Robert David Sullivan

Blogging update: Sitcoms, politics, and anything else you're interested in

My blog posts may be shorter this week, since I have deadlines for the freelance work that actually provides me with an income (writing and editing on public policy matters). But I welcome new readers and will try to keep the Top 100 Sitcom Episodes countdown proceeding on schedule.

Older readers of the blog may wonder what happened to posts on politics, urban life, Boston, and the like. There will be some more political posts as we get closer to the fall (like my 100-year charts and my piece on "What Each State Does Best in Presidential Politics"). Other stuff depends on my work schedule and my success rate at finding interesting experiences.

Please comment or e-mail if you have suggestions, questions, rebuttals, etc. Thanks for reading!

 

Blog update for late August

Sorry for the light blogging, but do you really need more punditry about the race for the GOP presidential nomination? Or an "I don't know who Kim Kardashian is" post?

I'm working on a few projects between copy-editing gigs and naïvely hopeful job applications, some of which involve city life and Census data. There's also an exploration of classic sitcom episodes in the works (suggestions welcome). 

This week I'm traveling to Philadelphia for the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association convention. After that, I plan to ramp up the blog posts. If the yoga classes don't take up too much time.

 

Why are American Catholics so gay for gay rights?

I'm not shocked, and certainly not disappointed, by a poll showing that most American Catholics disagree with their own church on gay rights. Though evangelical Protestants sometimes think they can make common cause with the once-reviled papists on "pelvic issues," the Vatican can't deliver many votes in American elections.

Why do so many American Catholics disregard their marching orders on sexual matters? I'm struck by one piece of data near the end of the report by the Public Religion Research Institute: 69 percent of polled Catholics say that one's sexual orientation cannot be changed, higher than the 63 percent among all Americans (and presumably much higher than the corresponding figure among evangelical Protestants).

The Catholic Church may have itself to blame for this, since social scientists are nearly unanimous in concluding that de-gayification programs are bunk, and the Vatican generally accepts the validity of scientific research. For example, I'm sure there are some Catholic creationists, but the Church does not have any problem with the theory of evolution (or the idea that the Earth has been around for 4 billion years), merely arguing that however we got here, God must have started the process. Kentucky's Creation Museum is a product of the Protestant Bible Belt; most Catholic priests would be embarrassed by it.

While more conservative Protestant denominations can simply tell gays to "stop being that way," Catholics find it harder to overlook the evidence that sexual orientation is unchangeable. The Church says, "We know you can't stop being that way, so just don't ever have sex," but most Catholics find this an unrealistic (and even cruel) position, so they reject it, much as they long ago decided to ignore the Church's ban on birth control.

It's remarkable that American Catholics don't follow the Vatican line, but the headlines may oversell the idea that Catholics are more gay-friendly than the US as a whole. Here are the PRRI's top bullet points on its press release:

Excuses, excuses

Just touching base with regular readers...

Longer posts are coming soon! I've been preoccupied with the Census data for Massachusetts released on Tuesday, a poll showing that American Catholics are really gay for gay rights, a study purporting that liberals and conservatives don't agree on what's funny, the Big Love finale, and my continuing effort to put together a list of essential sitcom episodes.

I've also wasted a lot of time checking Facebook and Twitter to find out what other people are doing for fun. This probably isn't a good way to deal with writer's block.

Why shy people cheer the death of the telephone

In one of its trend pieces that I hope to be true, the New York Times has declared that the telephone is falling out of favor. Pamela Paul makes the case:

“I literally never use the phone,” Jonathan Adler, the interior designer, told me. (Alas, by phone, but it had to be.) “Sometimes I call my mother on the way to work because she’ll be happy to chitty chat. But I just can’t think of anyone else who’d want to talk to me.” Then again, he doesn’t want to be called, either. “I’ve learned not to press ‘ignore’ on my cellphone because then people know that you’re there.”

“I remember when I was growing up, the rule was, ‘Don’t call anyone after 10 p.m.,’ ” Mr. Adler said. “Now the rule is, ‘Don’t call anyone. Ever.’ ”

Phone calls are rude. Intrusive. Awkward. “Thank you for noticing something that millions of people have failed to notice since the invention of the telephone until just now,” Judith Martin, a k a Miss Manners, said by way of opening our phone conversation. “I’ve been hammering away at this for decades. The telephone has a very rude propensity to interrupt people.”

I have a feeling that Paul, and most of her sources, are men and women with a healthy amount of self-confidence. That's because the article never hints at the biggest problem people like me have with the phone. It's not intrusiveness. In fact, my instrument (as Ernestine always called it) has never been busy enough for me to complain about it.

No, shy people hate the telephone for a simpler reason: You can't see how the person on the other end is reacting to what you're saying! If you have a lot of self-esteem, this isn't a problem (I'm guessing). You just assume that the other person wants to talk with you — or, in the occasional adversarial call, is afraid not to talk with you. Not seeing the person's face isn't a huge disadvantage, and it can even make things easier not to see him rolling his eyes or distracting himself by checking Facebook.

