Things that won’t leave us alone

One thing that a lot of actors have to face is getting known for only one role, despite their ability to do other things. Mark Hamill, anyone? But it doesn’t only happen to actors. In my case, I seem to have become known for three things, depending upon whom you’re asking.

One is my first-ever produced full-length play, and I like to joke that I started at the top and failed downward since that play, Noah Johnson had a Whore…, was produced at South Coast Rep. It had a subsequent production in San Jose, but also got me a TV writing gig, and there are apparently plenty of people who remember it.

Second is a quote I gave to a reporter almost sixteen years ago, ironically while in rehearsal for a play of mine that didn’t happen then, but which is going to this coming April. Ronald Reagan had just died, the L.A. Times sent reporters out into various communities for comment and, since we were rehearsing in a storefront in West Hollywood, this reporter waltzed in to get a reaction from the gay community. I happened to get quoted, and expressed my displeasure. I’m happy to report that the conservative media almost immediately tried to claim that the facts I stated were bullshit, which I consider a feather in my cap.

But the most weirdly persistent one is an analysis of the film The Big Lebowski that I wrote back in 2000. Not so much a review as a deep-dive into its themes, this one has gotten me fan mail and comments galore, and has taken on a life of its own. It’s been anthologized in the book Lebowski 101, quoted in various film blogs, included in critic’s lists, and even cited as an authoritative source by AI-driven college essay generators, even if one of them feels like it just simulated a stroke, although I take the mention as a high compliment. It must mean that the original is back-linked all over the place.

The intro to the piece is probably worth quoting here, but if you want to read the whole thing, follow one of the links above.

I missed The Big Lebowski in its original theatrical run because it wasn’t around long enough to catch. Grossing less than eighteen million dollars, a critical gutter ball, it was a big comedown from two years earlier, when the Coen Brothers’ Fargo was drowned in praise, nominated for seven Oscars, and awarded two. In my opinion, The Big Lebowski is as good a film as Fargo. So, what happened? People didn’t get it. They were expecting a simple comedy about a stoner who bowls, got something more like Raymond Chandler on Ecstasy, then missed the metaphor anyway.

Many of the Coen Brothers’ movies travel in the guise of genre films while being something entirely different. They even played with this idea in Barton Fink, in which the titular Clifford Odets-esque playwright is brought to Hollywood to write a “Wallace Beery wrestling picture.” Fink recycles his Broadway hit into the form, but his wrestling picture is about man’s existential struggle. In Fink, the befuddled producer, who is only interested in meaningless genre crap, is a stand-in for those moguls and critics who don’t understand great art and so pee all over it. Or, worse, they stifle the artist, silencing him because he doesn’t play by the commercial rules.

The Coen Brothers are not big on genre rules. They pretend to be, then run off in more interesting directions. The joy of watching their films comes from seeing expectations waylaid and getting whisked along with them to much more interesting places. The Big Lebowski pretends to be a modern day Philip Marlowe style kidnapped girl in distress story with a hippie burnout bowler standing in for Raymond Chandler’s private dick. All of the conventions of the genre are there — the mysterious threat to the detective, the assignment that isn’t what it seems, the double and triple dealing and the hero caught in the middle of multiple counter-plots that don’t concern him. At the same time, this classic detective noir plot is perpetrated on the sunny streets of L.A. or in brightly-lit interiors. There’s nothing noir about the look of the film at all. Call it film blanc.

That’s the framework. The walls and ceiling of The Big Lebowski are something else altogether, and it wasn’t until almost the last scene of the film that what the Coens were getting at hit me. But, hit me it did, like a bowling ball in the solar plexus, and everything that came before suddenly made perfect sense. The plot went from being as narrow as a bowling alley lane to being as deep as the Pacific Ocean. That’s a rare trick, when a filmmaker can turn on the lights exactly when they want to and what you’ve been watching snaps into absolute focus…

Yeah, that and another 2,210 words somehow got me published. Go figure.

What a drag, Part II

In Part I, a history of drag up through the 90s. Now, an explanation on why your author does not relate to this world.

Act IV

Basically, I enjoy being a man. Okay, I’m not the butchest knife in the drawer, but I do tend to be one of those “Surprise Fags” to people who only know me casually and, yes, say one of the other things you should never say to gay people. “Really? But you seem so straight.”

“Really? And you seemed like so not an asshole.”

And as a more masculine-presenting example of gayness, this is kind of where I start to resent drag, because it sets a weird bar that we have to deal with. Put that big ol’ public face of “Yo, fags in dresses, all y’all!” then it really screws with people’s heads when they run across, y’know… “fags who can change your oil, do your taxes, and fix your plumbing, all y’all.”

So I’m in this really ambivalent position. For most of our history, it’s been the drag queens and transgender people doing the heavy lifting. But when it comes to the gay cis-men who are obsessed with drag… honey, I don’t fucking get you, and I don’t feel like I’m on your team at all.

Way back when I was a baby gay in the late 90s, I went to a place in Studio City called “The Queen Mary” to see a drag show, and my main reaction was, basically, sadness. The whole atmosphere — at a time when celebs were coming out right and left — felt like an intentional throwback to a closeted era and, in fact, other than myself and the two friends who’d talked me into going, everyone else in the place was clearly a straight tourist couple from somewhere in the Midwest.

So… there was an awkward nod-nod wink-wink to the “Hey, maybe they’re gay!” thing, almost immediately undercut by some sort of “Does his wife know he does this?” comment, i.e., instant erasure. “Hey, ladies, you think his girlfriend taught him how to do his make-up?”

Oh, please.

It was like being slingshot into the ‘50s, and it sucked. In fact, I can’t think of very many shows that have made me so angry, but this one did and, ironically, it did it by being an allegedly gay show that really wasn’t.

Oh, it was apparently groundbreaking in being the first drag club to open in L.A. back in the early 60s, although the place was founded by straight people and the front room appealed more to the “let’s gawk at the freaks” tourist crowd even then. To their credit, the back room (“The King’s Den”) was a safe haven for gay men. Still, the atmosphere of the show never came out of the closet despite the world around it doing so.

Eventually, that back room became a safe haven for transvestites and transgender people, especially “non-passing” transwomen, which maybe redeemed it a little, but the place abruptly shut down without explanation in 2017, and I don’t think that a single gay man under 50 would have missed it.

Act V

I’ve done drag exactly once, and it was mostly as an experiment because I was given the opportunity. I discuss the event where it occured in Chapter Five of the book that was the impetus for this website, although it doesn’t come up in that extract. Basically, after my whole flirtation with mortality, I wound up going to a weekend men’s camp up in the woods near Big Bear in California, and one of the events was a Saturday night drag dance party.

