then told me, "Now, we'll just let them cook for a moment."

After about 10 minutes, he led me down the hallway to a room where a tubed device was hooked up to the faucet. At the end of the tube, was a what looked like a clear water pistol.

He leaned me near the sink, pulled the cotton ball out of my ear and said, "This might make you a little dizzy. It's a pulsating jet of water."

Now, I had always been told that you should never shoot water into your ear or put anything into your ear canal. But he took the water pistol, pressed it right into my ear canal and blasted. It was startling, but it didn't hurt. It just felt really, really weird.

"This both pulses water into your ear canal, but it also sucks it back out," he explained.

After a minute or so, he stopped the water and then took a little white stick with a loop on the end, and he started pulling stuff out. But it wasn't much. So, he applied new eardrops and left me alone again.

When he came back, he started to get stuff. I looked over on the sink and there were about six huge clumps of wax. I mean HUGE clumps of wax, ivory colored. Then he did the same spraying stuff in my other ear, and pulled out a huge single ball of wax. But it was black and red.

How disgusting am I? Ewwww.

Then, to continue, he had to recap the water pistol because I had clogged it up with even more ear carp.

"We still didn't get it all. So, at home use the drops and keeping doing the lavage."

Lavage? (Pronounced "Leh-vaaajjh")

I asked him about the instructions on the ear syringe to never shoot it directly into the canal.

He responded, "It won't hurt it as long as your ear drum isn't lacerated. And also, don't push the tip in and squeeze or you'll create pressure. Squirt it in from a slight distance and it'll just drain right out. Also, if you mix the water with hydrogen peroxide, it helps melt the wax, also.

And now you know I'm the nastiest grossest person on the planet. Or used to be.

Cat Fight!

Thoughts About TV and Password.

It has really been nice to just be home for a change. Of course, it would have to happen when there is absolutely nothing good to watch on TV. I'm so sick of all these game shows. And what pisses me off is that the one I really wanted to see, Password (with Regis), we totally missed. I hope they took it back to its pure form.

The thing about Password is that it was at its best in the earliest days when the show was about guessing random and the bonus round consisted of those word plates that popped up out of the table tops. I loved that! And I loved Alan Ludden's sly looks at the camera.

Then, some idiot invented "Super Password" and I totally hated that. Why? Because the words were no longer random. Now they had to fit into some totally stupid rebus of other words which, when fit together, suggested something else. That's when they started giving them words like "George." Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Boring.

I didn't mind the bonus round where they had to name words in alphabetical order, though. That was cool. Once again, except for the first letter, the words came randomly.

The only reality shows I like are the ones where the contestants have to actually do something creative. Like make a dress or cook a meal. (Project Runway and Top Chef). I get so tired of "Survivor," which is like a beach game olympics. I mean, seriously, who would have thought 20 years ago that one of the biggest shows on network teevee would consist of people playing beach games?

I also don't like "Dancing with the Stars." I'm so bored by the current culture, I can't tell who the stars are. Like when Donny Osmond was hosting "Pyramid," I never knew which person sitting there was the "celebrity." How many celebrities can there be on this planet? If everyone is a celebrity, then no one's a celebrity.

I do love "Battlestar Galactica," though, and not just because it's SF. It's because it's the best written show on television. If you haven't watched the current season, try to start from the beginning. It's so not about shooting things and blowing things up with ray guns. It's also about religion and personality cults.

The humans have all these gods in their religion. And they've been infiltrated by Cylons, who are synthetic humans who've suddenly developed a monotheistic religion. All of this happening aboard ships that are basically falling apart while they try to find their way to earth. Meanwhile, the guy that got the humans into most of the trouble in the first place has a personality cult going filled with lots of beautiful women.

It might sound confusing, but I love philosophy and religion and psychology. To drop all this complexity into a show about space ships is too good to pass up.

I'm also a little sad that The Last Session has closed in Norwich. Funny thing about theatre. When it's there, it's there. When it's not, it's gone. Brett Bernardini told me that wonderful and miraculous things happened during its run. I hope more theaters will pull together the courage to produce it.

