My Late (Almost) Conversion to Beyoncé and Jay-Z Fan

 There’s one thing to be said for HBO’s 24/7 marathon presentation of Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s On the Run concert, which I have now seen almost in its entirety (two-and-a-half hours is a lot of ask of a fan, let alone a non-fan): it’s (almost) made a Beyoncé and Jay-Z fan out of this middle-aged half-Jewish gay white man from Long Island. Almost.

The first thing that needs to be said about this concert is that the production values are spectacular. Beyoncé and Jay-Z obviously spared no expense in mounting this tour, from video and lighting to dancers, backup singers and band. But those things are available to any artist who has achieved a certain level of success. (An instructive documentary on this subject is Who the F**k is Arthur Fogel, about the concert promoter of such artists as the Rolling Stones, Madonna, the Police, and Guns 'N Roses.)

But then you have to look past the production values to the actual musical talent (or lack thereof) of Beyoncé and Jay-Z. And that’s where I run into some problems.

I’ve always admired the virtuosity of Beyoncé’s voice, but some of her songs sound like she’s performing vocal scales: either they don’t have any hooks or it’s just one long chorus (i.e., “Love on Top”). She’s just trying to impress you with her octave range.

I think a lot of Beyoncé’s appeal has to do what I call The Cult of the Diva: the fascination among gay men for powerful women who behave in a dramatic fashion and/or seem larger than life.

For me the high point of the show was a song called “Resentment,” about a lover’s (Jay-Z’s?) infidelity. Again, this is not exactly the kind of song whose melody you’ll be whistling after you leave the show, it’s more like a dramatic monologue. And it’s here that Beyoncé goes into full diva mode, as she literally brushes her female competition off her shoulder like so much dandruff and delivers such lines as “She ain’t even half of me/That bitch will never be.”

This is the kind of stuff that typically drives gay men wild. It’s like watching a woman doing an impersonation of a drag queen (which, of course, is a man doing an impersonation of a woman).

Then there’s Jay-Z. This is the part of the show where I would normally go to the bathroom and/or get a drink.

The problem I have is not so much with Jay-Z, per se, as it is with rap “music” as an art form. (I hesitate to even call it “music” because music is inherently melodic and rap is more about rhythm, or saying words rhythmically to be precise.)

The most successful rap songs usually sample a melodic “hook” from a song such as Chic’s “Good Times” (Sugar Hill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight”) or Queen and David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” (Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby”). Occasionally, there may be an original melodic line underneath (Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “The Message”). Or, sometimes, the rhythm itself is catchy in a call-and-response way (Kurtis Blow’s “The Breaks”).

Similarly, Jay-Z’s best “songs” sample the work of songwriters like Alicia Keys (“New York State of Mind”) or Alphaville (“Forever Young”). And I’m sure no one was more surprised (or more happy to count their royalties) than Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin when Jay-Z decided to sample one of their songs from the Broadway musical Annie, “It’s a Hard Knock Life.”

OK, so the fact that my rap references are at least 30 years old may mean that I’m not exactly a rap connoisseur, but at least it gives you some idea of where I’m coming from. Hip-hop may have become the dominant force in pop culture, but when I hear lyrics like “H to the izz-O. V to the izz-A” (which even I have to admit is kind of catchy on a strictly rhythmic basis), my reaction is “Whaaaaat?”

But that explains why Jay-Z and Beyoncé can fill a stadium in Paris. Because minorities are the majority. And that’s why middle-aged white guys like me feel left out (unless we pretend we’re from the “’hood”).

It’s interesting, too, to see Beyoncé and Jay-Z appropriating aspects of “white” culture such as Bonnie and Clyde and punk rock. But I guess that means the culture has come full circle.

So when Beyoncé makes her last appearance in a fabulous dress that looks like the American flag (except its colors are black and white instead of red, white, and blue), it makes perfect sense.

Fuck You, New York

Increasingly, people are saying “Fuck you!” to New York.

Fuck the high prices, fuck the noise, fuck the crowds, fuck the rude behavior, fuck the subway. In short, “Fuck this shit, I’m outta here!”