So I thought, okay. I’ve never done this before, let’s give it a shot, and actually managed to pull something together fairly cheaply via two thrift shops (clothes and accessories), a local party store (wig), the drugstore (nail polish and make-up), and Amazon (shoes). The shoes were actually the hardest part to find because the necessary size-adjustment from men’s to women’s means that finding those size 15s limits the options.

While I didn’t go terribly campy, the end result worked, although the heels on the boots I’d bought made me NBA pro height, somewhere around 6’7”. But other people at the party said that I looked like a lesbian English teacher at a liberal arts college in a small town.

I take that as a complement. I suppose, ultimately, I landed more in Dame Edna territory than I did in RuPaul. I named the character Betty Duzzet, trotted her out one time only, and while the schmatta and all is still hanging in my closet, I doubt that I’ll bring her back unless it’s Halloween.

What I did find educational about the experience was this. Women’s clothes suck, especially for women. They’re thin and generally unlined, they do nothing to stop the cold (especially skirts and dresses); they have hardly any pockets, necessitating those cumbersome purses that are only good for putting down somewhere and hoping they don’t get stolen or foisting on the BF/husband; make-up and nails take for-fucking ever; and walking in heels without falling over or breaking your ankles is an Olympics-worthy challenge — bad enough on pavement or floors, but particularly difficult on uneven ground. And don’t even bring up dancing in them, although I actually managed to do that without killing myself.

I didn’t even strap anything onto my chest or stuff my top, so I missed out on what it’s like to haul around a couple of funbags that can wind up weighing a lot, with or without support, constantly worried that one of them may do a Janet Jackson, or that the underwire and bra strap are really, really going to hurt. And, obviously, I didn’t have to worry about paying exorbitant prices for tampons or pads or worry about the need to use them.

My one experience with drag, I think, made me a better man, because it made me take a step back and think, “Whoa. This is what women have to deal with every single day? And why?”

When I get up in the morning, all I basically have to do is shower, maybe shave depending on how scruffy I am that morning, brush my teeth, and throw on clothes. I don’t have to worry about make-up, I don’t have to deal with extra wardrobe decisions — like bra or no, hose or not, dress or separates, etc. — and my hair takes a lot less time because it’s short enough that it generally dries into what it needs to be by the time I get to the office.

And I realize that the entire reason women have to do all of this is in order to make the men happy, and it’s such a conditioned thing. But here’s an idea. What if… give up the make-up and nails and the trying to dress to impress, and go utilitarian, at least in your daily working life. You shouldn’t be trying to impress anyone there with your looks, right? Only your abilities. Save the fancy stuff for Tinder dates and the like. But, even then, think of this.

If you showed up without make-up and dressed in your casual comfort stuff and the guy didn’t seem to mind, what would that tell you? I think that the word “keeper” is quite appropriate.

Anyone who’d say no to the real you is a shallow bastard not worth pursuing.

And now we’ve come full circle, from me bitching about men doing camp drag in order to… whatever… to me offering advice to straight women on how to plain up in order to find Mr.  Right. Yeah. I think there was some kind of symmetry there, but I’m not sure.

All I’m really sure of is that sex, gender, and orientation are social constructs and labels we really might not need anymore. But really campy drag still annoys me and feels like a relic we don’t need to keep trotting out anymore.

Epilogue

If this blog post has offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but misread here
What was written by this queer
Just a weak and idle meme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
If you pardon, I will mend:
And, as I am an honest fuck,
If I have unearned luck
Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,
I will make amends ere long;
Else this fuck a liar call;
So, good day unto you all.
Comment below, if we be friends,
And thus I  shall restore amends.

(With apologies to William Shakespeare.)

What a drag, Part I

Prologue

A note before we begin: Do not confuse the following terms, because they are very different things, and I’m really only dealing with one of them except where otherwise noted.

DRAG QUEEN: a person — originally but now not necessarily a cis-man — who dresses up as a woman in a very flamboyant and exaggerated manner, usually as part of a stage presentation or drag ball; it is a performance. In the past, usually associated with the gay male community, but in the present day, there are Drag Queens of all genders and sexualities.

CROSS-DRESSER: a person who wears the clothing of the opposite sex outside of a performance context, and may just do it for comfort or cultural reasons — for example, a lot of traditional male dress from places like Japan, Turkey, and Scotland could be considered more like women’s clothing in the west. This also covers people on Halloween who play the opposite sex — cross-dressing as costume but not performance.

TRANSVESTITE: a person who wears the clothes of the opposite sex, but usually as a sexual fetish. Perhaps surprisingly to some, the vast majority of male transvestites are straight men, but this makes sense. They dress as women because they are attracted to them.

TRANSGENDER: a person whose true gender does not align with the sex they were assigned at birth, which is usually based on the appearance of their genitals at that time. In case it’s confusing, think of it like this: sex is what’s between your legs, orientation is what’s in your heart, and gender is what’s between your ears. Sometimes they all line up and sometimes they don’t. Fortunately, we’re at a point where it’s become much easier, in some places, for science to line up the parts between the legs and ears via gender confirmation surgery — and note that very important switch in terminology from the crass and insensitive “sex change.” A transwoman, for example, doesn’t “become” female. She always was. It’s just the plumbing that had to be adjusted to fit reality.

Now that we have the definitions down, here we go, keeping in mind that I’m talking about only that first group, the campy Drag Queens. And since drag is all about performance and the theatre of Shakespeare’s day is famous for all of the boys playing women parts, I have structured this as a play of the era, with intermission.

* * *

Act I

I’ll just say it: despite being a gay man, I’m just not into drag, especially not the extremely over-the-top campy type. Oh, I can appreciate the history of it, and why it became a formative part of the community in America starting in the late 1920s. It just doesn’t appeal to me as an audience member or as a participant.

Once this kind of drag started to leak out into public after Stonewall but before RuPaul, I think it hurt more than it helped because it gave people with much more closed minds a reason to point at and mock the “sissy boys who all wanted to be women,” simultaneously driving the more masculine gays deeper into the closet and denying the validity of transgender people, especially transwomen, because it implied that the latter wanted to “become” women rather than acknowledged that they always were.

To this day, when the LGB part of the community is asked, “What are the most annoying things that straight people ask you?” the number one response is always “Which one is the man, and which one is the woman?

First of all, that’s not even the right terminology. For men, it’s top and bottom; for women, it’s butch and femme; and for bisexual people it’s either of the two depending on which configuration they’re in at the moment.

