Things I am Thinking About This Week

-Sorry it's been so long. Sometimes the world makes too difficult for me to compose my thoughts. Between gay bashings, gay torturings, Obama's idiocy regarding DOMA and DADT, Carl Paladino's iciocy, a brief bout with a seasonal cold, and what might be a touch of early seasonal-affective disorder or plain old creative comedown, I have felt too spread out to make any real sense.

-We saw La Bête on Broadway, which starred a very underused David Hyde Pierce and Joanna Lumley, being steamrolled over by the very good, but very exhausting and not particularly specifically-memorable, Mark Rylance. All the performances are quite lovely, but they are, sadly, weighted down by this play that, well, I just didn't want any part of after fifteen minutes. In writing circles, we might say "I am not the audience for this work."

-Delores Van Cartier, which is the name of the lounge-singer in disguise played by Whoopi Goldberg in "Sister Act," is the best name I've heard in a while.

-Is Sister Act ever really coming to Broadway?

-I found it fascinating that there was press regarding the fact that Jonathan Franzen's fantastic novel "Freedom" was not nominated for the National Book Award. (I found the book to be wholly-engrossing, purely pleasurable, and carefully, wisely written. Pretty fucking fantastic.) It was as if people couldn't stop talking about how they are ready to stop talking about it.

-Does anybody still order transcripts from television talk shows?

-Kip is sitting next to me on the couch, making us a White Tree of Gondor from aluminum armature and sculpey. I am the luckiest guy in the universe.

As Featured In

Many months ago, they made a movie called "The Backup Plan" with Jennifer Lopez. In it, she is a single lady who falls in love with a cheese farmer. And this cheese farmer sells his cheese as a farmer's market that, at least in the film, is a Hollywood-looking version of the Union Square Greenmarket. Deep Mtn. Maple, whose farm I work for, sent dozens of empty bottles to be filled with tea, or some other brown liquid, so that the maple syrup stand in the film--this is supposed to be the Northeast, remember, not a California backlot--would look real. This attention to subtlety would give the film's audience an almost unconscious sense of place. Or maybe it would be totally unconscious, since this is as much screen time as we got: (See that yellow tent behind JLo that says "Deep Mountain?")


Interestingly, or perhaps not interestingly, there is also a shot of this stand.....Northeast farm fail.

Some Assholes of Late

1) The Supreme Court of the United States
Okay, only five of them were assholes, but it was enough for the outcome of Citizens United v. the Federal Election Commission to end in granting corporations the "right" to spend unlimited amounts of cash on elections. Because if there's anything we need in this world, it's more corporate influence over what people see and think about--especially when those things we are supposed to think about are candidates who support or don't support the interests of those corporations.

2) Live Nation / Ticketmaster / Department of Justice
Last week, the Department of Justice decided, after about a year of investigation, that Ticketmaster and Live Nation, two enormous, controlling, for-profit, monopolizing companies could merge into one company....as long as they divvied the pieces up in a way that made, well, some kind of sense to the DOJ -- including forcing Ticketmaster to license it's ticket-selling software to other outlets. (What other outlets, you are probably asking.) Live Nation had the balls to say this: "This is a good and exciting day for the music business, and we are close to finalizing the creation of a new company that will seek to transform the way artists distribute their content and fans can access that content." Call me crazy, but I can't see how any of this will mean anything other than more fees and even more limited access to the rather static number of tickets available to events.

3) James Cameron
When accepting the Golden Globe for best picture, James Cameron said: "....If they start the music, it's going to be an ugly scene. No, this is quick, uh, you know, I just wanna tell you kind of how I feel right now, this is such an exciting evening and just walking through here, walking in here with all you, you, great creative amazing people, I look around this room and I see the faces of the people that I respect, that I've admired for years, some of you I know and have worked with, many of you I'd love to have the opportunity to work with, and I just think, 'This is the best job in the world.' You know? It just really is. And I just want you to give it up for yourselves....You know, Avatar, I guess asks us to see--they're telling me to wrap it up, but they're afraid to start the music--Avatar asks us to see that everything is connected, all human beings to each other, and us to the earth, and you know, if you have to go four and a half light years to another, made-up planet to appreciate this miracle of a world we have right now, you know what, that's the wonder of cinema right there. That's the magic. Thank you." What a fucking douchebag. What's going to happen if they start playing the music, Jim? What other stupid threats can you lay out on the table? They want to play the music, but they are so afraid!