Blog and Twitter updates, begorra

It's St. Patrick's Day, one of three times a year that I avoid Boston bars (New Year's Eve and July 4 being the others), so I'll be doing literal and technological housecleaning today. (Besides, I'm only half-Irish, and my French-Canadian half insists on poutine to accompany any heavy drinking.) A few updates:

• I've started a second Twitter account, @HubStats, to focus on newsy data of interest to my Bay State and more stats-crazed followers. I'll still be tweeting my usual nonsense at @RobertDSullivan.
• I'm updating my "What Each State Does Best in Presidential Elections" post as I find new information and interesting stories about each state.
• My posts about television, which are cross-posted at Extra Criticum with different comment threads, have been a lot of fun to write, and I'm thinking of continuing the discussion of what makes a great sitcom episode. Any suggestions on specific shows to cover are appreciated!
• My posts about music, however, may be on hold for a while. The odd thing is that some of the posts get a lot of traffic (the one about Human Sexual Response's "Jackie Onassis" is the most-viewed item I've ever posted), but I think that's a function of search-engine luck rather than genuine interest. A lot of acquaintances have told me they just don't like them, and my layman's approach may not appeal to people who actually know a lot about music.
• I'm still on the lookout for work, which may lead to some entertainingly humiliating blog posts. But I'd also love to help a Boston-area nonprofit in genuine need of someone with writing/editing/proofreading/HTML skills. Nothing with mindless "busy work," though; that's what temp agencies are for.

 

Rules of conduct for a 47-year-old gay man

I turn 47 later this week, and I want my friends to take away my toaster oven if I ever do any of the following:

*Earnestly explain that I'm only attracted to much younger men. Throw a drink in my face if I ever say something like, "I can't help it, guys my age just don't do anything for me." It is true that I find younger men more attractive, but who doesn't? Men, women, straight, gay -- almost everyone prefers to look at young adults. We even prefer to look at pictures of ourselves when we were younger. It's a matter of biology and aesthetics. This preference does not mean, however, that one "can't" date people of one's own age.

*Argue that twentysomethings are morally obligated to talk to me in bars. Yes, it was tougher growing up gay in the '70s than it is now, and I made things slightly easier for the Gaga-Glee Generation by marching in pride parades and coming out to co-workers when society was more homophobic. That doesn't mean that young guys have to repay me by listening to stories about ACT UP and Queer Nation when they'd rather be on the dance floor. And it certainly doesn't mean that I get a free pass to grope anyone in their 20s. Not wanting to give a lap dance to someone twice your age does not count as "attitude."

*Dress like I'm still in college. If you're an overnight guest in my home, or you invite me into yours, you take the risk of glimpsing some skin that could once be described as porcelain white. (Now it's lumpy, hairy, freckly porcelain white -- which does not look good either on a fabric swatch or on a whole leg.) But if you agree to meet me for brunch, you are not implicitly giving consent to see my knees or armpits. Should I break this rule, you have the right to roll me in a tablecloth and dump me at the nearest WalMart.

 

My Tunes No. 363: "Jackie Onassis," by Human Sexual Response

You want to know how old I am? I remember when it was considered daring to be irreverent about the Kennedy family.

No. 363 on my most-played songs is a nostalgia trip to my freshman year at Boston University, in 1981. I had come from a Catholic household with conservative musical tastes and a strong loyalty to Democrats and Kennedys, so of course I was fascinated by a local New Wave band that mocked JFK's widow. (I had yet to hear about the Dead Kennedys). The band, Human Sexual Response, didn't last very long and didn't make much of a splash nationally, but it had a fierce following in Boston for obvious reasons and was mourned in the same way as a TV series cancelled too soon.

"Jackie Onassis," their biggest hit, sneered at the idea of someone craving attention and simultaneously complaining about her lack of privacy. (The first lines rhyme "Onassis" with "dark sunglasses.") I'm not sure if this is a fair cop against Onassis, whom I don't recall doing anything as transparent as starring in a TV reality show while bitching about the journalist who moved in next door. The song, like the movie Network, may have seemed like outrageous satire then -- and fairly close to the truth now. Regardless, you can dance to it, at least in the diffident style of the early '80s.

I want my portrait done by Andy Warhol/I'll let them market a Jackie O doll

Just let me be Jackie Onassis/Oh, yeah

Adventures in unemployment, by Werner Herzog

Hey, it's my four-month anniversary since leaving my job!

The smallest things become hugely important when you're not working full-time. I'm reminded of this every time I visit my retired parents and hear about such great adventures as "Depositing a Check at the Bank," "Calling Someone at City Hall to Complain About a Cracked Sidewalk," and "Getting a Free Bag of Potatoes for Spending More Than $50 at the Super Stop & Shop" -- all in one week!

Tonight, the big debate was over the proper place to store a small stepladder. My mother wanted to fold it up and tuck it out of sight, under a daybed on the sun porch. My scandalized father insisted "It's not going there!" The stepladder was part of the home-repair constellation of objects, so it had to go in the cellar, even if that meant dragging it up the stairs anytime it was needed. I expect this argument to last for months.