As summer draws to a close and post-Labor Day reality sets in, you can practically feel the stress level in this city rising.

That’s because the population seems to double after Labor Day, as thousands of college students descend upon the city and all the rich assholes who make our lives hell the rest of the year return from their temporary haunts in the Hamptons and Fire Island.

No less a New York institution than the New York Times recently published an article about how people—particularly young people—are moving to second-tier cities in the Midwest, or what was formerly known as “flyover country.” The main thing driving this exodus, according to the story, is the high cost of housing in cities like New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco.

I also think the economy may have something to do with it. Sure, there may be more jobs here, but there’s also more competition for those jobs. Now you not only have to deal with the in-person interview, but also the phone interview, and sometimes even the screening interview. I’ve read stories about people who’ve endured as many as seven in-person interviews for the same job!

At a certain point you have to ask yourself, Is this really worth it?

I mean, what even makes New York so special anymore? I think many people, especially tourists and newcomers to the city, are coming here for some idealized version of New York that hasn’t existed in at least 40 years. They think they’re getting Taxi Driver and Mean Streets, but what they’re really getting is some watered-down version of Sex and the City: Sex and the City Lite.

Besides, don’t you have the same chain stores in your own city? So why even bother coming here?

We’re living in an era of empty bragging rights, where having a T-shirt with the words “New York” on it is supposed to signify something special, like a designer label or a selfie taken in front of some tourist attraction. It’s doesn’t. You don’t see New Yorkers walking around with “I Love New York” T-shirts. That’s because we live here. We know better!

I often find myself asking if there’s some other place where I could find a better quality of life. But I’m afraid of abandoning the limited advantages I do have: my friends, my network of job contacts, my rent-stabilized apartment. Besides, I can’t afford to move.

But what’s the point of living here—or doing anything for that matter—if it’s no longer enjoyable? So I can say, “I survived New York” (as if that’s something to brag about)?

Sure there are those rare only-in-New York moments where, say, you might see a celebrity on the street, but is that really worth mortgaging your life?

If anyone has the answer to this question, you’ll find me holed-up in my rent-stabilized apartment (because I can’t afford to go out) watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (because I can’t afford to move).

The Social Media Paradox

 I’m burned-out on social media.

On the one hand, I feel like it’s nothing more than a vehicle for people’s pathetic need for attention, but at the same time I feel obligated to participate in it and am often guilty of the same things I criticize other people for doing. I’ve always maintained that “normal people” (i.e., the majority of people who aren’t in the creative professions and therefore don’t need to promote their work) don’t need to be on Facebook, except maybe to share photos with their family and friends. But in today’s society, where everyone is considered a “brand,” such thinking is probably naïve.

Add to that the fact that, like every other grass roots movement, it’s been taken over by big corporations, and you can probably sympathize with my point of view.

I find that most social media posts fall into one of two categories: bragging/promotion (either for one’s self or one’s political ideas) or the casual cruelty of making fun of other people.

I stopped posting my political beliefs some time ago, because I found that I was either preaching to the choir or preaching to people who didn’t care. Either way, I wasn’t going to change anyone’s opinion, so the only purpose it could have served was to show how noble, caring, or sensitive I was and my expectation to be “liked” accordingly.

Even when I share an article that I think someone might be interested in—without any personal agenda—people don’t click on it. It’s like you literally can’t ask people for a minute of their time anymore, so why bother?

The most famous example of my inability to accomplish anything using social media was my recent unsuccessful campaign to get long-term unemployment benefits extended. (OK, maybe some of that was the fault of our do-nothing Congress, which has passed fewer bills than any Congress in history, but I digress.) Despite posting over 5,000 tweets and making numerous media appearances, absolutely nothing happened. Long-term unemployment benefits weren’t extended, Congress continued to take endless vacations and not pass any bills, and our economy continued to deteriorate.