RuPaul did a lot to correct all of this just by virtue of winning over the non-LGBTQ+ public, and nowadays “Drag Queen” is not limited to cis-gender gay men. Transgender and non-binary people are doing it, and we also see Drag Kings, who are usually butch lesbians but, again, the gender lines are being erased, which is probably a good thing.

Dame Edna Everage, aka Barry Humphries, is more famous for the over-the-top Melbourne housewife he’s played for going on 65 years now. He first performed the character in 1955, when he was a mere 21 years old, and Mr. Humphries happens to be completely straight. And his also happens to be one drag act that I do enjoy, but probably because it’s not about over-the-top camp. It’s about satirizing the mindset of a certain kind of suburbanite whose opinion we are not necessarily supposed to agree with.

But I’m still not into drag, even though I can appreciate the history. To me, drag to gay men is like cursive is to a modern office: Something that was necessary for everyone to be able to do at one time, but is no longer needed and, in fact, really holds things back.

Weird flex? Maybe. But bear with me and it will make sense.

Act II

The term “drag” originated in the world of theater, with its earliest use currently being attested to 1870. It referred to men wearing women’s clothing, and the whole idea was that when they walked on stage in the period dress of the day, the whole damn thing dragged on the ground — probably because, unlike women, they weren’t wearing heels.

They did have a precedent for dressing like women, though, because that’s exactly how it was done in Shakespeare’s day. Women were not permitted on the stage while he was writing and producing because, reasons. Mostly sexist, misogynistic reasons created by men and blamed on the Bible. Plus ça change

Women were considered the weaker sex, they needed to be controlled by men, etc., etc., and it hurt my soul just having to type those words. There was also the idea that women were supposed to be pure and chaste (no such rule for men) and a female actor was considered to be lower than a prostitute.

In modern times, theater companies have played with both restoring and inverting the men-as-women practice, with productions both casting men in the women’s parts and casting women in the men’s parts.

In Shakespeare’s day, this men-only casting would lead to the reality of older male actors having to do love scenes with twinks all done up as girls, and one does have to wonder how much of it was an inside plot. Or, in other words, how much of these goings-on in Elizabethan theatre were really just a cover for the (at the time) GB community?

I have to wonder because this concept will become important later, but before we get to that, we have to skip to about a decade after the term “drag” was coined in theater in a strictly non-orientation related sense.

Enter William Dorsey Swann (the subject of the photo up top), arguably America’s first drag queen — or “queen of drag” — and in exactly those words. Interestingly enough, he exploded onto the scene more or less exactly one century before RuPaul did, doing his thing in the 1890s.

Oh. Did I mention that he was black and a former slave? And that he was hosting underground drag balls in Washington D.C. in the 1880s? And he demanded (and was refused) a pardon by President Grover Cleveland after having been arrested on false charges of “running a disorderly house,” which applied to brothels. Swann’s house was not a brothel.

Just like the raids on gay bars in the early 1960s, the raids on Swann’s parties led to men’s names being published in the papers, and lives and careers ruined.

Drag really became linked with the gay community as an identity, though, with the confluence of two things: Prohibition, and the acceptance of gay people in the bohemian communities of major cities like New York and Chicago.

It was known as the “Pansy Craze,” although it didn’t last long. The “Roaring (19)20s” were a time when the parties got a little bit wilder, and when the non-gay public came out to see the “pansies” as a novelty. Prohibition’s contribution was creating underground clubs, hidden from the police (for a while) where more and more gay men could go and be themselves, and do drag as a form of self-expression.

Unfortunately, the involvement of (in fact, creation of) organized crime that always comes along with any kind of prohibition creating a black market drew the attention of the authorities right to these places, especially the gay ones, and the harassment and raids, three decades before Stonewall, began. Popular performers and denizens began fleeing to Boston, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, but ultimately found them equally inhospitable.

They fled to London, Berlin, and Paris, although London was about as welcoming to them as they had been to Oscar Wilde. Things were better in Paris and Berlin, although Hitler, like all authoritarians, was very anti-gay, so that party ended as he rose to power, q.v. Cabaret, the film version or the modern revival, not the original musical because, surprise, the original stage version, released pre-Stonewall, completely straight-washed the sexual orientation of the author of the story it was based on.

Act III

World War II was a big point when drag was driven underground except, ironically, as a part of that war itself. There weren’t a lot of women overseas, so when it came to staging theatrical entertainment for the boys, it was all boys, some of them playing girls. This was the Shakespeare version all over again, though, and not inherently gay, although it’s well known that the next wave of America’s gay communities that sprang up post-war all started in port towns — San Diego, Long Beach, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Miami, Boston, New York, etc., — because those were the places soldiers were brought back to, and the ones who’d realized they were gay while on deployment chose to stay where they landed rather than to return home and face ostracism.

Life was still underground, but the anonymity of big cities, especially at the time, created a new sort of freedom. Gay men couldn’t necessarily go out to bars in drag, but they could find each other.

Then, the 60s became an era of general protest by every disenfranchised group. It saw the Civil Rights Movement against racism; the Student Movement (which encompassed various other movements of the time); The Women’s Movement (for equal rights); the Environmental Movement (sound familiar?); the Farmworkers’ Movement (for the rights of exploited immigrant workers); and the Gay Rights Movement.

I won’t get bogged down in the wins and losses of those movements, except in the current context. The Stonewall Riots marked the beginning of the modern Gay Rights Movement, and the first Gay Pride parades took place one year later (or almost fifty years ago) in 1970, to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the Stonewall riots.

Cue a few decades of struggle up to June 26, 2015, two days shy of the 46th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, and the U.S. Supreme Court declares same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states.

The world does not end, people get to happily couple, and everything seems well and good until a certain ill-fated day in November 2016, and an even worse day in January 2017. So there’s no telling what reverses we may face, but never mind any of this. I was going to explain why I personally am not into drag.

INTERMISSION

Sunday Nibble #2

Shorter bite-sized pieces with no particular destination meant to enjoy on what should be a day off, or at least a day of fun.

According to Freedictionary, there are 92 English words that end in -yme, although most of them are scientific words made up of “enzyme” with prefixes. One relates to botany (cyme) and the other to medicine (zyme).

This leaves three common words, two of which are probably familiar to everyone and one that is not: Rhyme, thyme, and chyme. The first, of course, refers to arranging words that end with similar sounds — a very common human trick, most needed for a limerick.