But I'm starting to understand their mindset. Today I had to mail a check and buy stamps, and the four-block walk, which happened to be during a torrential rainstorm, felt like an expedition through the Amazonian rainforest. Mailing that letter was like building the opera house in Fitzcarraldo, and it's a crime that there's no 3D version of my trip.

Illinois town may ban the only thing that got me sent to the principal's office in the 6th grade

When I was in the 6th grade, I was one of the nerdy kids who always did my homework and never got in trouble. I didn't smoke, I never ran in the corridors, and I didn't copy off other kids' test papers. But one day I accidentally discovered that even a Perfect Kid like me could get under the skin of our high-strung teacher.

She had a habit of comparing us to her previous students (as in "I've taught at this school for 20 years, and I've never had a class as rude and ill-mannered as you children!"), and one day I rolled my eyes as she launched into one of her guilt trips. She spotted me and shouted, "That's the kind of thing I mean! Don't roll your eyes when someone is talking!" 

I was ashamed at first, but after school I learned to my astonishment that the incident had earned me some playground cred. Several kids complimented me on my creativity in pissing off the teacher. (Eye-rolling was a bit subtle for sixth-graders; preferred methods of acting out included breaking pencils and throwing books across the room.)

Things to never do (or do again) before I die

First in a series:

1. Run to catch a train, bus, plane, or any moving vehicle unless my tie is caught in a door.

2. Use the cheapest possible method to get from Boston to New York City. (Ta-Ta, Fung Wah!)

3. Eat Ramen Noodles. (But I can’t promise not to use those addictive Ramen spice packets on fresh pasta.)

4. Order something at a restaurant solely to gross out everyone else at the table.

5. Be in any room where kids and pets outnumber adults.

6. Learn to love a dog that bites or can’t be housetrained, regardless of whether I intend to write a book about said dog.

7. Invent an acronym to use in instant messaging. I’d rather P my G out.

8. Spend my last night of vacation in a café emailing people I could just talk to when I get back to Boston.

9. Jingle coins back and forth between my hands while walking through the Mohegan Sun Casino instead of keeping my winnings in a plastic cup like a normal person.

10. Pick up anything round and shiny off the floor in a room full of slot machines, even if it’s my own goddamned money.

11. Say in a sarcastic voice, “Of course she does!” to someone who claims to be a Connecticut state trooper after he tells me that one old-lady slot-machine player is backing up another old-lady slot-machine player’s story that I ran over and snatched her jackpot money off the floor.

12. Expect to have a good time in Connecticut.

Labels: Gambling

Conquering zenophobia

After an especially tense week (mostly spent worrying about how tense this week will be), it seemed a good time to visit the Boston Shambhala Meditation Center for its monthly Queer Buddhist Fellowship meeting. So after a quick lunch at Sushi Time in Downtown Crossing, enlivened by my violent cursing at a packet of soy sauce I couldn’t open, I headed to Brookline Village.

Bill, the group leader, begins the meeting by recognizing the newcomers in the group of 15 or so, and then giving us tips on how to meditate. When I attended Catholic Mass as a child, my mother would have to tell me to stop fidgeting during the boring parts – that is, when the church organ wasn’t blasting and the altar boys weren’t “on stage.” (I wanted to be paying attention in case they made a mistake. Kids live to see other kids screw up.) Buddhist meditation is even more difficult for a fidgeter. One must find a proper kneeling or sitting position that includes a straight back but loose shoulders, and one must try to maintain it for a half-hour or so. Bill tells us that if we start to feel uncomfortable, we should not change positions but instead make “micro adjustments” – wiggle a toe if a foot has fallen asleep, rotate the head slightly if the neck feels sore – and the discomfort should subside.

I don’t believe him at first. After 10 minutes of kneeling on a mat, my back feels so stiff and my stocking feet are splayed at such an odd angle that I’m certain there will be a lot of pain when I finally get up. I cheat – once – by getting up, and I discover that the mounting anticipation of pain was much worse than the microsecond it takes to move my bones back into their accustomed angles. After that, I can take my mind of my posture and concentrate on deep breathing. I can almost ignore the sound of someone scraping ice of the sidewalk just outside the window, a sound that makes me anxious about my long-overdue appointment with the dentist. (I have tartar issues.)

After meditation, we discuss how to manage impulses toward aggression in our daily lives. (That wasn’t the official topic, but aggressive members of the group are the first to speak up, so that’s where the conversation went.) Then it was time for tea and hummus.

All in all, better than my first attempt at Buddhist meditation. That time, I spotted someone who looked familiar on the other side of the prayer room, but he avoided eye contact with me. After meditation, we split up into three discussion groups. When he realized that he was in my group, but he loudly offered to switch places with someone in another group. I began to get peeved. Was he snubbing me? When I left the prayer room, I saw that him sitting on a bench right next to where I had left my shoes, but he jumped up and left as I approached him. South End attitude at a Buddhist temple! Who the hell did he think he was?

It wasn’t until I left that I remembered how I knew him. He was a therapist who I had seen years before. So it would have been unethical for him to acknowledge me first in public. I had seen him, of course, to work on self-esteem issues.

Labels: Boston, Buddhism, gay