Nowadays when I look at Facebook or Twitter, it seems to be nothing but paid advertising, interspersed with the usual cute pictures of babies, kittens and/or puppies, vacation photos from people I rarely (or never) see in real life and, in general, things designed to arouse jealousy in the person looking at them.

I have almost 1,000 “friends” on Facebook, and yet for some reason it’s always the same ten people who show up in my news feed.

Some people I know have chosen to “opt out” of social media, either for a designated period of time or permanently. Those who do so permanently are still regarded by our society as “freaks,” but perhaps the tide may be turning.

Especially in light of recent articles about online bullying, is it surprising that Robin Williams’s daughter, to take but one example, chose to cancel her Twitter account?

Ultimately, the Internet is a reflection of us, but it often seems like it only reflects the worst aspects of human nature: our pettiness, our jealousy, and our tendency to reduce things to the lowest common denominator.

I recently spent an entire weekend carefully scripting and shooting a take-off of the Woody Allen movie Interiors. Even though it was barely over a minute long, I spent hours agonizing over the shots and dialogue, and I couldn’t wait to show it to my friends when I visited my boyfriend at the bar where he works. When I got there, one of the other employees was just as excited to show me a video on his cell phone: of someone bouncing off a fat woman’s stomach.

The latest tempest in a teapot has been the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, a well-intentioned idea that has received more attention than the current wars in the Middle East or Ukraine and has deteriorated into the usual controversy. Some people see it as a harmless way to raise money for ALS, others see it as the latest example of people’s seemingly endless need for attention. Just today I read (on Facebook, I’ll admit it) that somebody died allegedly filming his own Ice Bucket Challenge.

Is our need for attention so great that we’re willing to die for it?

Or, to put it another way, if an ice bucket falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it really fall?

Fire Island: You Can’t Go Home Again (Or Can You?)

The Belvedere

It’s been eight years since I was last on Fire Island and it seems to be experiencing a simultaneous renaissance and decline.

The Belvedere, the wedding cake of a hotel where I usually stay, has a fresh coat of paint and eye-popping new carpeting but, a block away, a showcase house near the beach seems abandoned and in need of serious maintenance.

The Ice Palace has gone upscale with video displays and a new dj booth, and there’s a newly rebuilt Pavilion (which was destroyed in a recent fire) in the Pines. But The Tides (formerly the Bay Leaf) sits empty, as does Sunsets on the Bay.

Promoter Daniel Naridicio has made headlines by bringing big-name entertainers such as Liza Minelli and Carol Channing to the Ice Palace on the weekend but, during the week, crowds empty out of the bar as soon as the show is over.

What is the message to be drawn here?

It’s ironic that the growing acceptance of gay people in society at large has caused the simultaneous decline of once exclusively gay places such as Fire Island and gay neighborhoods such as the West Village and Chelsea. The feeling now is that gay people don’t need those places anymore, but I would argue that they need them now more than ever, especially in a world where everything is increasingly homogenized.

I’ve heard reports during my most recent trip to Fire Island that the local police have been handing out tickets to people caught having sex in the infamous “meat rack” between the Pines and Cherry Grove. What could possibly be the motive for this? Are they attempting to make these communities “family friendly,” much the way the Giuliani administration did with Times Square in New York City? Isn’t it enough that there are already “family friendly” communities on Fire Island, such as Ocean Beach?

Some would argue (especially those older than I) that Fire Island peaked in the ’70s, before AIDS decimated an entire generation of gay men.

Being alive these days is like counting the rings inside a tree. You know how old someone is by how many places they can name that used to be something else. Before the Tides was the Bay Leaf, it was the Monster. (And before that, those older than I will recall, the Sandpiper.)

The restaurant that sits in the center of town in Cherry Grove used to be Michael’s before it burned down.

That other restaurant near the ocean used to be Rachel’s.

The new Pavilion

Who among the twenty-somethings now spending their first summer on Fire Island remembers (or cares) what the old Pavilion looked like?

This kind of change happens all the time in New York City but, for some reason, I find it more jarring on Fire Island.