Meanwhile, The Big Voice is getting its first independent production. One of my readers has organized his own theater within his church, and he wants to make The Big Voice his first big production. This is in Allentown, PA. Happily, we're going to get to meet him in Philadelphia in a couple of weeks.

Still, being here with Jim and Steinbeck here alone in the apartment, with no schedules, no traveling and nothing but each other, it's been really nice. I've been working daily on the scores and demos for "Pantheon" while cheering Kathleen McGuire on with her AIDS Life/Cycle adventure from San Francisco to LA. (We'll be seeing each other on Saturday).

My Nephew, Jonathan AKA Mr. Casanova.

One of the nicest things to be happening this year is that all my nieces and nephews are coming of age, some in college, some just out of college and some just graduating high school. I previously wrote about Geoffrey stirring things up at his high school in west Texas.

Last week, I finally got together with my nephew, Johnathan, who came out here to L.A. earlier in the school year to attend the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandise. And, no, he's not gay like his Uncle Steve. So, girls, have at him. He also has way more cool than his Uncle Steve.

Proof: In addition to going to school, he's making money by throwing parties in hip L.A. night clubs. He's apparently getting very good at it because the clubs are now pursuing him, and he's getting the kinds of hip, young people these clubs crave.

They call him Mr. Casanova, and he has a MySpace page.

The picture adjoining this blog is his current facebook photo, Jonathan standing with a beautiful blond girl. Who knew he had it in him? Not here six months and already he rules this town. Is Hollywood great or what?

Since he's studying design, he said his most favorite discovery is the fact that Los Angeles has more art deco buildings than just about any other city. He said he didn't know much about art deco, but now he's really fascinated by it, and by old Hollywood. For instance, his favorite activity is going to the Silent Movie house on Fairfax and watching an evening of silent movies. (They have an organ and everything.)

So, in six months, he went from a Texas yahoo to a cultured, intelligent, hip, Mr. Casanova who hangs out with the glitterati, rules the Hollywood nightlife and he's my nephew???

Call me Uncle Proud.

Beloved AIDS Bahama AIDS Activist Wellington Adderley Murdered.

My Bahamian HIV positive musician friend, Andrew Jones, has informed me that the very beloved AIDS activist Wellington Adderley, administrator for the AIDS Foundation for the Bahamas, has been found murdered. Andrew, who is traveling right now, is devastated.

Wellington was one of the first persons with AIDS who freely came out both with his disease and being gay, and who has worked tirelessly, both at the community level and in the media to bring attention to the disease in the Bahamas.

He's the kind of person who cannot be replaced. His work and the respect afforded him in the Bahamas was legendary. Here is the link to the news story.

I also did a little poking around on some of the Bahamian discussion boards and discovered that there is a level of anxiety and fear in the community as he's the third murder of a high profile gay man in recent times. On the street, they think there's a serial killer, but the police are saying there is no evidence the crimes were related. However, these three killings happened within blocks of one another.

Still, it is not easy to be out in the Bahamas. So, Wellington's courage stood above most others as he presented a face to the people of the island and fought vigorously for education and care. There are places on this planet where visibility can mean death.

According to the article:

Inspector Wright said there was no evidence that the murder was connected to the November 2007 murders of fashion designer Harl Taylor and College of The Bahamas Dean Dr. Thaddeus McDonald.

The bodies of those two prominent Bahamians were also found in their homes, which coincidently are not too far away from Delancy Street.

Mr. Adderley was regarded as a well-respected HIV/AIDS activist in the community and in the Caribbean region.

In addition to serving as the administrator for the AIDS Foundation, he was director of the Bahamas National Network for Positive Living.

Some of Mr. Adderley’s relatives and colleagues were on the scene when authorities removed his body from his home.

They wept at the site.

"He was the greatest person to work with and a jewel," said Nurse Rosemae Bain, an official at the Bahamas AIDS Secretariat.

