Three snapshots of the week:

*Various folks in my office are once again teasing the only man who works with us full-time. Why are they doing this? Because some of them are taking the mandated state-supported sexual harassment training. They seem to have taken the opportunity to learn to harass. Not how to not harass.

*I’m standing in our main office for the college. I am once again struck by how many women there are in positions of power within the college.

*Honey and I are watching one of our reality shows. In this case Rock Star: Supernova. The two remaining women are the bottom two. The most middle-of-the-road guys (to quote Honey) are the top two.

It’s easy enough to be a left-coast progressive person and forget that I still live in a world informed by attitudes that are not in sync with my own. I’m not talking here about the idiocy of the current administration or scary fundamentalist religious people. Those are an admitted danger.

Storm Large

Isn’t that a great name? And she says it’s her actual given name. I don’t care if it is or not.

Storm Large

She’s the woman who got kicked off Rock Star. I’m fairly certain that she’s better off. However talented the individual musicians in Supernova are, the original songs they’ve debuted don’t do much for me. None of the guys in the band (Tommy Lee, Gilby Clarke, and Jason Newsted) were the primary songwriters for the bands they were in before (Motley Crue, Guns n’ Roses, and Metallica). It could well be a successful band, but I don’t think it will transcend. And the truth is, that I’m not enough of a fan to want to listen to a rock band that tends to metal unless they transcend.

There’s a justice angle to the whole thing, though. When Storm performs terrifically well, week after week she shouldn’t get kicked off. The original songs that each of the top five performed ranged from the weak to the terrific. Storm’s was terrific. It was called Ladylike. Go watch it on Youtube. I’ll wait.

Welcome back.

Ok, so I hope you agree. She’s good. The song is smart. She’s an accomplished performer. Her voice is interesting and has a great tone.

So, what’s the problem? The problem, it seems to me, is that she’s a woman trying to win a competition that everyone (including the public and the members of the band) is/are expecting a man to win. Why? There are women singers, of course. And there are women rock stars. But there aren’t many of the latter. Name some. Go ahead.
Who did you come up with?

Janis Joplin?
Ann and Nancy Wilson?
Sheryl Crow?
Melissa Etheridge?
Joan Jett?
Pat Benatar?
The woman from Evanescence?

There are others to be sure, but there have been a number of years that the Grammies were unable to give the “Best Female Rock Vocal Performance” award because of a dearth of entries (1988, 1992, 1994, 2005, 2006 are the years it has not been given since 1980). Right. There weren’t enough women who sang rock to give the Grammy out. Doesn’t happen in Polka. That Jimmy Sturr dude has won 15, most recently this year for “Shake, Rattle, and Polka!”

Why don’t women succeed in rock, except in rare circumstances? Why were Storm and Dillana, clearly (to me at least) more talented than Lukas Rossi, who is a total poseur in my eyes, the bottom two?

There are certainly competitions that women can and do win. Reality teevee or no. Rock Star has become a phenomenon. It’s wildly popular and the publicity the Supernova is getting from the competition is phenomenal. And I know I could just shut up and watch.

But when I tell myself that it’s just teevee, that it doesn’t matter, that I get too wrapped up in analyzing my world, I think about how much of how we decide to view the world is a function of what we see on the media.

Does it matter when Tara gets shot on Buffy right after having lesbian sex? Yes. Why? Because the message (whether intentional or not) is that lesbian sex gets punished. Often by death.

Does it matter that Storm is really good and gets kicked off Rock Star? Yes. Why? Because the message (whether intentional or not) is that the best woman (maybe the second best, but I go back and forth) is worse than and less suited to fronting a rock band than the three men with whom she’s competing.

Storm, to her credit, was gracious. And Dave Navarro seemed genuinely upset. He offered to play guitar for her on her first song. Not a bad offer, really. Storm will be fine. And, so will I, of course.

But it all got me thinking. It may have simply been to long since I’ve taught a gender class. So I don’t have an outlet for these kinds of things. Or it could be that I watch too much teevee for my own good.

Either way, I don’t like it. It’s all well and good for me to be happy in an environment where women are in charge and aren’t all the same. If I peek around, though, I remember that we’ve not come near as far as we could or should.

Still, here’s a promise. I’ll buy Storm’s album. Can’t say the same thing about Supernova. Not that the middle-aged white over-educated lesbian demographic is what they’re going after. Still, I do have money. And I know how to use it. In America, that’s saying something.

As I was driving in to work this morning it occurred to me that Emmylou Harris might be the best duet singer ever. And then I thought Nanci Griffith is pretty good, too. But I think Emmylou is better.