Thyme is, of course, an herb used for seasoning, and also well-known from the song Scarborough Fair, which is a traditional English ballad going back to at least the 17th century, famous for the refrain, “Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.”

The third word, chyme, is somewhat… gross. It refers to the glop your stomach turns food into before passing it on to your intestines.

Each one of these words has a homophone, which is a word pronounced the same but with a different meaning and, often, a different spelling. Those are rime, time, and chime.

Although “rime” is an alternate spelling of “rhyme” (q.v. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner), it generally refers to a relative of frost caused when super-cooled water droplets freeze on impact with a surface. I didn’t think it was appropriate to mention until now, but there is a fourth –yme word, berhyme, now archaic, which means to use as the subject of a rhyme, especially to lampoon. “In Poe’s The Raven, the author berhymes his lost love, Lenore.” And this word can go both ways, as either berhyme or berime. Yes, it sounds like to berime would be to coat something in rime, but that word doesn’t exist, and to rime is sufficient.

Time is money, time flies, time is fleeting. The times, they are a-changin’.

Time is simply the measure used to determine that something has happened. No time, nothing happens. It’s also very convenient for putting events in order — “The meeting is at 10 a.m., after which we will break for lunch at 1 p.m., then reconvene at 2:30.” Of course, to a physicist, time is what you measure with a clock.” Why? Because the way that scientists measure time is by observing change. It’s the phenomenon their clock follows, not the other way around.

You’ll know this firsthand if you’ve ever cooked something for the time mentioned in the recipe only to find out that it wasn’t quite done, so you had to keep it in longer. The “bake for 45 minutes at 375 degrees” is only a suggestion. The reality is when the thing you’re baking hits the desired internal temperature, which could be 35 minutes or it could be an hour. And if you’re a scientist don’t even try to use time to put events in order, because the first question you have to ask is “Which reference frame am I ordering events in?”

Finally, we have chyme and chime. The latter is both the thing that a bell does and the word my computer keeps trying to auto-correct chyme to every time I type it. Since those bells chiming are usually connected to a big clock, chime relates back to time, and one of the more famous usages of the word is in a Shakespeare quote (Falstaff, Henry IV Part 2, III-ii: “We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.”) This in turn became the title of an Orson Welles film, The Chimes at Midnight, which I haven’t seen, but which looks amazing.

And just to bring all three words together in one thought, Orson Welles basically pulled all the Falstaff bits from Shakespeare, put them back together to make Falstaff the hero in the Prince Hal saga (hint: he was not in the original), and came up with something that George Lucas would describe as “rhyming with the original.” In case you forgot, Lucas said that all of the films in the first two trilogies rhymed. Oddly enough, and haters be damned, I think that the final trilogy managed to do that too.

But, as our ComedySportz referees are fond of saying, “That’s time!”

Like a prayer

This began as an attempt at a Sunday Nibble, but then I took such a deep-dive that it turned into a full article. Riffing on language does that to me.

Pop quiz. Can you identify this fairly well-known piece and the language it’s in?

Fæder ūre, ðū ðē eart on heofonum,

Sī ðīn nama gehālgod.

Tō becume ðīn rice.

Gewurde ðīn willa

On eorþan swā swā on heofonum.

Urne gedæghwamlīcan hlāf syle ūs tōdæg.

And forgyf ūs ūre gyltas,

Swā swā wē forgyfaþ ūrum gyltendum.

And ne gelæd ðū ūs on costnunge,

ac alȳs ūs of yfele.

It may look like something very foreign, and it both is and isn’t. It’s also a good clue as to why one of the biggest barriers to time travel might not be the technology, but rather the language. Jump in your time machine, set it for 1,025 years in the past, and that’s the language you’d have to figure out… in what would eventually become England. c. 995 C.E.

Yep. That quote above is in Old English and it’s the Lord’s Prayer. Whether you’re religious or not, or if the religion you grew up with was not Christianity, if you grew up in the west, you’ve been exposed to it, so you probably kind of know the words.

Notice, too, that a few words stand out as being completely unchanged:  and, on, and of. Everything else, nope. This was the original native language of the British Isles — at least the parts with the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, because the Gaelic tribes were doing their own thing — and it didn’t even begin to resemble what we speak know until the French came along.

A couple of centuries after the Norman Conquest in 1066, the text had changed to the following, which should seem a lot more familiar. This is the version as of 1389:

Our fadir that art in heuenes,

halwid be thi name;

Thi kingdom cumme to;

be thi wille don

as in heuen and in earthe;

giv to vs this day our breed ouer other substaunce;

and forgeue to vs oure dettis,

as we forgeue to oure dettours;

and leede us nat in to temptacioun,

but delyuere vs fro yuel.

Amen.

Other than the v/u swapping going on and the strange spelling, it’s mostly readable to a modern audience. Also notice that there are now a lot more words that are unchanged to this day, and not just short ones. But jump ahead to 1526 and see how much more modern it sounds:

O oure father which arte in heven,

halowed be thy name;

let thy kingdom come;

thy wyll be fulfilled

as well in erth as hit ys in heven;

geve vs this daye oure dayly breade;

and forgeve vs oure treaspases,

even as we forgeve them which treaspas vs;

leede vs not into temptacion,

but delyvre vs ffrom yvell.

For thyne is the kingdom and the power,[4]

and the glorye for ever.

Amen.

Finally, there’s the King James version which was quite understandable, and which was written near the end of Shakespeare’s life, after he had almost single-handedly created Early Modern English.

Our father which art in heaven,

hallowed be thy name

Thy kingdome come.

Thy will be done,

in earth, as it is in heaven.

Giue us this day our daily bread.

And forgive vs our debts,

as we forgive our debters.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver vs from evill:

For thine is the kingdome, and the power,

and the glory, for ever,

Amen.

By this point, we’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the modern version:

Our Father, who art in heaven,

Hallowed be thy Name.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done,

On earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, and the power,

and the glory, for ever and ever.

Amen.

And now circling back to the original topic of language and time travel, this is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen tackled in any depth, but more than anything, language could be the biggest barrier to any time travelers, even if they’re going back in time in their own country, or at least in their own culture — and traveling back five hundred or a thousand years wouldn’t be the only difficulty. Ironically, jumping back to any point prior to a decade ago and after the American Civil War would also be fraught with language problems.

Why? Because language evolves at the speed of communication. In the 10th century, English remained its own isolated thing and didn’t begin to change until French soldiers under William the Conqueror came in and took over. They brought in both a lot of new vocabulary and a class division in language. The nobility spoke French. The peasants spoke English. Where the two met — i.e. where the peasants served the nobility — vocabulary bled into each other. That is why we have two distinct classes of food words, one set old English and the other French.