An Open Letter to New York State Senators Aubertine, Addabbo, Diaz, Huntley, Kruger, Monserrate, Onorato, and Sachowski

Dear State Senators,

The votes that each of you cast yesterday should fill you with shame. When you returned to your homes in the evening, to your spouses and children and beside tables, did you feel a sense of accomplishment? Did you think that you had honored your commitment to democracy and government? Or did you wake choking in the middle of the night, grasping desperately for a glass of water, your body caught in the twisted sheets, knowing that the choice you made was the resentful, hateful, bigoted choice of a coward?

I am afraid that you slept soundly. I am afraid that you think that this is just how some things go in Albany, that votes don't mean what they really mean. I am afraid that you cannot see what you have done. I am afraid that because of your ignorance you do not understand that your votes are not simply votes to deny the rights of thousands of loving, hopeful, trusting, giving, caring and tax-paying people--many of whom voted for you--the right to happiness, and equal protection. Your votes are expressions of pure, unequivocal hate. You have said: It's okay to hate gay people.

Do you understand that heterosexual marriages are actually made less sacred by the choices that you have made? Do you understand that if the love between two women who wish to marry is a threatening advance on the stability of your marriage, then your marriage has no stability at all?

Though you may not see it, this is not simply a vote against gay people who want to share a life together. This is a vote against every gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or questioning child that gets bullied, beaten, assaulted and abused--on the playground, in classrooms, and in the very communities that you represent. Your vote is a vote against their future.

Of all the reasons to have the institution of marriage open to every one of this country's citizens, perhaps the most important is this: So that our gay and lesbian children feel valid. So they can grow up to be productive, loving, active members of the American idea in action. Your vote has said to them, loud and clear, that your neighborhood and your government thinks that you are worthless. That worthlessness, which is the worthlessness that you have incited, encouraged and have now perpetuated, will cause some of those children to attempt suicide. Some of those who try to kill themselves will succeed. They will shoot themselves with guns, or hang themselves in closets, or slice open their fragile young wrists.

I hope that when this happens--and sadly, terribly, regretfully, it will happen--that you are visited by their ghosts in the night. I hope that the dark room you are sleeping in turns suddenly cold. I hope your body feels icy, frozen with the knowledge of what you've done. I hope that you wake shaking, and screaming in fear.

Sincerely,

Lee Houck

How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons from a Syrup Slinger, Vol. 3

"How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons Learned from a Syrup Slinger" is a blog series that emerged from my years of experience selling maple syrup at the Union Square Greenmarket. The mission of this sporadic, multi-part series is to teach the citizens of New York how to be polite, intelligent, interested consumers, without acting like imbeciles.

Lesson #3: What, Do You Think We're Dragging our Minks through Monaco?

A woman came to the stand yesterday and opened with "I don't want to pay that much." Seriously, that was her answer to my initial "Hello." She seemed to think that she was the one who decided the price, with this carefree whoop-dee-do about it. She wanted a gallon of syrup. "I'll take one of these for forty-five," she said, just like that, case closed. "I'm sorry, I can't do that," I said. Then she said the thing that people say when they want to be assholes: "Well then, I'm going to talk to the manager."

People who say this are often disappointed to discover that 1) We are not like the grocery store, where one dude is in charge of all the aisles. Hello, each stand is its own entity. 2) I am the manager, and you're not getting your gallon of syrup for $13 less. 3) The Greenmarket managers could give a shit.

