Author: Jeff Tabaco

WASHINGTON, D.C.—I’m back from my little vacation. But very tired. A weekend update is coming soon, but for now, a bit on Michael Cunningham’s The Hours:

I finished reading the book last weekend. It’s wonderful: three storylines each unfolding independently and then rushing towards unexpected convergence. Or rather, you know simply that the threads will come together, but the exact circumstance is surprising. The prose moves deftly, and every now and then you get a gem like this:

The woman’s head quickly withdraws, the door to the trailer closes again, but she leaves behind her an unmistakable sense of watchful remonstrance, as if an angel had briefly touched the surface of the world with one unsandaled foot, asked if there was any trouble and, being told all was well, had resumed her place in the ether with skeptical gravity, having reminded the children of earth that they are just barely trusted to manage their own business, and that further carelessness will not go unremarked.

And the author gets brownie points from me for quoting one of my favorite writers, Jorge Luis Borges, before the prologue. Can’t wait to see the movie.

WOODLAND HILLS, CALIF.—Good times. Greetings from warm southern California! Last night, Kesha, Susan, and I went to see David Garza (note to self: it’s “dah-veed” a la español) at Largo. Goodness. What an amazing performer — such an agile voice and awesome guitar and piano skills. And then Jon Brion came on, and they played a whole bunch of original songs and standards too. It’s great to see two great musicians jam and improvise together and have so much fun.

Afterwards, as we were leaving the club — the girls can attest to this — David chased us down (okay, fine, more like, stopped us at the door) and thanked us for coming to the show. [cue girlish giggle] Charmed and disarmed by his handsome, lithe presence, I stammered out a compliment. All things considered, a wonderful night. He’s definitely on my musical radar now.

On the agenda tonight: meeting up with more peeps, and seeing Martha Wainwright at the Viper Room. Yay!

Okay, after having looked at my webpage a whole bunch of times since yesterday — and believe me, in the course of any given day, I look at it a lot, in one form or another — that picture I posted of Evan “Joe Millionaire” is starting to creep me out.

On Sunday, I met up with Lindsey and Lucy at Dupont Circle. I had ordered pretzels for Lindsey’s school fundraiser, and so I took delivery of them. (They’re excellent. Just ask my co-workers, with whom I shared them on Monday.) So the three of us talked for a bit at Cosí, then made the rounds of Dupont shopping: Kemp Mill, Lambda Rising, Second Story, and The Left Bank, one of my favorite little stores, which is unfortunately closing soon. All their non-photo items are half off, and I bought a couple of Tintin posters: “Tintin au Tibet” and “Les Cigares du pharaön.” Good times.

Out of here. Brr. It is cold. It’s just as well I’m leaving for L.A. today, to see Susan, Kesha, and the rest of my peeps. Martha Wainwright plays the Viper Room tomorrow night. Fabulous. Have a great weekend, folks.

And now a recap of last weekend. On Friday night, I re-watched The Fellowship of the Ring on DVD, to get me all ready for the new movie. (By the way, a quick Netflix note: they do rent out multi-disc sets, but each disc counts as a separate selection. So if you want them together, you have to prioritize them consecutively in your queue.) Great movie. I was so wrapped up in it, that in the midst of watching, when I reached over to turn off my heater, whose inner workings were glowing red in the darkened room, I was all, “Ah, the very pit of Mount Doom! Cast the Ring into the fire! No!” Uh, then I snapped out of it.

The next day I went to the Uptown to see The Two Towers. I made the unfortunate miscalculation of arriving mere minutes before the matinee. The theater was packed. The lights dimmed and I scrambled up and down the aisle, once bumping into a rather tall man who seemed not to see me at all, making me feel like, yes, a hobbit. (But the urgency of the imminent screening did not permit us to exchange such witty banter.) Though I tried to get a seat in the balcony, all I could find was second row on the floor. Not only is the Uptown screen huge to begin with, but the second row, my god. It was excruciating. When the screen takes up my entire field of vision, I eventually get dizzy. But had I learned my lesson? No. It’ll be fine, I thought.

I sat down in the middle of the row, next to two people who had apparently just come from the anti-war protest that morning. They still had their signs with them. Nice to know that even protesters can make time in their day for popular entertainment. Heh. As for the movie: it was good, as far as I could tell from the segments when I didn’t have my eyes closed, fighting off nausea. This isn’t a reflection on the quality of the movie itself, of course. I’m going to see it again soon — from a reasonable viewing distance next time — and post a proper review then.