Basically, the living animal got the English and the cooked version got the French, so we have cow and beef; chicken and poultry; lamb and mutton; and pig and pork, to name a few.

Once the age of exploration kicked in at the end of the 15th century, English also began to take on a lot of words from other languages. At first, these came from Spanish, Dutch, and more French — the big colonial powers of the time — but eventually also began to come in from the places colonized. This era was the lead-up to the acceleration of change and the development of modern English after Shakespeare’s time, which ended when he died at the beginning of the 17th century.

Now there’s one thing to keep in mind, and that’s the phenomena of regional dialects and slang, which were common in English in both Britain and the U.S. up until the early 20th century. Again, it came down to communication, and people living in isolated pockets didn’t really communicate that much with people in others. Only the upper classes got to do that kind of traveling, but they were also not prone to speaking in slang.

This led to things like completely different accents even across as small a space as England, which is about the size of California. And in other countries, it was even more extreme. In what eventually became Germany, people from the west could not understand people from the east and vice versa, since dialects there turned into a continuum. Likewise, in Spain, things broke down into Castilian (i.e. “real” Spanish), Catalan, Galician, and Occitan.

Back to English in the 20th century, though, and once movies with dialogue and radio became a thing, boom. That speed of communication accelerated, and the rate of evolution and homogenization of the language took off. For a while between the 1930s and 1950s, there was even such a thing as the “Mid-Atlantic” accent, which was a hybrid of British and English designed to resemble neither but be understandable by both. Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, and James Mason used it a lot.

During this era, dialect and slang became national, accents started to smooth out, and the new defining feature of vocabulary went from being location to cohort.

Or, in other words, the quickest way to give away your approximate age rapidly became the way you spoke. At least up until a point, and that point was when communication became immediate and instant with the rise of the internet. Over the last decade, the evolution of language has become a constant, with new words being created and old words being dumped every single moment. And every neologism instantly propagates and is adopted or dropped.

In modern terms, then, the separators have gone beyond location and cohort, or have at least landed on a different definition. No, instead of where you are and how old you are, it has more to do with where you are online and what you’re aware of. This still doesn’t help with time travel, though, because even with the internet, you can’t prepare enough.

Go on. Jump into your time machine and go back, say, fifty years, to 1970, and land in Manhattan. Try to have a conversation with a local and see how long you can go without saying something that makes them say, “What?” Or, conversely, how long it is before they say something that makes no sense to you at all.

Try various intervals back to a century ago, or more. Feeling out of your depth? That is the rapid evolution of our language in action. It’s also why complaining about changes in it is futile, and yes I’ll flag myself for this one, because I do love to bitch about abuse of grammar. Although I will contend that abusing grammar and creative or novel uses of words are two very different things. Give me a clever neologism, hooray you! Fuck up the use of an apostrophe? Fifty lashes!

“Sit” by any other name

In what now seems like another lifetime, I used to write for Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan’s website. Here is an article originally published in two parts under the heading Dogs and Language, Part 1: ¿Se Habla Spaniel? And Part 2: Sprechen Sie Dachshund?

If you’re bilingual, have you trained your dog in more than one language? If you only speak one language, have you ever tried nonsense words on your dog? Either way, the purpose of this exercise is to separate the language you speak from what you’re communicating to your dog.

Whether you’re bilingual or monolingual, for this exercise you will need to come up with a list of words in a language you’ve never used with your dog before. Basically, you will substitute the words your dog knows with words your dog has never heard.

Go on. Dig up that high school Spanish. Go to an online translator, pick a random language, and make a list. Make up meaningless words. The important point is this: pick one word in the new language and match it to a something your dog knows.

For the next week, only use the replacement words whenever you would use the familiar ones — but think the familiar word while saying the new one. It also helps if the new words don’t sound like the old commands — choosing the German “sitz!” to replace the English “sit” wouldn’t really work, but using another word for sit that sounds nothing like it would be ideal.

If you’ve done this exercise right, very soon after you change the words, you should find your dog responding to them without hesitation, as if you’re still speaking the language they know.

What’s going on here?

If you’ve kept your intent the same and used the new words in the same context as the old, then your dog isn’t listening to what you say at all; she’s paying attention to your energy and body language — and your expectations.

Dogs are all about expectations. Groups of dogs work as a unit, instinctively, and follow the leader by sensing and mimicking body language. If you still don’t believe this, then try the following exercise.

Silence is golden

The instructions for this week are simpler, but also more difficult. For one week, use all your usual commands on your dog, but… you cannot say a word. You can use gestures, posture, and facial expressions. You just cannot say words or make sounds. If it helps, you can pretend to say the words in your head, but that’s it.

In each case, make sure that you have your dog’s attention — they should be looking at you calmly, and making full eye contact. But, once that’s achieved, communicate away in silence. You will probably feel the need to move your hands and arms. Go ahead and do so. You will probably feel stupid and nothing will happen for the first few tries. Don’t give up.

If you remain calm and focused, it won’t be long before your dog understands and responds. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two before your dog follows is picking up on what you’re telling him without a word, and before this doesn’t feel so strange and awkward for you. But, by the end of the week, you should be able to speak to your dog from across the room with merely eye contact and facial expression.

What’s going on here?

Again, in nature, dogs do not communicate with words. When they communicate with growls or barks, they really aren’t speaking to each other. The tone of a bark or growl is produced by a dog’s energy and body language, so such sounds are really more a communication of “How I feel right now” as an indicator of pain, danger, excitement, etc.

When one dog wants another to sit, it doesn’t make any sound. It will merely walk toward that dog while presenting as large a posture as possible, and bump into it if the message is not received. If the message is still not received, then a couple of well-placed paws will probably put the errant dog in line.

In any case, the path to forming that deeper connection with your dog or dogs begins with learning how to communicate like a dog, rather than in working against that and forcing your dog to communicate like a human.

Leave the human words behind, and you will develop an even stronger bond with your beloved canine. In return, your dog will love you even more for understanding it, and using its own language.

Stupid human tricks for becoming better leaders

Anything that will put you in closer touch with your own body or improve your human communication skills will help you to become more in tune with your dog. Here are a few suggestions.