Let me just say this. If you think that prices at the farmer's market are inflated then you're an idiot. And if you think that the farmers and their workers are living it up, renting penthouses in Vegas, downing bags of blow and laughing their asses off because you were foolish enough to pay--$8 !!--for that eight ounces of syrup, then you need to get over your sad-sack miserable-me of a self.

Bios that Might Have Been, Vol. 2

For more than thirty years, Lee Houck has taught the most popular elective on the campus of Hoodoo University in Kent, "No, Seriously," which has been profiled in reality-style television on the BBC, the CDC, the DMV and the PCP. His scholarly papers have been given (and received) in more countries that he cares to list, although Sweden is not one of them. More recently, he has produced a line of teacher-helpers, including pointing things, snooty-looking glasses, grade-giving-mechanisms, and advanced bits of technology that allow small felt boards to become large felt boards, at least temporarily. He is currently the Hambone-on-Okra Scholar in Semi-Residence.

Things My Upstairs Neighbors Must Have Recently Acquired

-Trampoline.
-Pony.
-Bowling lane.
-Half-dozen semi-retired Irish step dancers.
-Chain-gang.
-Carpenter stilts for a two-year old insomniac.
-Visit from the Harlem Globetrotters.
-Landmines.
-Sack of Anvils.
-Night School of Continuing Education for Overweight Men Majoring in Jackhammering.
-Balrog.
-Living-room parking spaces for earth-moving machines.
-Semi-precious stone quarry.
-French Hotchkiss H-39 tank.
-New dumb insults which you scream at your wife in other languages.
-Large heavy objects that want to crash to the floor over and over.
-Even heavier objects that you thought couldn't get any heavier.

WUUFF / DIET SUV

No on H8

It's been many years since I joined the throngs of fervent, angry, optimistic activists, carrying signs and candles, marching down Broadway in support of some cause or another. When I began taking my writing seriously--that is to say, when I began writing intentionally, for the purpose of writing--something in my perspective shifted, and I became even more of an observer. For better or for worse*, it has become increasingly impossible for me to include myself in the rants--"What do we want? Equality! When do we want it? Now!" My own thinking became separate from the We, and I always think of the protesters as They. What do they want? When do they want it?

But Prop 8 changed things. And last night, with more than 10,000 other people--from what I saw this morning, the AP reported roughly 10,000; estimates from within the crowd were at about 16,000--I marched in protest of California's decision to deny equal rights to thousands of its queer neighbors. We began outside the Mormon Temple at 65th Street--surely it was empty. Surely they were wise enough to go home early? When we first arrived on the scene, I kept thinking, Why isn't everyone spread out? Why aren't they blocking traffic? Why aren't they climbing the face of the temple and pouring buckets of fake blood down the front of it?** Once the energy and numbers came to a head, we marched slowly down Broadway and into Columbus Circle. People in cars cheered and honked. People leaned out of their windows and off their balconies and cheered. It was great.

My queerness separates me from the heteronormal relationship model, and that's the way I like it. A few years ago, when it became clear that gay marriage would be a huge dividing line in the queer and straight communities, I didn't really see myself as part of the movement. I don't exactly agree that "marriage" is our greatest need. In fact, I think the religious right picked the issue for us, as a way to force decision-makers to take a stand. And here we go again, unable to define our own movement, our own self-identity. The right to marry, in itself, does not serve the primary needs of most of queer culture--you could argue that it actually further marginalizes an already marginalized group of human beings. (Add that marriage is a religious institution grown out of patriarchy, and now existing primarily in the realm of capitalism and this bizarre notion that "we are just like you.")

The gay community needs to address the fact that its face is primarily one of gay white males, who--for various reasons: race, class, power--have become the loudest voice in the marriage movement. I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that our white male privilege has left us feeling more entitled to those rights, and therefore more affronted when they are taken away, or perhaps anger is a more acceptable reaction for white males. And in a state like California, people of color are going to have to get behind your idea. And I wonder if there was enough outreach into those communities--did a bunch of gay white men want to pass out information in a black church? And would they have been welcome? The gay community needs to address its own racism. The black and Latino communities need to address their homophobia--and true, most social movements in those communities begin in their churches.