For My Friends, Lowen & Navarro

Two of the nicest, kindest and most talented songwriters I know in Los Angeles are a duet named "Lowen & Navarro." When I was at my sickest, back 1994, lying in the hospital deciding whether to live or die, it was the middle of the night. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Lowen & Navarro came on the TV and it was like friends appearing to me out of the night. I remember lying there crying my eyes out, looking for any reason to continue. And they became a part of it.

Sadly, Eric Lowen, a tall, handsome and brilliant musician and singer, has been struck down with ALS. But he and Dan have battled together over these years, keeping the band together and they've recorded a new CD, even. Now comes this note.

Hi guys --

Most of you are friends and colleagues of long standing. You all probably know my 28-year partner in Lowen & Navarro, Eric Lowen, was diagnosed in March 2004 with the progressive neurodegenerative disease ALS, aka Lou Gehrig's Disease. Though he can't walk or play anymore, he sure can sing, and we are still touring. And recording. We're releasing a new album, "Learning To Fall", in a couple of months on our own label, Red Hen Records.

Last November, Eric and I gathered 30 or so people whose lives have been affected by ALS -- PALS (People With ALS), their families, friends, supporters and caregivers -- to sing on the recording of the title track of our new album. The song "Learning To Fall", written by Eric Lowen and Preston Sturges (son of the famed 1940s film director) chronicles Eric's struggle with ALS and life as he's known it.

Among the friends was Five For Fighting's John Ondrasik, who last year launched a website devoted to promoting charitable causes and generating click-through donations for those causes. The site is http://WhatKindOfWorldDoYouWant.com, named after his similarly-titled hit song.

The event was captured by director Mark Waldrep and his wife Mona, and recorded (as was the entire album) by Grammy winning producer and engineer Jim Scott (Tom Petty, Dixie Chicks, Foo Fighters, Wilco, Sting) at his private studio in Valencia. The resulting music video is currently featured on Ondrasik's site, and will be parked there, indefinitely.

When you view the video, you log a credit that earns the benefited charity -- in this case, Augie's Quest, an ALS support and research group associated with the Muscular Dystrophy Assn -- a buck or so for each click. You can also donate directly to the central donations clearinghouse, the California Community Foundation, if you so desire. But this is NOT a request for a donation, and you need not donate to be of help. Just give the video a view and you will make a difference.

http://www.whatkindofworlddoyouwant.com/videos/view/id/884613

Or click here:


Thanks so much for listening. Hope you enjoy the vid, and the music. The album will be out in July.

best,
Dan

Happy Memorial Day & Happy Anniversary to us!

Help the Great Gene Colan, Comic Artist.

I just read Mark Evanier's blog that one of my all-time favorite comic book artists, Gene Colan, is ill and all the other artists, along with Marvel, are pitching in to help him with his medical bills. If any of my readers love comic art, and want to help Gene, go over to Clifford Meth's blog and bid on an auction item.

I used to pour over his issues of Dr. Strange, loving his very human and expressive faces. I could spot a Gene Colan comic a mile away. I'm so sorry to read about his health issues.

"And the winner is David ..."

Last night, we, like many others, watched the final episode of "American Idol." However, we went into it already knowing the outcome because Jim accidentally saw a headline online that gave it away. (I think the words "shocking upset" were used).

"Oh, man, I didn't want to see that." He looked so sad.

At first, I didn't want him to tell me. But then I decided I'd rather know what he knows, so we can talk freely during the show.

The show itself I found culturally bizarre, but oddly entertaining, careening back and forth between the sublime and the awkward.

For instance, it makes no sense to me for Simon to always make the point that this competition is about looking for a pop music artist, not a variety or Broadway star type of singer -- remember how much he hated Syesha's choice, and high school Bob Fosse cabaret performance of, "Steam Heat" -- and then put them into these June Taylor Dancer step-turn, step-turn production numbers all wearing the same outfit.

It's the Brady Bunch Variety Hour.