  1. Yoga: You don’t have to be as flexible as a gymnast to do yoga, and there are varying levels and classes. Instructors are usually willing to accommodate your abilities, and doing all these weird stretches will help you get in touch with your body, and your body language.
  2. Dance/Aerobics: Again, you don’t have to be Fred Astaire to dance. Look around, and find something fitting your experience. Tap and Ballet are probably only for people who’ve had some dance training, but things like ballroom, waltz, or country line are probably accessible to anyone. If you don’t want to do dance in quite so formal a way, then look for an aerobics class.
  3. Improv: Although an aspect of theatre which frequently involves words, improv classes are excellent for teaching you the skill of listening, as well as teaching you to be constantly in the moment. Since dogs are also constantly living in the moment, improv is a good way to learn to be more dog-like.
  4. Volunteer: As in volunteer at your local animal shelter, where you’ll get to interact with lots of dogs that are not your own. Practice using the silent command method on each of them. Practice calm, assertive energy while walking them. Also inquire with your local veterinarians to find out if they need volunteers; ask your own vet if they will trade volunteer time for medical care.
  5. Read to Kids: No, really. Contact your local libraries and elementary schools to find out whether they have reading programs. And, although the above dog advice leans toward the non-verbal, reading to a room full of five-year-olds and keeping their attention is good practice, since many studies indicate that adult dogs operate at the same intellectual level as a human five-year-old. It’s not just the words keeping them pinned to their seats… what non-verbal cues are doing the job?

If all of the above fail, then there’s this: Take your dog on a long walk, in silence — but don’t forget to bring plenty of water for both of you. Your dog will let you know when you’ve walked long enough and it’s time to go home. Before that, your dog will let you know what it’s like to be a dog. Listen to the silence and learn.

Postscript: I actually wrote this piece, and included #3 up there, long before I started doing improv. Weird. I was giving myself future advice, I see.

Photo: Author’s dog Sheeba, taken by Stephen M. Grossman.

Game night therapy

While it’s generally agreed that animals play, there’s not agreement on why. For a long time, the theory was that play was preparation for adult survivial — learning how to hunt and kill, bonding with specific animals for life, and so on down a long list. Other researchers say no. Play behavior doesn’t confer any of those benefits, but it can have an immediate psychological effect of relieving stress, even if it’s an adult animal that never played as a juvenile.

Humans definitely play games, though, and we make up rather complicated ones. As a member of that species, though, I can definitely say that we play games for a number of reasons, but the main ones are that they’re fun, they are a bonding experience, and they allow us to experience potentially high-stakes loses at no actual cost, at least if we’re not in a casino.

Nobody is losing real money at Monopoly, or Clue, or Chutes and Ladders, or any of however many countless board or card games we’ve invented.

Speaking of cards, though, I have a group of friends that I frequently play Cards Against Humanity with, and one of the ironies is that we are one of the more liberal and progressive bunches you’ll ever meet. But somehow the challenge of coming up with the worst possible non-PC play in the game is kind of the point. In a way, I think it actually armors us against thinking like people who’d agree with some of the combos that come out.

So there’s that “practicing to be an adult” angle, if we realize that the game generally teaches us exactly the wrong things to think, do, or say.

Case in point, to paraphrase just one of the plays from tonight, the question card was “The blind date was going terribly until we both discovered our shared love of _________.” The winning answer was “Auschwitz,” and the person who chose it as the winning card for that round happened to be a Jewish American currently living in Berlin. In fact, his immediate response to seeing that card was to lean back laughing his ass off in that “Oh my god, this is terrible” way that I’m sure we’ve all felt.

But now a slight interlude before I move on to a further salient point on humans and games. Tonight’s Card’s Against Humanity match included the inaugural use of a new set, Cards Against Star Wars, and I have to say that the group opinion of that set was very… lackluster. It had typos and grammatical errors galore, not to mention our quick consensus that there’s no way in hell Disney would have even licensed this and there’s not enough fair use coverage as parody for it to happen. I mean, the cards in this box were as raunchy as anything else from CAH. Then again, a number of them seemed to be free of Star Wars references and just quoted CAH cards.

Since we were playing with all of the CAH decks my friends own, we saw more than a few .repeats of generic, non-themed Cards against Star Wars picks. We were speculating on how it happened. Maybe they had to rush this one out to meet a Christmas deadline? Maybe they had it made cheaply in a country where English isn’t the first language for a lot of workers? (Since a lot of the spellings were British, we thought maybe Hong Kong or Singapore, although they mostly tend to be well educated in that city and that country.

Once I got home, two minutes of internet research revealed that… it’s not an official expansion pack at all. It’s not on the CAH site, but Amazon turns up a bunch of sets with blatant typos in the listings and box art — Cads Against. Cames Against. With both Star Wars and Disney as the targets.

My friends were just as relieved as I was when I shared the news. Our faith in (Cards Against) Humanity was restored.

Still, despite all of that, tonight was an important gaming evening first because it was a birthday pre-party (nearly a week in advance), and second because it gave me the chance to bring together good friends from various times and places in my life who had never met before, and then I got to watch them connect and bond. In one particular case, it was almost like destiny happening. A writing friend of mine had moved to a foreign city five years ago (with great success) and it just happened to be a place an actor/director friend of mine has plans to move to this summer, so they networked like hell, and I got to watch actor/director friend be handed the road-map to do exactly what he wants to do.

Meanwhile, surrogate big sister really hit it off with surrogate little brother (except he should be big brother when it comes to the emotional maturity) and within about ten minutes, this group of insiders (to me) and outsiders (to each other) bonded and it was glorious to see.

Now what I have to wonder is this: Did it happen because I only befriend certain types of people? Or did it happen because the people I tend to befriend are generally cool as fuck?

Maybe a little of both? But the best (pre)birthday present tonight was spending time in a room full of people I love and, thanks to games, getting to know them better.

And that is probably the true function of game play in humans: To bond with the ones you love and rely on, and know that when you’re playing with loved ones, you really can’t lose one way or the other.

Which is why we all need to arrange for and have a regular game night with friends in our lives. Whether it has minimal equipment, like charades or poker night, or it’s something as complicated as Risk or DnD or Settlers of Catan, or whatever… find friends who are into it, get together to do it, invite other friends outside the circle, and watch as magic happens.

Karl Marx nailed it

A rare political rant, but necessary at this juncture.

Just a quick reminder why it is so vitally important to vote 45* out and flip the Senate in November. Remember Apartheid? This was a policy that lasted for years in South Africa which put the white people in charge and eliminated most rights for black South Africans.

But you know what? Those white people were by far in the minority. So how did they keep the system going? Simple. They made up the rules. They controlled the courts and the government, and they ignored the people. Sound familiar?