I then had the notion that I should not be allowed to sing along with either of them on duets. Even in the car alone with the windows rolled up. But I did anyway.

We are, as my favorite TV critic Heather Havrilesky says, in the “superficial, puerile charms of the worst that TV has to offer.” In other words, the summer months. I’ve said before, and will undoubtedly says again: I watch too much teevee. I also talk about teevee too much. And this admission and truth is all in an era when I have stopped obsessing quite so directly over certain teevee shows, most notably Buffy, The Vampire Slayer. That Buffy has gone off the air helps considerably, but the lame-o seventh season and death of Tara were also factors.

I have also claimed, and will claim again, that our tifaux (our fake Tivo) has changed the way I interact with teevee. It also keeps me from watching baseball, an activity I enjoy and don’t do much of. Oh well. Life is about trade-offs.

Now that the Tour de France is over, with such a spectacular pre and post doping scandal that cycling may never be the same again and may never get broadcast on American teevee again, I could enter the doldrums.

Instead, I have taken a few stands (with Honey), made a few discoveries, and generally feel good about my ability to make it until Battlestar Galactica season 3 (also known as Spork Christmas).

My stands:

*Jackie Warner of Work Out is hot. I could watch the show every week just because she’s hot. Her girlfriend is psycho. But she is hot.

*I do not need to ever watch Big Brother again. I’m done. Forever. Buh-bye.

*Dilana on Rock Star is awesome. As Honey said last night, she could sing the phone book and it would be good. This is how much I like her. When I figured out she was going near the end last night, I was glad. It made me feel as if the show was about her. Fucking amazing. I can’t believe I’m going to say this about a metal band…if they pick her as their singer, I’m going to become a fan. Of a group with Tommy Lee in it. Me. Folk music liking me.

*Project Runway is still the best reality show ever. And I don’t care a little bitty bit about fashion. I like Laura, the middle-aged architect, who always dresses in crisp professional clothes. She’s seems like someone from a 40s movie.

Here’s the most important stand:

*I will watch Weeds. You should, too. Whether you have Showtime or not. YouTube, iTunes, Netflix, however you need to get your fix (har!), get Weeds. I admit a long-time fascination with Mary-Louise Parker. Seeing Proof on Broadway was one of the entertainment highlights of my life. Elizabeth Perkins and the rest of the cast achieves superbity, too. Though Kevin Nealon could go away and I’d be able to get through my day.

Oh, and one non-teeve stand…

*If your Honey wants to see The Descent, even if you’re a scary movie wimp, go. And if you have claustrophobia issues, just go to the bathroom when they start crawling through the really narrow passage. You’ll be fine, at least more fine than any of the spelunkers.

I like to watch the teevee as I get ready in the morning. I have a few shows I watch, most of which my Honey finds annoying. Chief among these is Bargain Hunt on BBC America. The host is annoying, I’ll admit.

From the advertising purchased for the 7am P(S/D)T hour, I am not the target demographic. The lovelorn, the indebted, and the immobile are. It is this last group who I would like to address today. Um, get up. Really. I’m not the most active person ever. Still, one can take the worst of American too far. Witness Honey’s mother’s shed’s contents.

But the latest horror? The latest conspiracy to keep us planted on our couches? The Table-Mate II. I should point out, before I continue, that this COULD be a conspiracy. The Table-Mate II is made by a Canadian company. If all of America becomes housebound, then Canada can take over. They’ve been eyeing the better bits of our part of the continent for some time now.

Feel free to visit their website (which is, um, weak), but take a moment before you do to read about the commercial. First, a guy sits down on his sofa and spills food in his lap. He’s got a full drink and a plate of what looks like meat and potatoes with gravy which he dumps in his lap. Like a dork. Also, it would be simpler if he just had a spork. Then he might not spill.

Then (and this was worth backing the Tifaux up for), a woman grabs her back while trying to reach a tv tray. Like she’s in deep deep pain. Sitting on her couch and (oh the horror) LEANING FORWARD. The question the Table-Mate II people would like to ask is: why suffer when you don’t have to? Why dump the gravy in your lap? Why sit up?

They then show pictures of people sitting and being brought things. The bringer puts the food (or whatever) on the Table-Mate II and slides it toward the bringee. Here’s what the web site says the Table-Mate II is best for: “Tables stack next to each other in semi-folded position ideal for anyone with mobility problems or anyone recovering from an injury, illness or operation.” Or even better, for someone hoping to create a mobility problem. There is a picture of the Table-Mate II “in action” (but without people). Why? Because the people involved with the Table-Mate II are now housebound.