My favorite singers to watch in these horrific numbers are the ones who are most uncomfortable. I think I relate to this because my first music job that wasn't in a band was singing and -- and I use the word loosely here -- "dancing" at the long gone Gran' Crystal Palace in Dallas. (They blessedly kept me out of as many as possible and I remember one afternoon when the choreographer was having a particularly upsetting time trying to get my Baptist feet and body to cooperate. We came to a decided halt and a deadly silence filled the room. From behind me came this tiny little female voice, "That's okay," she assured me. "None of us can write songs." I wanted to die. I was thinking to myself, "ANYONE can write songs. This shit is HARD!")

So, the show proceeded. As I said before, I found it entertainingly jaw-dropping. And any show that has Seal singing is okay with me. Also, I was gleeful at being able to spot the product plug, cringe at the medleys and roll my eyes at Randy's Captain Kangaroo coat.

It was also great to see the "Let my people go" guy from the list of bad singers, who had the same innocent creature look in his eye that David Archuleta has. I felt really sorry for him, even though I was also guiltily laughed along with Randy and Paula.

Anyway, I knew David Cook was going to win and so, rather than waiting to be surprised myself, I was looking forward to seeing his face at the moment of revelation. We also were taping it on our DVR.

For two numbing hours, this thing is going on. Then, finally, they get to the envelope. The envelope guy says a few words. Ryan Seacrest opens it. Then, as slowly as a human being can say the words, he finally gets to "And the winner is... David..."

Suddenly a warning came up on the screen that the recording was finished, then it skipped ahead to a few seconds later. Past the announcement, and it was useless to try to go back. We missed it.

I yelled at Jim, "WHAT DID YOU DO??"

He replied, "I didn't so ANYTHING!"

I thought he had accidentally hit the remote or something. But he hadn't.

I found out another friend had also DVR'd it for later viewing, but it also switched off for them. How weird that it was RIGHT on the last name.

I have praised David Archuleta in this blog. Sometimes the tone of his voice cuts right through me. But I think David Cook is the more mature artist when he remembers to change the songs to sound like himself, something he didn't do in the final competition which is why I thought he would lose.

Win or lose the actual competition, both of these guys have careers ahead of them. Archuleta can hit the adult contemporary circuit and make a mint. There will always be a market for these kinds of concerts, though I'm not sure I could take a whole CD of him. He's much better in small doses.

Cook is going to have a harder time of it because the market for rock is so splintered, and I don't know if he has any talent, for instance, as a songwriter. But he is fun to listen to and, as good as he is singing rock songs, I love his ballads. He paces a song beautifully.

Maybe the two of them should tour together as an act. They probably will when they're in their 50s.

Medical Test Results.

Dr. Mathur looked at me, after glancing at my test results and asked, "Have you been feeling tired lately?"

I went into my appointment today expecting the worst. As a matter of fact, I have been feeling listless lately. Not waking up as early as usual. Not feeling the same kind of energy. And also sleeping a lot. A lot.

But, frankly, I hadn't really given it much thought. I just figured I was maybe on an emotional downturn or tired from travel. Or even slightly depressed despite all the good things that have been going on. I don't usually suffer from depression, but I can dip into these little valleys every once in awhile that affect my being able to think clearly. They don't last long, and don't come around very often, so I don't worry about them, preferring to just ride them out. And usually they go away after a few days.

The other thing is that with so much travel, my diet has not been great. My expectation was that everything would be a big mess. My meds have pretty severe metabolic side effects, especially in the area of lipids and triglycerides, etc.

Amazingly, though, most of my test results were pretty normal. In fact, my bad cholesterol was in the low range and my triglycerides, though high, were more in the 230 range than the 1800 range they had been a couple of years ago. So, Dr. Mathur said, "For you, this is good. I'd like it lower, but this is great."

I told her I was surprised at the good results, but yes, I had been feeling tired lately.

The problem was my thyroid. I've been on synthroid for some time now due to the fact that I had had hyperthyroid disease (which gave me too much energy). But the thyroid had finally burned itself out and now I was on synthroid, but the results were that it was swinging back in the wrong direction.

"Do you take this pill on an empty stomach?"

"No. It doesn't say to on the label."