I was devastated to learn that the first room I stayed in at the Belvedere (the Seasons) was recently cut in half to make room for a fire escape. Or that the pool was moved (and seems smaller).

Walking down the beach, I saw one house in the Pines that had its deck destroyed (probably in a recent hurricane) and another that had all the sand washed out from beneath its foundation.

On the other hand, I’m happy to report that my worst fears have not been realized and the Belvedere has not been turned into a Marriott (and it’s still, thankfully, all-male).

Fire Island will always have its natural beauty (I hope), but there are other things that may be even more fragile and cannot be replaced.

I will always remember my first time staying at the Belvedere. I was returning to the hotel at the end of a sensually overstimulating couple of days and, after climbing the spiral staircase to the second floor, noticed that the door to the room next to mine was slightly ajar and there was a full moon shining through the window.

Let’s just say that the vision shining through that window wasn’t the only full moon I saw that night.

America: A Good Idea Gone Bad

 I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m so apathetic about the Fourth of July fireworks. When the cashier at my local newsstand asked me if I was going to see the fireworks yesterday, I was like, “Nah, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.” (The crowds of tourists taking over my city doesn’t help, either.)

While that may be true, it dawned on me this morning that there may be some deeper reason why I don’t feel like taking party in this annual orgy of national celebration and chest-thumping: I’m embarrassed to be American.

Well, not exactly.

The truth is, I’m very proud to be American, if by American you mean the ideals set forth by our founding fathers, namely that this is a land of opportunity where all men (and women) are created equally. But lately it seems as if we’ve become a perversion of who we say we are and more people are coming to the realization that the system is rigged against us.

Once again, I’m looking at the very real possibility of being out of work, right after I spent nine painstaking months to find the job I currently have. Despite this week’s jobs report crowing about the best job numbers in years, the reality is that wages are stagnant and the number of people who have been unemployed for over six months is higher than it’s ever been.

This year, the Fourth of July fell against a backdrop of images of immigrant children showing up at our doorstep in huge numbers and being met by an equally large number of Americans (ironically, children of immigrants themselves) forming a human wall to keep them out. They might as well have been armed with pitchforks and torches, so ugly was this picture.

I admit, I’m at a loss for how to deal with this new wave of children arriving in our country. At the least, it strikes me as very irresponsible of their parents to send them on such a dangerous journey without an adult. (If I was a parent, I wouldn’t send my child unaccompanied to the corner deli for a quart of milk, let alone across several national borders! Remember Etan Patz?) On the other hand, the level of violence and lack of opportunity in their own country must be staggering for any parent to even consider this as a viable option.

But I digress.

On a whole host of issues, from abortion to gun control, it seems like the reality of our country is out of synch with its stated ideals. We pride ourselves on having individual choice and yet it’s become harder than ever for a woman to choose what to do with her own body. (And, even more frustratingly, those decisions are being made, primarily, by men.) We say that we’re a country that places the health and safety of our citizens above all else, and yet many of us don’t have access to healthcare, are affected by gun violence, or have to worry about the safety of our food and drinking water.

So, on this Fourth of July, I would urge every American to remember the country we say we are and work harder to make sure our government not only talks the talk, but walks the walk.

Happy Fourth, everyone!

Hedwig: Every “Inch” a Modern Major Musical

 At this point, there have been at least three incarnations of Hedwig and the Angry Inch: the original off-Broadway production starring Hedwig creator John Cameron Mitchell, the film version (again starring Mr. Mitchell), and now, an honest-to-God, big-budget Broadway production starring TV star, movie star, and ubiquitous host of the Tony Awards, Neil Patrick Harris. What’s remarkable about this show is that it has endured over the past 20 years and its trajectory mirrors that of not only the scrappy protagonist, but of the entire gay rights movement itself. Who could have imagined, 20 years ago, that gays would not only have the right to marry but would become so mainstream that they’re a running joke on both the Tony Awards and the Oscars? Equally astonishing is the fact that a show about a transsexual is now on Broadway, playing alongside not just one but two shows about transvestites (Kinky Boots, Casa Valentina), as well as the usual assortment of gay-themed shows (Mothers and Sons).  Part of the credit may go to the gay rights movement, but the other part belongs to the rock-solid credentials of this show.

