Author: Jeff Tabaco

Next month Marvel Comics’ cowboy hero The Rawhide Kid comes back in print, and comes out, subtly but unequivocally. Of the Lone Ranger, he quips, “I just want to meet him. I think that mask and powder-blue outfit are fantastic. I can certainly see why that Indian follows him around.” Ha. My favorite promo line from the website is “No one handles a hot rod like the Rawhide Kid!” Gee, someone’s having fun over there at Marvel. Issue Number 1 goes on sale the week of Feb. 6.

Love among men (and hobbits and elves, oh my!). Though the purported (remember, I have yet to see the movie) homoerotic undertones in The Two Towers are tantalizing and encouraging, and I’m definitely not one to object, I am moved to note the following: such a reaction, even whether positive, is simply a function of our deep-seated homophobic (there, I said it) social conventions. Imagine if men were allowed to express friendship openly and affectionately, the way women can. A sensitive, caring Fellowship wouldn’t seem so extraordinary. But it’s not the case, because specific gender roles are so ingrained in our collective behavior. These change over time, to be sure, and lines are continually blurred–that‘s what’s encouraging–but these conventions, embedded in our cultural subconscious, are forces to be reckoned with.

Hm. I didn’t mean for this to turn into such a serious ramble, so I’ll leave it at that. For now.

P.S. Queered out yet? (Ooh, I like that word now: “queered.” Like “weird.” Anyway.) Fine. Here’s an interesting little essay (albeit from the conservative Claremont Institute) on the political undertones of The Two Towers, both the book and movie.

And lastly, I found out about this through one of the Stanford alumni mailing lists: don’t know what to do with your old cell phone? Donate it to the Call To Protect campaign to prevent domestic violence. The foundation pre-programs used, inactive phones with 911 and other emergency numbers, and distributes them to domestic violence victims, so they can access emergency assistance quickly, if the need arises. Sounds like a good cause to me. I’ll send in my old Nokia; it’s just been sitting in a shoebox for a while now, and could use a new purpose in life.

I laughed. I cried. Really. Talk to Her (“Hable con ella”), the latest flick from Pedro Almodóvar, is quirky, funny, disturbing, heartstring-tugging. A must-see that keeps you on your toes. (Yes, I’m a ghostwriter for Roger Ebert.) An interesting tidbit from the Salon.com review:

As in most Almodóvar movies, the homoerotic subtext isn’t a subtext at all—it’s a mysterious, shifting glimmer of light that floats on the surface of the story. That’s one of the things that make Almodóvar’s movies so freeing; he has no interest in hanging helpful identification labels on the nebulous (or not so nebulous) attraction between unlikely people.

Very true. And for those of you making early Oscar picks, Talk to Her isn’t eligible for Best Foreign-Language Film, because Spain has already picked another movie as its official entry. Pity. (Nominations will be announced Tuesday, Feb. 11).

Last weekend I saw Far from Heaven. Julianne Moore and Dennis Quaid are well-cast. The thing is, not only does it take place in the 1950s, the stylistic touches seem to be of the period as well: very melodramatic, from the opening titles to the music to the camera angles (lots of “dun dun DUN” moments). It’s an homage to an earlier era of filmmaking–and all the more refreshing because it deals with homosexuality in ways that films of that time did not, of course–and as long as you keep that in mind, it’s entertaining without being parodic. Well, okay, there are a few giggle-worthy moments (at least with the audience when I saw it), especially in Moore’s portrayal, restrained but barely over-the-top, of the perfect ‘50s housewife.

I suppose I never got around to recounting the events of my trip to New York last month with Rajani and Subarna. Here goes. We stayed at this swank little place called Hotel Giraffe. It’s decorated in a 1930s style, and our room had a small balcony that looked out onto the intersection of Park Avenue and 26th Street. I had arrived just in time for the weekday wine and cheese reception. There are also complimentary refreshments available ’round the clock.

We went on a little culinary escapade, and had dinner at Jaya, a Malaysian place on Baxter Street, and then continued on for dessert in Little Italy, all lit up for the holidays. At some point (I don’t remember now), we ended up at Grand Central station, which I had never gotten around to seeing on previous trips to Manhattan. What an architectural wonder. Back at the hotel, on the rooftop is a little terrace, and despite the cold, we three had a lovely time out there, talking into the wee hours.

