Overt Homosexuality!

Not much to report today, except that I’ve taken on a new AOL screen name: TinMan1973JC. No longer TinMan25NJ; that’s because I haven’t been 25 for almost two years, and, well, JC (“Jersey City”) is more specific than NJ (self-explanatory).

Oh — check out the New York Times’s special section celebrating the paper’s 150th anniversary. Lots of interesting articles, including an imagining of the paper’s first day, written by Michael Chabon, and lots more articles of interest to those fond of grand history and obscure arcana, as I am. My favorite old headline, a reprint of which accompanies an article on civil rights by Anna Quindlen (in the paper edition, at least):

It’s from the mid-1960s.

Overt homosexuality! Good lord. This city’s gone to the dogs.

Anyway, I have the sniffles and a scratchy throat, so I’m going to bed. Nite.
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Here Comes Buffy, There Goes Mulder

Okay. I’ve become a “Buffy” watcher, thanks to you and you and you and probably several other people. Tonight was the first time I actually set aside time to watch it — on my own.

It’s about time I hopped on board. What took me so long? I mean, this is such a great show! Not only is there magic and combat and excitement and great snappy dialogue, but the characters are multidimensional. Here it is, Season 6 and now I’m starting to watch regularly. I hope the show lasts a few more seasons so I can settle in for a while.

My newfound Buffyness does not seem incompatible with my long-standing slavish devotion to “The X-Files,” which began its ninth (yes, ninth) season on Sunday night. Yes, we have entered that one-half of the year during which they actually run original episodes of the show.

Unfortunately, with David Duchovny gone and Gillian Anderson being downplayed this season, it’s not the same show it used to be.

First off — wow — after eight years, the opening credit sequence has undergone a major change, even moreso than the slight changes last season. Now we have completely different graphics, different fonts, and more people listed in the opening credits. It’s about time Mitch Pileggi was moved up there, which I guess they needed to do, because Robert Patrick isn’t as big a draw on his own as Duchovny used to be. And apparently there’s no longer a center of gravity: we’ve gone from two major players to one part-time major player and three supporting players: Gillian Anderson, Robert Patrick, Annabeth Gish, and Mitch Pileggi. Not to mention the additions of the always-scrumptious Cary Elwes (it’s the first time I’ve heard him speak without a British accent) and Lucy Lawless.

“The X-Files” seems to be turning downright lesbianish. In last year’s season finale we saw hints of Agent Reyes’s attraction to Scully; throw in Lucy Lawless and they definitely seem to be going for the girl power this season. Niche marketing, maybe?

The show has lost much of its charm, though. Really, there’s not much of a reason to start watching it now if you’ve never watched before; I’m probably one of the only people still watching, and this is probably its final season anyway. Chris Carter should have shut it down a couple of years ago, but then what would I do on Sunday nights at 9?

At any rate, it’s nice to have good TV reception again, and a quiet room in which to watch it. Ah, it’s the little things that make life grand.

Mamma Mia/My Mom

Today was Veteran’s Day, so — being a government employee — I had the day off. My mom and I had made plans to go shopping for apartment items: rugs, curtains, kitchen things, stuff to put on the walls.

At about 10:30 in the morning, my phone rang. I figured it would be her. “Are you watching the news?” she said. My first thought was, Oh, shit. They’ve done something to us again, haven’t they.

You know you’re living in a transformed world when a plane crashes two rivers away from you and it seems like just another disaster. You can’t find enough psychic room to focus on it, because that whole part of your psyche has been taken up by other things.

Strange how, upon hearing that it wasn’t a terrorist attack, a plane crash seems refreshingly normal.

Strange how, these days, it would seem normal even if it were a terrorist attack.

Strange how I can’t find room to feel how horrible it is, even though I know it is.

When I got to the PATH station at about 11:00 this morning to go to Newark –from which I’d take the bus to my parents’ house — there was yellow police tape across all the station entrances. They’d shut down the PATH lines. Fifteen minutes later, they removed the tape and I could go on my way.

I had a great day with my mom. We went to a diner. We went shopping. We bought a couple of rugs, a paper towel holder, a toaster, a spatula, and a few things to put on my walls. I got to run around the backyard with the puppy and watch her run after things that I threw.

My mom and my dad had plans to see Mamma Mia tonight, the new-to-Broadway musical that is basically a vehicle for ABBA songs, but my dad wasn’t too keen on going. I said I’d be happy to go in his place. He was fine with that. So in the late afternoon my mom drove me and my stuff home, and then we went into Manhattan, had dinner, and saw the show.

I enjoyed it. It was a confection, pure sugar, but it was fun and energetic and charming and there were hot shirtless guys. That’s always a good thing.

When I think of ABBA, I picture a gay British teenager moping alone in his bedroom with the door closed. I don’t know why.

I don’t know ABBA too well — at least I didn’t think I did. But there were so many songs to which my response was, “Oh, I know this one! I didn’t know ABBA did it.” Apparently a large chunk of the audience knew the band better than I did, because a character would sing the first line of a song and then half the audience would begin either clapping or laughing at the way the song had been worked into the show.

Afterwards, after a long, enjoyable day, my mom and I parted ways, and I went home.

I feel like I took a lot more from my mom today than I gave. I wish I’d at least paid for dinner tonight. I’ve never taken one of my parents out to dinner before, but I wish I’d done so tonight. Had I not been worried about my finances, I would have.

Why do I often wish I were still a kid? Why do I want to spend time with my mom and yet I lust after men? Why does my mom have to be the only woman in my life? Am I gay because I want to shirk responsibility and commitment? Is it possible that I can’t find a man because I’m only meant to sleep with them, not spend my life with them?

Sometimes, when I have a great time with my mom, I wish I were straight.

My mom is the most important woman in my life. Sometimes I wish I could say that that’s only temporary, that someday, some great woman will come along to displace her.

Sometimes I wish I could find a guy who’s just like my mom.

Sometimes I wish I could find an adult relationship.

Sometimes I wonder if being gay is a copout.

Sometimes I wish I were straight.