Get up, America. Or if you must sit, use a spork and the coffee table. Geesh.

I just bought…

Katherine McPhee’s version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on itunes.

I tried to make myself feel better by buying a song by The Killers, too. But then I reminded myself I bought it because I heard it on Rock Star: Supernova and I felt wrong all over again.

Really. Somebody tell me. What wrong with me? One possible answer: I’m a pop culture whore.

What’s the worst thing you’ve bought on itunes or in the record store?

Oh, and I’m pretty sure that neither of these songs is the most embarrassing thing I’ve bought on itunes. By a long shot. Share out in comments and I might fess up to worse.

The new Dixie Chicks album is really good. “Lullaby” is a really beautiful song. No hyperbole, really. Just beautiful.

Also, I’ve decided (after years of hating them) that I like my hands ok. Especially the left one.

I’m done. It shouldn’t surprise me, but I keep hoping that American Idol will go the way I want it to. Reality tv sucks that way. Most of the time. Occasionally someone I like wins, but most of the time due to the vagaries of:

a) plane boarding rules (Amazing Race aka Steak Escape to Honey and I)
b) tyra banks’ total f’ing randomness (America’s Next Top Model)
c) the American teenage morass’ excruciatingly bad taste (American Idol)
d) lying liars (you choose)
e) people not “making it work” or “being fierce” (Project Runway or America’s Next Top Model)
f) some combination of the above

the people I like don’t win. I often find myself taking solace toward the end of a reality show in the people I hate losing. Hate maybe too strong. But then I think about Jade (ANTM), Stephen (Top Chef), and the Weavers(Steak Escape)and I’m not sure it is too strong.

And you’d think I have nothing else to do than think about all this shit. I mean the application for the job I have as an interim is due in two weeks. But I digress.

I missed Idol the first time around. I hated Clay. Hated him. Still do. I liked Fantasia. Her album sucked though. (Sorry Honey, I know you bought it for me, but you didn’t produce it or anything). Last year’s group did little for me. But Honey and I at least let go of the “reveal” show and only watched the singing show. This year we’ve been even more cutthroat. We only watch the singing. I know, I know, that means you miss Paula’s stoned behavior. We catch little bits of it. It’s enough. Really more than plenty.

So, I made it this far this year, but I’m done. As Honey said about Taylor, “I defended him; I said out loud that he was good.” And then there he is being REALLY bad week after week.

I mean, look at him:

I’m watching this shit instead of Steak Escape? Where they once showed this woman with a shopping bag standing in the middle of a field! Like it was normal.

Last week Taylor sang “Play that Funky Music” (white boy) and that contemporary favorite by that new group The Beatles, “Something.” Pure crapola. Actually it was pure. That’s too nice. It showed little bit of ok and lots of chunks of steaming doodoo. Like that commercial where the liquid plummer sends a clog out of the people’s sink and all the way to a French cafe.

Katherine McPhee bouncing around on her knees, Chris Daughtry losing his voice on song two. (Dude, it’s two songs, neither full length). And Elliott showing us those teeth. He needs to hook up with Tyra. She’ll take care of those teeth. And then he’ll (in a breathy voice) still be in the running for America’s next top model.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised in a country where the WORST (ding) PRESIDENT (ding) EVER (ding) was elected twice that the curd would rise to the top (or the middle as the case may be).

Last night Honey and I watched no reality t.v. It was good. We watched West Wing, Sopranos, and a tifauxed Weeds (it was all tifauxed actually). What’s not to like? Vito in New Hampshire? Mary Louise Parker doing anything? (She’s on my “I’d marry her if I could list.” Don’t worry, Honey knows). CJ and Danny getting together? All good. A sweet scene between Allison Janney and Richard Schiff? Elizabeth Perkins being fab? Edie Falco? It’s good. It’s smart. It’s people being creative.

And NOBODY said anything about “being all about good hair, man” (Jonathan Antin, Blow Out).

Now, just to be clear, I am not signing off reality tv altogether. I like Tiffani on Top Chef. I love Steak Escape. I’m hoping Joanie will kill Jade on ANTM. And if I don’t keep watching, I won’t be able to understand the latest Hen and Bunny Theater. And Havrilesky’s puppets rock.

She has done some non reality ones. The 24 one is the best, I think. And I don’t even watch 24 anymore.

Still, I need to learn from the past. Being a popular culture devotee is all fine and good. But draw lines, have boundaries. I’m done with MTV. Done. I’m done with Idol. My customized list on Dish is called “good tvs.” I mean it this time.

Now, when does Work Out start?