Even after violent protest broke out, the system persisted by repressing it even more violently, and it wasn’t until 1994 that Apartheid finally ended.

In American Apartheid, it’s the 1% trying to control everyone else — and that’s the only division, because there are certainly super-wealthy people who are not white, not straight, not Christian, not male, not native-born, not cis-gender, and not even citizens who have a vested interest in continuing the oppression.

So, yeah, the oppressors pay lip-service to opposing women, minorities, the LGBTQI+ community, non-Christians, non-capitalists, etc., etc. But this is only designed to scare that core group of straight, white, rural Christian people into supporting their own oppression.

As AOC put it so eloquently (paraphrasing): “You don’t earn a billion dollars. You steal it.” And that’s for sure. Anyone who is worth more than a billion did it by stealing labor and effort from people like you.

Who built Microsoft, Apple, Amazon, Google, Facebook, Tesla, WalMart, etc.? Not the CEOs or stockholders. They didn’t do shit. These companies were built by the people who worked for them and the people who bought their crap. But now that the rich are rich enough, they don’t care whether you can afford their crap. They’re already planning their escape to Mars or buying their own islands that are far enough above future sea level to be safe.

Why do you think there’s such an emphasis on things like self-driving cars, automated checkouts, and developing AI that can handle customer service? It’s to eliminate workers entirely.

They’ve also bought governments outright — the oldest story in the book — so good luck with reining them in via legislation, unless and until you manage to vote the right people into control of government, in which case they get to make the rules, and control the courts and governments, and maybe put things back to right.

Or… we could show late-stage capitalism its own flaws, remind them of what Karl Marx warned them about. Once capitalism could grow no more on its own, it would begin to consume the working class and the poor, driving them into debt while simultaneously preventing the state from being able to serve them. Profits would rise while incomes stagnate, pulling the middle classes into the quagmire.

Sound familiar? If it doesn’t, you haven’t been paying attention since the 80s, which may or may not be before you were born.

The only two solutions to this, per Marx, were socialism — a sudden and violent takeover — or democratic socialism — a gradual change in policies by the successive elections of increasingly progressive leaders. Now, since we got ourselves into this via the “boiling frog” method, we’ll probably only be able to get ourselves out the same way. It’s been forty years down this rabbit hole. Sadly, we probably won’t fully dig out until 2060.

But if we start now, the ‘30s could be pretty damn cool. We just have to lean hard to the left, and soft revolution these billionaire bastards out of existence.

First step after we re-take Congress and the Presidency: re-imposition of the tax rates that existed under Eisenhower (a Republican); plus add on a cap on wealth. No single person or company should be worth more than a billion dollars. (Hell, no person should be worth more than ten million — that would keep anyone for life, but I’ll be generous.) So in addition to the income tax rates, there’s a wealth cap tax, and it works like this. Any profit in excess of a billion dollars has to either be put back into the company to finance expansion and purchase of equipment from an absolutely not-affiliated company and to hire sufficient new employees with a salary at 10% above the cost of living for the community they’re being hired in and with full benefits; or donated somewhere within the state the business is licensed in to promote health, welfare, education, or the arts.

Additional first steps: Increase Social Security and Medicare benefits to match current cost of living, with realistic increases per annum guaranteed, and prohibit any reductions at any point in the future, as well as eliminate Medicare Part B premiums, so that they cost the same as Part A (hint: nothing); slashing the hell out of our military budget, outlawing defense contracts with any company that does business with any country that is not the U.S.; using what’s come out of the military budget to fund arts and education, and to provide housing and services to the poor and homeless — turn our endless random wars abroad into wars on real problems at home; kill the Space Force because, really? And create the Peace and Plenty Force.

Democratic socialism could achieve this in a generation. Don’t believe me? Look up FDR and the New Deal, because this is exactly what he did. And rich people hated him.

Pure socialism could achieve this in six months, but it would be messy and would involve the heads of a lot of elected officials stuck on pikes in front of government buildings all over the country, plus a lot of dead defenders of the status quo. Which is kind of another proof of why America has no Socialist candidates, and what you’re thinking of is Democratic Socialism. AKA The one way out of this nightmare.

End rant. Proceed with your day of being a consumer of corporate crap.

Nerding out on Star Wars: Why The Rise of Skywalker worked for me

In which I unleash my inner Star Wars nerd. WARNING: Spoilers galore. If you haven’t seen The Rise of Skywalker yet, stop here, unless you want major plot points revealed. And, most importantly, remember that like all artistic criticism, this is just my personal opinion. Your mileage may vary, and you’re not wrong. I’m not wrong. All art is entirely subjective and personal to the observer. 

Okay. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been a major Star Wars fanboy since forever and why not? It was the major mythology of my childhood, and has carried on through three trilogies, two spin-off movies, and a couple of series.

I will admit to a few things, though. One is that I never really got into Clone Wars because the 3D animation style just didn’t mesh with the Star Wars universe I knew. Two is that while I’ve seen and enjoyed some of the Mandalorian (and Boba Fett was one of my favorite original trilogy characters) I don’t subscribe to Disney+, so rely on friends for viewings.

Three, finally, is that I never got into all of the extended universe stuff in terms of books, comics, etc., but, apparently, that’s all non-canon now, so I guess I won on that front.

All that said, my personal Star Wars film rankings are as follows…

  1. Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back
  2. Episode IV: A New Hope
  3. Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
  4. Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker
  5. Episode VI: Return of the Jedi
  6. Episode VII: The Force Awakens
  7. Solo: A Star Wars Story
  8. Episode III: Revenge of the Sith
  9. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story
  10. Episode II: Attack of the Clones
  11. Episode I: The Phantom Menace

The Rise of Skywalker had big shoes to fill but, honestly, I think it filled them by paying off all of the promises made and, no, it did not erase anything set up in The Last Jedi, which did not erase anything set up in The Force Awakens. Remember: Characters lie, or see things from a “certain point of view.” That was established way back at the beginning in Episode IV.

To me, Episode IX played out in the inevitable way it had to. My only complaint about the saga is that a certain character who debuted in Episode VII and was set up to be the villain did not survive through IX, although they died nobly and redeemed. Still, I somehow knew from the first moment we met that character that they’d be doing the ol’ Anakin in reverse saga. And if that wasn’t and isn’t obvious to complainers, I don’t know what movie you watched. Also keep in mind that Luke saved his father from the dark side while Ben was saved from the dark side by his father, or at least what was most likely a force projection that took all of his mother’s energy to make happen, so that we also got a nice little symmetry with the Skywalker sibs, who both performed their last heroic act on a far-away planet in order to turn Kylo Ren back into Ben Solo, and wound up force-ghosting because of it.