That Saturday we went to the Cloisters, a wonderful setting for an extensive collection of medieval art. This is me and Subarna, on the way up to the site, with the Hudson in the distance:

And here are more photos of Rajani and Subarna, and the Cloisters tower. Afterwards, we headed to Brooklyn for Mark Morris’ totally irreverent and entertaining Nutcracker send-up, The Hard Nut, performed at BAM. We were seated way up in the gods and came in a bit late, but it was all great nonetheless. By evening, Subarna left for home, and Rajani and I rounded out the day’s entertainment with a fantastic show, Thoroughly Modern Millie, followed by a late-night bite at Roxy’s.

On Sunday morning, we left, Rajani by plane and I by train, concluding a wildly successful second annual Winter Weekend Summit in New York.

The Post‘s Hank Steuver takes a stab at what’s in and out. It’s a pretty strange list, and the few readers who’ve chimed in on the forums concur with me. Of note:

Nix the Tin-Tin haircuts once and for all, guys, (especially you gay fellers) and think shaggy and sloppy, a la Jake Gyllenhaal and Conor Oberst. (A veritable zit-geist!)

Ha. Being a wearer of said haircut, I’m actually more amused than offended. I happen to like my new ‘do, and am glad to have finally found a name for it, rather than what I usually try to communicate to my hairdresser as “clipped on the sides and back, a little longer on the top, and spiked up at the front.” (I myself admit, it’s pretty gay, at least stereotypically, but I daresay that’s what I like about it.) Heh, Tin-Tin. Nice.

And by the way, to keep my coif in tip-top Tin-Tin shape, I use Salon Selectives control[D] substance. It’s wonderfully goopy and smells like apples. (The website specifies: “…with a twist of cucumber and Asian pear.”) I’ve had to stop myself from spreading it on toast. Repeatedly.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — Whee, I’m back. The plane I took from SFO to O’Hare was decorated inside for New Year’s with little streamers every few rows. Passengers weren’t exactly dancing in the aisle–it was a redeye departing at 11:45 p.m.–but it was festive nonetheless. The gate agent who checked my ID said she’d never seen a D.C. license before. I know, it’s not a big deal, but I felt special anyway.

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions, but I suppose if I write them down for all the world to see, I’d be more likely to follow through. Anyway, all of my resolutions are boring ones that one doesn’t have to (or shouldn’t) wait until New Year’s to make. Here goes, in no particular order:

• Spend online time more productively. I was going to say “spend less time online,” but the point is to be more efficient. Yes, I consider blogging to be a productive activity, but not aimless websurfing. It’s the latter I need to do less of. Then perhaps I might actually get stuff done at work.
• Watch my health. This encompasses a whole host of subresolutions. Every month I pay a hefty fee to Washington Sports Club, but do I ever go? Hardly. I should change that. And I need to get more sleep and eat healthy, i.e., more vegetables and so forth. A healthy Jeff is a happy one.
• Spend less money, a.k.a. Do I really need a new Palm Pilot? (I really do. Grr.) For me 2001 was a year of excesses (mostly rampant wanderlust), and in ’02 I was better about it, and now it’s time to really buckle down. One of my first acts will be to return the piano I’ve been renting for almost a year now. Yeah, I know, it’s a shame. (Sayang, as they say in Tagalog.) But I spend so little quality time actually playing it, that in the whole financial scheme of things, it’s becoming a bad investment. Also, I’m sure I have stuff I can hawk on eBay.

Yikes, these are kind of depressing. How about a couple of positive resolutions:

• Feed my brain. I’ll brush up on Spanish (review grammar, read more literature), and get back to French. And plain read, read, read.
• Meet people. I don’t mean in a solely relationship kind of way, but just people. Easier said than done. I moved here a little over two years ago, not knowing a soul in town, and I’ve found that outside of a school or workplace context, there are relatively few opportunities to make friends unless you go out and do so. They don’t just fall into your lap. (Well, at least not before a few drinks.) I need to interact: say, take a class, get involved in community theater, or do some volunteer or activist work. Something like that.

I’m sure I’ll think of more. Tonight I head back to the East Coast, and back to the workaday grind.

My new TV pastime is watching my usual sitcoms in Spanish on the second audio program (SAP), with the English closed-captions. Did I mention I’m easily, or rather, oddly amused? (This is akin to my habit of fiddling with my DVD settings, so as to watch originally English-language movies in alternative languages like French with subtitles, for that foreign film effect.) So far I’ve watched The Simpsons and Will & Grace. I’d say of the Spanish cast, the voice of Marge sounds most like her English counterpart.

Auld lang syne. So here’s a fond farewell to 2002. Thanks for reading, all you Rebel rousers, you. ‘Til next year!