"Well, if you take it with a multi-vitamin, it tends to cling to the vitamin and get flushed out of your system."

"And that's why I've been so tired?"

"Yes. This marker is way off."

"So, what should we do?"

"I could increase the dosage, but I think I'd rather you try taking it on empty stomach for the next couple of months and let's see if that works out. If it doesn't, we'll increase it. Just get back on your good food and exercise program and I think you'll be fine. Your A1c is also too high."

(A1c is the glucose test that gives a baseline blood sugar result.)

"You were doing really well with that before and now it's up to 8. I could give you more meds but I don't want to do that. I want you to get back into your routine because when you do, you tend to improve very quickly. I'll see you in eight weeks."

"Okay."

So, What About "My Rising Up?"

Friends of mine have pointed out that I've been talking all around "My Rising Up" and not describing how the song went, how I felt as it was being performed during the concert Friday night.

I can tell you in one simple phrase.

I wasn't there.

Oh, I was sitting in my seat. But somehow I went someplace else because if you asked me how they sounded? I have no idea.

What do I remember. Hm. I remember unadulterated glee.

The sensory input was overwhelming. A chorus. A symphony hall. I remember how great the groove sounded and I remember great singing.

Yes! Tempo. I pieced that rehearsal video together from three different takes of the song. They fit on top of one another perfectly.

Do you know how amazing that is?

Kathleen has some inner clock that is metronome sharp but is all human. This, by the way, is a very good thing for rock and roll or Gospel music because when a great drummer finds, settles into and then locks onto the essential groove in a song, it becomes like a little steam cooker. As you listen, your natural tendency is to want something you like to get faster. This builds up a wonderful anticipation in your body because you're actually enjoying it. So, you push harder.

If the drummer or conductor yields to this urge, the effect, as I was taught one night by an itinerant musician hunched over a vodka tonic in an Indianapolis hotel bar after both of us had just played a luncheon engagement for a disinterested corporate party, is to "suck the energy right outta the song."

Because the audience, if they're enjoying the piece, is also feeling this urge, this push. If you give in to it, you and they will feel a little air being let out of the balloon. Just a little, but enough. Held back by that human groove machine. Human because it's about so much more than tempo. It's groove. The human body has inner rhythms that push and pull and you can feel it when you hit the slot and lock into it.

As an audience member, when you feel it push back against you, you suddenly find yourself relaxing into the groove also--and you all become one. For me, a perfect groove is perfect bliss. Every song has at least one great groove in it. But that can also change depending on the sound of the room and the feel of the audience. You just have to feel it.

And this, to me, is Kathleen's gift over and above her technical qualifications: her ability to find the groove, settle in, and take us on a very nice ride.

Friday night, as "My Rising Up" was announced, I was sitting next to (the handsome and witty) librettist Philip Littel. Already in ecstasy over "Safeer al-Sayl," which opened the program, it continued on pointing ahead to new work, including a collaboration by Philip and the incredibly hunkilicious composer David Conte. Called "Love," it was richly romantic, melodic and inspirational with this beautiful climax which combined the orchestra and the chorus, and totally blissed me out.

I had gotten to know them, just barely, during intermission. We had all been seated together and since Jimmy was home, I kind of chased after them like a kid wanting to be with the grown-ups. We stood in a long line waiting for drinks (Diet Coke for Junior here). Again, I was hoping no one would ask me a question or want my opinion about some second act in something.

Thankfully, the talk was lively and fun, and I felt comfortable. Philip won me over when he said after scoring a quick witticism, "I'm that way about everything, darling. I'm French."

By the time we got to the counter, the chimes were going off and the lights were blinking. We slugged back our drinks. Philip: "I think I just got that ice brain freeze. I've never chugged one of these before."

As we were rushing to our seats, David asked me about the cantata, whether I was writing the text. I told him I was, for the most part. He said, "I glanced through your bio. It was very interesting. I'd love to talk more."

(My bio basically consists of finding newer ways to make two off-Broadway shows look like ten.)

But, the lights were going down. No time to talk.