And there’s your explanation for that last scene, by the way, you’re welcome.

Lucas is famous for saying that his films rhyme, and a triple trilogy is actually the ultimate act of Aristotelian drama. Ari is the one who created the three-act structure or beginning, middle, and end, even if he was doing it in five act plays. But if you want to take that to its logical extreme, each part of that also has its own beginning, middle, and end, as does each part within that.

Now, just taking the three trilogies and ignoring the extra films, what do we get? Nine three-act films. And it’s always the second act that gets messy (Episodes II, V, and VIII) and the third acts that sometimes wrap it up too quickly (Episodes III, VI, IX.) First acts have to deal with introducing the characters and themes sometimes successfully, sometimes not (Episodes I, IV, VII.)

End result? Three by three by three, which is three cubed, which is twenty-seven. If you’re writing any kind of three-act structure, that is your basic beat-sheet right there.

Thematic rhymes

First acts, Episodes I, IV, and VII (Phantom Menace, A New Hope, The Force Awakens): Intro the innocent: Anakin, Luke, Rey. Send them on a quest they didn’t ask for. Pop them out the other end as a hero.

Second acts, Episodes II, V, and VIII (Attack of the Clones, The Empire Strikes Back, The Last Jedi): Show your heroes a taste of failure, put them at odds with their mentors, and let the villains seem to win in the end.

Third acts, Episodes III, VI, and IX (Revenge of the Sith, Return of the Jedi, The Rise of Skywalker): End your hero’s arc, although this one gets interestingly tricky, because it’s different for each trilogy. In the prequels, Anakin goes from innocent to Sith Lord Darth Vader. In the original trilogy, Luke goes from naïve farm boy to master Jedi, although it’s also the story of Darth Vader going from evil Sith Lord to destroyer of the Empire (although not really). In the sequel trilogy, we start with Rey, but it’s as much Kylo’s story, so while she goes from innocent scavenger to “Be All the Jedi!”, he goes from Big Bad to redeemed hero, perfectly echoing his grandfather Anakin’s storyline in the first six films.

Don’t forget the ultimate big bad, Palps himself. More than any other character, his arcs repeat in each of the three trilogies. In the original trilogy (IV-VI), he only appeared as an idea in the first, had a couple of brief cameos as a hologram in the second, and then came on full force in the third.

Likewise, in the prequel trilogy (I-III), Palpatine starts out as a dedicated servant to Queen Amidala, becomes Chancellor in the second film, and reveals his true self and takes over power in the third.

Finally, in the sequel trilogy (VII-IX), Palpatine is nowhere to be seen in the first episode, apparently not present in the second, although the third makes it clear that Snoke was really his Count Dooku so that he was there all along, and then in the third film he comes back full force and nastier than ever.

Anyway… I’m happy with how it turned out, and I’m not the type of fan who feels it necessary to flame creators who don’t get it “right.” Why? Because, ultimately, I’m not the one creating it, so I have no right to complain. And that’s probably the most important lesson. If it ain’t your franchise, try appreciating what the creators do with it instead of explaining why they screwed it up.

The saddest part about any sportsman’s death

To be honest, news of Kobe Bryant’s death on Sunday didn’t really hit me that hard. Sure, it’s sad, especially because his young daughter died with him — along with seven other people I don’t see anyone publicly mourning. But I’m not a sports fan in any way, shape or form. I consider organized sports to be a huge waste of time and money. So Kobe was only ever in my consciousness as some guy who — I think — played for my home team, and I don’t even know whether he was active or retired. And it was… basketball, maybe?

Now that paragraph is going to infuriate a lot of people, but that’s kind of my point, and the point of this piece. The only time I ever see straight men of the uber-masculine “he-man” sort show any kind of emotion is when a beloved sportsman dies or suffers some kind of tragedy. And yes, it’s always a sportsman, never a sportswoman.

Case in point: the sports media couldn’t have given two wet warm shits about HIV and the AIDS crisis until Magic Johnson announced in 1991 that he was HIV+. Suddenly, it was wailing and gnashing of teeth, and to all of those sports reporters AIDS was the worstest thing ever. Ironically, Magic is still alive, but it took this very weird cult-like behavior around sports figures to start to turn the tide.

And it’s only certain sports. Contrast the reaction to Magic Johnson with the reaction to Greg Louganis revealing, in 1995, that he was HIV positive. He didn’t get the same outpouring of bro love. Instead, he was criticized for daring to injure himself and bleed into a pool in 1988 when he knew that he was HIV+. (No, Magic did not receive any criticism for fucking a ton of women after he was diagnosed. That got crickets.)

By the way, Louganis is also still alive.

Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses. You might recognize that first word as the name of the capital in the Hunger Games series. The idea is to provide meager nourishment and spectacle in order to distract people from the real issues of the day.

And organized sports certainly provide the circus, along with the illusion of nourishment. But what about the deaths that should have given everyone pause in just the first three weeks of this year?

Qasem Soleimani – was it legal or not? Hans Tilkowski, Luís Morais, and Khamis Al-Dosari, all sportsmen who died way too young, but you don’t care because they’re not American and played soccer. Silvio Horta, who wrote for TV and film. Neil Peart, oh yeah, I’ll give you your bitching and whining over that. Elizabeth Wurtzel, bros say “who?” Edd Byrnes, actor we’ve all forgotten. Buck Henry, actor and writer we should not have forgotten (“Introducing Lord and Lady Douchebag!”), Christopher Tolkien, son of J.R.R. and keeper of the LOTR stuff; Efraín Sánchez and Pietro Anastasi, two more footballers. Er, sorry. Soccer players; Hédi Baccouche, former Prime Minister of Tunisia; Terry Jones, Welsh actor and comedian of Monty Python fame; Jim Lehrer, American journalist.

And yet… the straight white male world only loses its shit over the loss of a person whose talent was bouncing and throwing a ball.

Pardon me for intentionally trivializing, but it really is infuriating when any celebrity death goes into bread and circuses mode and distracts from the really important stuff going on. Yes, let’s take a moment to be sad about it — but let’s not allow it to make us forget all of the far worse things happening right now.

Yeah, Kobe is dead, and I’m sorry for his friends and loved ones, but for all of the impact he actually had on my life (total: zero) I’m not going to waste a lot of time thinking about it. And if it seems like the time I took writing this article was focused on… thinking about him, no, it wasn’t. It was more invested in thinking about all of the other people we’ve lost in the first 26 days of 2020.