I heart Stephanie Miller. Ok, I said it. I hope it doesn’t make my honey jealous.

Before I started listening to Steph (or Mamma as she calls herself), my mornings were the typical overeducated underemployed routine of listening to Morning Edition on NPR. I was even in the (gasp) camp of folks who liked the switch from Bob Edwards (snore, wait was I listening to the radio or was I asleep? snore) to Renee Montaigne and Steve Inskeep. I especially liked finding out the Renee was a fan of Dan Neil, my favorite writer at the L.A. Times. And that he was a fan of hers. Read Neil’s car reviews. Really. They won a Pulitzer. They deserved it. And it made the NY Times get its collective panty in a wad, which was a nice side benefit.

Anyway, I listened dutifully to NPR in the mornings. Even though it sometimes made me remember going to see Ira Glass talk about This American Life and how he said that sometimes he just wasn’t a big enough person to learn more about the dire situation in Eastern Europe. You can listen to NPR and feel informed and feel searingly depressed. And that’s just Eastern Europe. We’re not talking about Iraq or Darfour or …

But then I discovered that Air America had an affiliate in L.A. I listened some, but it got me worked up and I found myself railing against Harriet Miers. At dinner. In polite company.

Still, Air America got a preset from me and one day while feeling slammed by NPR, I switched over and there was Steph. Being funny. And progressive. And playing clips from Sunset Boulevard: “Don’t speak, don’t speak…” And from Katherine Harris saying in her scary-ass breathy way that she would spend “ten million dollars” on her senate campaign. And remember that according to Steph, George W. Bush is the “ding” worst “ding” president “ding” ever! See. NPR isn’t going to say that.

I’m sure lots of people know about her already. Fine, whatever.

I heart her.

BSG=Battlestar Galactica
WBC=World Baseball Classic
Me=sporkywhatever

Friday night I set up our Tifaux to tape the season finale of BSG. SciFi had changed the time of the 90 minute finale and lo, I had 30 minutes of Stargate: Atlantis and 60 of BSG. I’m not going to even pre-apologize about this: that mixture is wrong. It’s like Fear Factor and Amazing Race. One is good, the other is really not. Sigh. I saw the big-headed aliens as I was fast-forwarding. Sandra informed me last night that the big-headed aliens are actually the Norse pantheon in mythology. Thor=big-headed alien. Whatever.

So I watch the first 2/3 of BSG and then have to come into our home office and spend two dollars to buy it from itunes. The rerun on Monday conflicted with Medium, which wasn’t gonna work, and the damn thing cut off right after Balthar had won the election and Roslin had conceded that stealing it was not a good idea. Mary McDonell’s performance in the finale was a thing of wonder. And I love the twist. Vichy France, modern America. It’s all wrapped up in the current and future season. Fandamntastic. And anyone who know any Emmy voters: my girl MM deserves the Emmy.

Today honey and I went to see round two of the World Baseball Classic at Angel Stadium (nee Angel Stadium of Anaheim nee Edison Field of Anaheim nee the Big A). It’s a rainy cold day in SoCal and we had tickets to what was supposed to be the “B” game. Because Japan and the US lamed it up in the first round, we had the “A” game instead. (Mexico v Korea is tonight). We were in the right field pavilion which is not my favorite venue at the stadium. I really like the left field pavilion which is just above the bullpens and down low. The right field pavilion is higher and full of rowdiness. I don’t mind rowdiness really, but WBC brought out patriotic stupid rowdiness.

Some of the rapier wit:

“Yo, Griffey. This is better than Cincinnati!”

“Yo Griffey. Where’s Barry and his steroids?”

Question: “I wonder why England isn’t playing?”

Answer: “They’re probably playing cricket or watching soccer. Put another shrimp on the barbie.”

(I resisted the temptation to turn around and point out the shrimp on the barbie thing refer to Australia and they did have a team in the WBC).

A lot of bile was spit out against Japan, the woman announcing the Japanese team in Japanese, women, gay men, Yankees (that was ok), and Giants.

Most often the subject of ridicule were the two center fielders. The Japanese center fielder, Kosuke Fukudome got a lot of “fuck you dome” lobbed at him.

We left early, which was good in the end. I didn’t want to root for the U.S. given the way my fellow Americans were behaving. And the game turned on a bad call which went against the Japanese followed by an RBI by Alex Rodriguez. No thanks.

Fukudome, in case you’re wondering, plays for the Chunichi Dragons and is a career .300 hitter.