But I wonder, too, about the choice to target Mormons, a religious group who's (arguably) been persecuted enough. But I realize the issues that are setting people off--the fact that roughly $20M of Mormon money was spent to fund advertising (among other things) that was made up of lies. And I think people are using Mormonism as a stepping off point to talk about the entire religious right's involvement in politics, and about any church's involvement in the state. I don't object to a religious group getting muscle behind an idea, but I do resent the money spent on absolute false presentations. If you're a Mormon in Texas who gave $50 to the cause, you should be upset, too, that in your name someone financed lies and signed hate into law. Did you know this when you signed the check? (It occurs to me that they probably did.)

All that said, the passing of Prop 8 in California is hateful, vengeful, disgusting, and wrong. It makes me sick to my stomach. No amount of talk about movements and faces of movements, about privilege and whiteness, capitalism and patriarchy, change the fact that what it finally boils down to is this: people want to love one another. And they want to say publicly that they are willing to take a chance. Even in the face of the fact that half--HALF--of all marriages end in divorce, that's how optimistic us gays are. We're willing to sign our names on the line for even a 50% chance at happiness.

I felt a part of something last night, as fractured as my feelings are about the issue. Kip and I held hands, we held each other. There were so many men kissing each other, both in greetings and out of love. One our way to the subway, I heard someone say, "New York is totally next."



*Sometimes I wonder if this ambivalence has made me a better writer, but a more distant person. Or the opposite. Probably, neither is true.

**Okay, theatrics. But hey, I'm one for drama. Kip kept reminding me that this was to be a "peaceful" protest. I heard some conservative news programs claiming that "gays" were "rioting" all over the country in response to Prop 8--so I figure, if they're going to report that, then hell, we might as well riot.

Back from the Brink

What a lag! I've been thinking of you, I just couldn't seem to get it together.

--Kip and I hosted our annual pumpkin-carving fete last night. Cory took first prize with his spider-web pumpkin, and Ross nabbed second place with his one-eyed, slightly-goofy, slightly-adorable looking pumpkin. Kip had it in his mind that this was some kind of Oktoberfest thing, what with brats and beer, but when it came down to it, I didn't really want to cook anything as boring as that -- not without a grill, at least -- and so I made pulled pork tacos with rice and beans. Also, a veggie medley for Joe. Plus this amazing tomatillo salsa with green apples. I thought it was good. People seemed to eat it up. Note to everyone: When you serve tacos, chop more cilantro than you think they will eat, and the same with cheese. (Props to Cory and Sean, friends who I adore, who made the long-ass trek from one borough to another.)

--While I was in Chicago, I saw about 30 minutes of The Duchess, the new movie with Kiera Knightly. We sat in on that one before seeing Burn After Reading, which was the movie we bought tickets to see. Ms. Knightly is absolutely amazing in it -- nobody does that period piece stuff like she does, it's like she was born to play The Duchess, and I sort of want to see the whole movie now. SPOLER ALERT!! Does she eventually just trade babies with the other girl?

--I'm reading at Nowhere Bar toward the end of November.

--Someone told me the other day that they thought healthcare was something that should be "earned" and not just "given away." This, naturally, changed my opinion about this person. I wondered what a person is supposed to do if they get cancer and yet they haven't earned their right to healthcare yet? And what is this person's criteria for earning your healthcare? Rising to a certain class? Whiteness? Ugh.

--The best news: I am feeling optimistic. About everything.

Off to Chicago / My Sisiphean Moment

I am off to Chicago for a few days of frolicking through their city blocks, seeing beaucoups de old friends, and hopefully eating lots and lots until all I can do is lay flat. I'm back in the middle of the week.