So, I took stock of exactly where I was. I was with these amazing men, seated in special seats. At the guard door (when I checked in at rehearsal earlier this day) I was listed as "honored guest." We were all dressed up and looking very clean.

And I know I had the biggest, shit-eatin' grin on my face. My facial muscles are still sore.

But I was just so happy! I couldn't help it. It wasn't just about "My Rising Up." It was everything. It was being in San Francisco on the hottest day of the year. On the day after the California Supreme Court legalized marriage for same sex couples. It was my friend, Ken McPherson's, birthday. It was 10 years ago on May 13th that it was Steve Schalchlin Day in San Francisco. It was the first peek people would get at the cantata.

But there was also a part of me sitting on a creaky piano bench in the pine-forested back corner of the Big Thicket forest in East Texas, my swampy Tatooine). Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this night. It wasn't something that was remotely in my consciousness. And yet it was happening and, even more encouragingly, I actually might possibly belong here. My face is in the program, after all.

And it was more than just what was happening in the room. The Last Session is alive again on the east coast with more and more people clamoring for a new run in Manhattan.

That's what was going through my head as the choir lifted the roof off the building.

The gay community, at least here, turned a new chapter, a new birth, this weekend and my songs are now and forever a part of it.

"My Rising Up" closed the show. It was the finale.

A song about rebirth!

In Egypt, the guide told us that everything in their culture was based upon rebirth because the sun died every day and then was reborn every day. The cycle of life is all life, death and rebirth. Every religion and psychological program has a name for this renewal, this chance and ability and opportunity, to become new again.

Hell, Madonna does it constantly.

Some people think the song is about friendship. Some people think the song is about God. Some people think the song is about just keeping an eye on yourself knowing that you yourself are the one person you can't get away from.

To me, it's the acknowledgment that I am not alone. That I live, now, this day, because friends reached out to me when I was at the point of death and reminded me that a part of them would die when I die. And I didn't want to kill off parts of my friends. So I chose life.

The knowledge that we are all so very interconnected on such profound levels. And that, as an artist, I get to search these connections of the heart out.

Yes, it's esoteric! Yes, it's concrete!

It's not just my rising up. It's all of us rising up together.

In music. In song. In laughter. In love.

And that's how I felt. Wouldn't you?

Mark Evanier on "Fresh Air."

My friend, Mark Evanier will be a guest on Wednesday on Fresh Air, the popular talk program on National Public Radio. He writes:

The topic, of course, will be Jack Kirby and my new book on the guy...though the interviewer (we taped it this afternoon) spent more time than I would have liked asking me about me. Why you'd discuss me when you could be discussing Jack Kirby, I cannot begin to explain. We recorded much more interview than they're going to broadcast so perhaps most of that will get excised. Either way, there'll be a podcast link here whenever one is available...or you could do the unusual trick of actually listening to a radio show on the radio. This link will take you to the home page for the series and from there, you can find info on your local station.

Actually, although I agree that you can't say enough about comic book artist Jack Kirby, Mark is, himself, a fascinating person who has led a very colorful and interesting life as a comic book and television writer.

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The Kid in the Candy Store.

Dr. Kathleen McGuire conducting "My Rising Up"

for the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus.
She conducts with her entire body.

"I feel like a kid in a candy store."

This is what I said to celebrated choral conductor Vance George as we stood at the foot of the stage at Louise M. Davies Symphony Hall.
The 250-voice male chorus towered above us as they took over the entire wall of the performance space, including the several rows of seating set up for audience members who like sitting above and behind the orchestra (or are those the cheap seats?).

(Forgive the namedropping, I had the chilling thrill of doing this -- overlooking an orchestra -- once at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine on my birthday one year, which also happens to be St. Francis of Assisi Day, though we Baptists were never knew who St. Francis of Assisi was. No one was supposed to be seated up in the choir loft, but we arrived late. We were also escorting Ruth Warrick, the movie and soap star of "All My Children." You can't not seat Phoebe Tyler!