For now, I will say that I found the battle scene, or more aptly put, the climactic orgy of death and destruction, a bit much. But eh, I expect that. Also I would’ve liked to see more of the Merry and Pip storyline with the Ents. And on another front, I can safely say: yes, Sam loves Frodo.

Dude. So, today Andrew Sullivan (I hate labels on principle, but for argument’s sake, let’s call him a “gay conservative pundit”) wrote a bit about Joe Millionaire on his website, an excerpt of which follows: “This isn’t gold-digging; it’s self-protection. And prudence. Men are far less sensible. I realized this when it dawned on me that I found Mr Millionaire far more attractive when I realized he was a construction worker. Maybe Fox should do a gay version where the contestants for the guy’s, er, heart are first told he’s a construction worker and later given the awful news that he’s a millionaire merchant banker. They’d be crushed.”

I sent him an e-mail:

We might be crushed by the big game-show lie, but, heck, in a gay version of Joe Millionaire (or The Bachelorette or whatever dating show du jour), there’s the possibility of the contestants hooking up with each other. Everyone wins! Where do I sign up?

— Jeff

And he replies:

that’s the consolation prize! sign me up too

— andrew

Ha. That’s today’s brush — more like a very light graze, really — with fame. Well, I think it’s cool. Speaking of hot mbillionaires, there’s Lachlan Murdoch, publisher of the New York Post and heir to the media empire of his father, Rupert. (Photo here with his old man.) I saw him last night on Charlie Rose, and was like, wow.

Current favorite song. “Across the Night” by Silverchair. At work, I’ve taken to listening to Real.com’s CD Listening Parties, and Diorama‘s been on there for a while. I love songs like this that have distinct segments and changes of mood. About three minutes into the song and again at 3’15”, for example, there are definite shifts. It’s no “Bohemian Rhapsody” (which comes to mind as a modern exemplar of a mini-symphony with movements, say), but it’s great nonetheless. I’m also reminded of Rufus’ “Sonnet 29,” which deftly changes, swelling as it progresses, and finally returns to its initial, simple and plucky orchestration.

The morning after. My newly coined phrase is “work hangover” : noun : the accumulation of work and other tasks past due, which remain unfinished due to procrastination. As in, “Dude, I came back after the holiday, and had a massive work hangover.” Thanks to a flurry of actual work-related activity the past few days, I got over my year-end hangover just yesterday, and can start on new stuff. Look at me, being all productive. However, this is one kind of hangover you can’t just sleep off. If only.

My great achievements of the day: I woke up at the crack of dawn and got to the office earlier than I ever have in my two-and-a-half-year tenure, and returned home with lots of time to do laundry and (here’s the kicker) fold my clothes instead of tossing them into a pile in the middle of the floor. Go me. I’m starting to shift my sleep schedule a few hours earlier. It’s all very radical, I tell you.

The evening went downhill from there when I tuned in to American Idol. Good lord. They call that a premiere? It was an hour and a half of bad and really bad auditions (with but a sprinkle of talent here and there). An hour and a half of my life that I’d like back, thank you very much. However, I will admit to some morbid train-wreck fascination with it. You watch this dreck and start to think, “Hey, I can sing better than this!” So if anything, it’s a hypothetical self-esteem boost all around.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

— Martin Luther King, Jr.

Click here to read the full text of King’s speech, delivered in Washington, D.C. on Aug. 28, 1963.

I got some take-out Chinese food for lunch last week, and only the other day remembered to open the fortune cookie, which had been sitting, still in its cellophane wrapper, on my desk. It reads, “The small steps you take will ultimately bring you great fortune.” Small steps? What you sayin’, fortune cookie? Oh, am I here to amuse you? Don’t you mess with me. I will take you down. You’re goin’ DOWN, cookie! Ahem.

Good night. Ah, very sleepy. At least my cough is slowly getting better. I guess I’ll read up on the Golden Globes in the morning, and I’ll post my weekend wrap-up tomorrow: Lord of the Rings immersion; and Lindsey, Lucy, and I take a whirl ’round Dupont Circle.