People ask me sometimes what it's like to work at the Greenmarket. One of the things I sell is maple candy, and just because today was one of those days where the sun is shining, the leaves are beautiful, the breeze is cool--and the people don't stop asking the same friggin' question over and over--I thought I would sort of be grumpy about the whole thing and give you this, the standard exchange:

-How much is the candy?
-It's $15 per pound, with no minimum.
-Can I just get a few pieces?
-Yes, there is no minimum.
-Well how much for a little bit?
-It depends on the weight.
-Well, like how much?
-Anywhere from about 50 cents up to a pound.
-But I don't want to buy a pound.
-I said there is NO MINIMUM.
-So how much is just a little bit?

Now try that 9,000 times in a row.

Open Letters, Vol. 7

Dear Commerce Bank,

What person, or most likely what committee, at what advertising firm, decided that the new Commerce Bank "push pin" campaign was a good one? Okay, everywhere there is a bank branch, there is a giant push pin on a map--great, got that part.

But then a GIANT, Claes Oldenburg-stylin' push pin comes flying down from the sky like a missile, pierces the hood of a taxi cab and drives the metal point through the engine? Are you serious? In another spot, a push pin lands in the concrete, cracking the sidewalk and bursting a water main.

Will this push-pin assault make me want to give you my hard-earned money? Is terror-from-above really what you're going for?

Sincerely,

Lee

The Exploding Plastic Inevitable

At the Greenmarket on Friday, Laura, my syrup-slinging cohort, got into an argument with a customer about a plastic bag. The woman bought an eight-ounce bottle of syrup, thanked us, then said, and I quote: "I'll just put it in my purse." She started walking away and I thought the transaction had gone like all 1000 others that day, simple, quick, without any particular interest. I was wrong.

When she got about ten feet away from the table, she turned and came back. "You know what, I have a bad arm, maybe you can give me a bag." We hear this kind of thing all the time. People lay their insecurities out for you for no reason. "I have a bad arm, so I need a bag." "I'm worried about it, so I need a bag." "Do you think this is a good gift, I need a bag." I'm never surprised at people's endless ability to just tell you things you didn't need to know about them, just to alleviate their guilt about taking ONE MORE plastic bag.

Because what it always comes down to is people not caring enough about the problem. Smart, educated, well-meaning people, with an armload of plastic bags. One for eggs, one for tomatoes, one for fish, one for maple syrup. "I can't put it in her because there are vegetables." What? The syrup doesn't care if it nestles in with the cousa squash. Or the canteloupe. Or the frozen links of Russian sausage.

The truth is, if you are careful, and care enough, all of these things can go in your canvas bag. This will make the farmers very happy. Because not only does it save the planet, it saves us from having to buy more plastic bags. Everyone wins.

We need to get rid of them. We, the farmers, should just stop all together. If none of us had plastic bags, then no one could use them, or over use them, and I think it would take about two weeks for everyone to start using canvas, or reusable bags. I think it's our job to lead the way. The people are sheep, and farmer's have always been intrepid idealists (well, sort of).

Laura then said to the customer, "We like to discourage people from taking plastic bags, if they already have one." At this point, the lady went basically insane. "Where is the person in charge?" At first I thought she was talking about me, as I am, ostensibly, Laura's boss--whatever that means. But no, she meant the Greenmarket managers, whom she promptly brought over to my stand. After some back and forth about who said what, and her "bad arm," I gave her the bag she so desperately needed. She balled the bag around the bottle of syrup, and put both bag and syrup into her purse.

See what I mean?

"I'm going to write a letter!" she screamed. I hope she does.

Hard Day's Work

Saturday at the Greenmarket was one of those days. By 9:00am, here's what had happened:

--I got chewed out by someone who claimed I was not at the market the week prior. I was. I would know, wouldn't I? I think I know where I am, usually.

--A woman berated me for not warning her that she should not put the aluminum can of syrup into the microwave to heat it up. "You should really tell people about that," she said. "Where have you been since the dawn of microwave technology?" I wanted to ask.

--Someone informed me that I could make a lot more money if only I had "better containers." I don't know what containers would be better. And she didn't suggest any, but just walked away.

--A father suggested that I be careful to sweep up the area around the candy jars so that children don't pick the tiny bits off the ground and eat them. Seriously.