The Japanese team was a real joy to watch, with three spectacular plays. First baseman Michihiro Ogasawara robbed an American player with a diving stop and flip to the pitcher. Ogasawara plays for the Japanese team with the best name: The Nippon Ham Fighters. Second baseman Akinori Iwamura of the Yakult Swallows had a nice play. The best one was by shortstop Munenori Kawasaki who plays for the Fukuoka Daiei Hawks with a over-the shoulder catch in shallow left.

On the American side, A-Rod and Jeter were typically Yankee weak. Chipper had a beautiful homerun and Scot Shields acquitted himself well as the only Angel in Angel Stadium today.

Still and all, it was one of those experiences that makes me wish people didn’t have to be so vocal in their stupidity. I guess that’s what makes America great, though. We can be loud and stupid. And I guess I shouldn’t be so pessimistic about the whole thing. The Japanese fans at the end of our row laughed at the what the hecklers said several times. Plus, I don’t have to live on BSG’s New Caprica, which looks like Vancouver winter in tents all the time. (Probably because they filmed it in Vancouver in winter in tents). It’s better than Cincinnati, right Griffey?

After some heavy blogtries, I want to change it up and make a confession that could change how people think about me. I love lesbian romance. I mean I heart it. I do have some standards and I will try to outline them for you now.

Some background: me=ubergeek who used to get in trouble as a child for reading after I was supposed to have gone to bed. Came out to myself without a particular woman in the picture. Started going down to feminist bookstore in D.C. It was way easier walking in there than into the GL bookstore. I just tried to find the name of it and it seems to have gone away like the one here in L.A. The one in D.C. was called Lammas and closed (as best I can tell) in 2000 and the L.A. store, called Sisterhood closed in 1999. Thanks Borders!

So anyway, I would go down to Lammas and buy novels. Naiad was the big lesbian publisher in those days. At the time Naiad published two books a month as did Seal Press. (Both Seal and Naiad have since gone out-of-business–I didn’t mean for this to be a theme). They weren’t good books. Really, I promise. While I am not the most thoughtful reader of fiction the world has ever produced, I can tell the difference between crap and not crap. These books were crap.

Here’s how they’d go. Woman X is alone in (you choose) a cabin, a casino, a spaceship. She meets Woman Y and there’s an energy that she can’t explain. They argue, maybe someone is killed, maybe the hyperdrive for interplanetary exploration goes out. There’s lots of tension. They then have sex. Woman X is blown away. She doesn’t know what to do. She runs away from the situation. She has an epiphany. She finds woman Y. They reconcile and have sex again. The book ends and they live happily ever after.

See how appealing that is?

Well, it is to me. I go in and out of liking this stuff but I’m back in it now. (I was in a funk about the end of the Willow Tara thing on Buffy for a couple of years). I dragged my honey to see Imagine Me and You and then provoked a fight about it when she kept worrying about whether the flower shops Woman Y (see above) owned in the movie would close because they had sex on the roses or because she kept running out to find Woman X.

I didn’t care. I like regular romance well enough, but I’ll deal with just about any version of this story I can find.

What I don’t like: anthologies, especially “real-life” anthologies, stories that end badly, “horror” versions of the above (though scifi and mystery versions are great).

What I do like: less build-up, more romance. And if it’s a movie or a t.v. show, lots of good passionate romantic kissing and cuddling. If it’s a book, I like a things a little (NOT a lot) more explicit.

I am currently reading (in between weekly New Yorkers, monthly Outsides, and the L.A. Times) a book called Colder Than Ice. One thing you should know about this kind of lesbian novel is that there is one thing you can count on besides the plot outlined above. It will have a REALLY bad cover. Not Harlequin cheesy, just badly and amateurly done. This one, published by an imprint I’ve never heard of called Quest Books, looks like this:

Nice huh? The plot is the basic one outlined above, with Allie, the archaeologist, as Woman X and Michaela, the psychologist, as Woman Y. The setting: an archaeological dig in … Antarctica. Of course. I’m about halfway through. No sex yet, but I can feel it coming. They’re stuck in a blizzard alone, all all alone, in a snow pod of some sort. They’re in danger. And together at last.

These novels are oversized (inevitably)and run about $18 today. They were $12 in the heady D.C. days.

I could analyze why I like these things so much, but my therapist and I have more pressing matters to attend to and, in some sense, I don’t care.

My honey brought me flowers and a balloon after I accused her of not being romantic after not liking Imagine Me and You. I may try to get her to watch Saving Face but I’m worried that it’s not going to be romantic enough for me. I have a friend who loves romance of any type so much that her knees wiggle when she thinks about it. It’s nice. She’ll probably like that I like this stuff. I don’t know if she knows.

Anybody want Colder Than Ice when I’m done?

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