In a sea of jukebox musicals (Beautiful, Jersey Girls, Midnight Blue) and original musicals that close overnight (Bridges of Madison County), this is that rarest of creatures: an original Broadway musical with staying power. When was the last time you walked out of an original musical and the songs were truly hummable? I don’t want to take anything away from Mr. Mitchell’s clever book, with its Borscht belt humor (and I mean that as the highest compliment), but I don’t think enough credit has been given to Stephen Trask’s phenomenal, Bowie-inspired score. It now has to rank among the great works of American musical theater, alongside Rodgers and Hammerstein and Stephen Sondheim.

Hedwig, in its stage version, is essentially a one-man/woman show, so it’s critical to find an actor with both the musical chops and the comic timing to pull it off. Needless to say, they’ve found that person in Neil Patrick Harris. Harris has proven his musical theater abilities in the recent concert staging of Company, as well as his recent Tony-hosting duties. He’s so effortlessly self-assured in this performance, it’s breathtaking! The one-hour-and-40-minute, intermissionless show breezes by with the immediacy of a rock concert.

There’s only one minor criticism I can think of: Some of the seats on the side of the orchestra (I had one such seat) have a partially obstructed view of the stage. Other than that, it’s hard to find fault with this production. It now takes its place in the musical theater canon as the very model of a modern major musical.

Why Louie is the Best Drama on TV

 Some people may have been surprised when Louis CK was nominated for multiple Emmy Awards for his television series, Louie, last year. After all, he’s “just a comedian.” What does he know about acting, writing and directing (not to mention editing)?

I wasn’t. My only quibble was that he was nominated in the wrong category. He should have been nominated in the drama category.

Each episode of Louie unfolds like a miniature Woody Allen movie, from its beautifully-photographed New York locations to its jazz score. And it appears that Mr. CK has learned a lot from The Master and may even be his rightful heir, even though he works primarily in television.

Louis CK has been rightly praised for his willingness to take chances, whether it’s because he allows his scenes to go on “too long,” because he frequently places his characters in extremely uncomfortable situations, or because the episodes of his show sometimes seem to end abruptly, without tying up all the loose ends.

For me, one of the most amazing things about his show is the plotting. It’s like watching that improvisational exercise “Yes, but…,” only in this case it should be called “What if?” What if Louie bombed at a benefit in the Hamptons but wound up going home with a beautiful model who was in the audience? What if one of Louie’s neighbors got stuck in an elevator and asked him to get her medication from her apartment but, when he did, he found her niece sleeping on the couch? You truly never know where the plot is going to go when you watch Louie, and that’s what makes it great.

Another thing I love about this show is the way it routinely breaks into the absurd, such as when Louie is awakened by noisy garbage men in one episode and they literally break into his apartment, jumping up and down on his bed while continuing to bang their garbage cans. Or the Time Warner Cable-like message he listens to, which drones on about how awful their service is.

Curiously, Louis CK is the kind of comedian who doesn’t necessarily make me laugh all the time, but I enjoy listening to him because he’s interesting. Oftentimes, I find his stand-up segments to be the weakest part of the show. (I’m sure I’ve just destroyed my comedy career by saying that!) There are more laughs per minute in the more cleverly written Silicon Valley than there are on Louie. But that’s not why I watch it.

I watch it because Louie delves as deeply into the human condition as any episode of Breaking Bad. Like this week’s episode, where an overweight woman talks for an uncomfortably long time about how hard it is for fat women to meet men, while at the same time underscoring how easy it is for a similarly overweight man like Louie to meet women. Or the episode where he breaks up with a girlfriend at a diner: another uncomfortably long conversation. One of the other great things about Louis CK is the way he’s able to put himself in the place of other characters, particularly women.

So the next time the Emmy Awards roll around, I expect Louie to be recognize for what it is: the best drama on TV.