So, Jim and I sat with Mrs. Citizen Kane up to the left overlooking The Paul Winter Ensemble who were set up in the pulpit area. When the massive wooden back doors of the Gothic Cathedral came open and the light flooded in from the outside and the elephant and camel came down the aisle in response to the actual whale sounds Paul Winter had incorporated into his piece, I cried like a baby.)

Anyway, the maestro, Dr. George, looked over at me with a knowing smile and said... something. God I wish I could remember what he said, but it felt like, "Go for it, kid. It's all yours." I know it wasn't that, but that's how I took it. And, for a brief moment, I could see the joy of it all in his face as if he were remembering his first time.

Gathering myself, though, I began to feel at home and started looking at and feeling the cavernous space, hearing the sound, observing the technical limitations (and advantages), etc. In considering the staging of his piece, I had had some ideas, but until I was really there, I couldn't know what was possible and what wasn't. I also learned that, as much as I love the orchestra, which joins the chorus, it's the sound of those voices that thrills me and sometimes makes me weep at nothing more than just the sonority.

I totally enjoyed this weekend, but I was also a bit nervous. After all, I was meeting people from a different world. Smart people. Educated people. Cultured people. Massively talented people. To be even allowed entrance humbled me.

But as overwhelming as it was, it's also a familiar world because I loved choir at Jacksonville Baptist College, where I got my Associate of Arts degree (which I lost long ago, probably languishing in some seedy hotel room). I also loved the man who ran the music department, Dr. Gerald Orr (who I used to call Mr. Door because of how saying his name made his last name sound like "door").

He was the first academic I ever met. I was kind of a self-taught church musician from way out in the booger woods. He was a brilliant pianist, arranger and conductor. The college only had a couple of hundred students, so he was a true gift. They've since named a building after him. And he liked me because I picked up stuff fast. By the end of my first year, I was writing arrangements for all the choral groups in the school, especially our male Gospel Quartet.

But when I left the Baptist world, I cut myself off completely from JBC and, also, sadly, a lot of family and friends who I was cordial with, but who I was also holding at arm's distance -- much easier to do pre-Internet. At the time, I didn't know what else to do. I was not really like them. And I knew they couldn't handle the truth of me because the only thing I knew from that world was that I was the worst possible form of human being. So ugly, so filty, so disgusting, that it couldn't even be talked about. So, in a kind of a big f*** you to them, I not only disappeared behind the curtain and vanished, but I erased those years and that life and those people and that institution from my mind.

Standing there in front of that beautiful chorus, so much came flooding back to me. It was almost overwhelming. I kept thinking how, in a different world, I would be welcomed back there as a celebrated alumnus.

But Baptists haven't changed their mind about homosexuality, you understand. Not even a remote micro-inch. I've written a few emails to them but the silence has been deafening, except for a few classmates who looked me up and totally support my work.

So, here I was again, entering yet another new world a new beginning. A church musician and singer who became a cover band road musician who wrote songs on his own time who stumbled into musical theater, hit the lights of (Off-) Broadway and has now made his way back home to the choral stage thanks to the ears of another great conductor and musician, Kathleen McGuire.

Friday night, at the concert, I remembered back to when I entered the world of musical theater with "The Last Session." It was a foreign world of people and conversations and references and people who finished college. I was the Junior High science student at a NASA cocktail party.

I would stand around these people as they referenced musicals, operas, symphonies and composers, smiling like I knew what the hell they were talking about, petrified that they were going to ask me a question.

I don't know protocol in this world. For instance, I kept calling it the SFGMC a "choir" (which is what we called ourselves at JBC). But I was quickly corrected that "choir" is for church groups. That the proper word is "chorus."

Ack! Exposed!

Still, no matter how overwhelming it might be to be standing among these giants, I feel absolutely confident about "Pantheon." The songs are completely finished. My lead sheets for Kathleen are finished. The concept is sound. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if we did nothing but stand there and sing, it would be enough.

But, that's the beauty of a chorus. There is so much more one can do without having to spend a single penny or build a single set.

And I have a wall of men to play with.

How hot is that?