Proud:

Had a memorable Pride Weekend which, even though I'm straight, I find reason to celebrate the great things San Francisco has accomplished. Gay rights is something we can all be proud of.

My friend Lucia invited a bunch of us to come watch The Parade (which included Dykes on Bikes, The Mayor, Gay Cheerleaders and Straights for Gay Rights) and hear music from my new favorite band Simon Stinger and my friend Tim'm's band, Deep Dickollective. Chaka Khan was the headliner but by then we were sunbaked and tired and all headed home.

That night, Suzan and I went round and around about what movie we wanted to watch (after suffering through 15 overwraught minutes of Radiohead: Meeting People is Easy and turning it off) and finally settled on And The Band Played On which we had Tivoed. Although it will never have the same place in my heart that the book has, the last 10 minutes, a montage of AIDS related news and casualties set to Elton John's "The Last Song." Suzan and I both sobbed, over all that had died, over all the ghosts that now walk the streets of our city, over innocence lost and painful lessons learned. It reminded both of us that, despite how far we've come, as a city, as a nation, there is much work left, much heavy lifting, repeated reasoning and shoe leather to get us all to believe that the lives of each of us, no matter whom we choose to love, are equal and deserving of our respect.

Finale Fanaticism:

I happen to be obssesed with series finales. I'm sure you are as well. I absolutely must know how every television series ends even if I've never seen a single episode of it (like "St. Elsewhere." Something about a snow globe, right?). I'm sure you have the same problem.

Enter TV Tome, the Idiot Boxes answer to the IMDB. They log every television show you've ever even or even thought of ("It's Your Move" is a long forgotten favorite). I've now wasted untold hours wondering exactly what happened to "Gimmie a Break" and when "L.A. Law" when off the rails. It's been time blissfully, frivolously well spent.

THe Ex-President Nightmare

This is perhaps the scariest picture of President Clinton I've ever seen. He looks like he's about to swallow the camer whole.

Read (and learn) About it:

Terry Teachout gives an enormously valuable list of advice for authors about to embark on book tours where they will be reading in front of people. Some of these I tell my own clients. Some I hadn't thought of. I'm now treating this document as sacred.

It never fails to baffle me that authors somehow think it's either ok or even charming to be shlumpy and dull in front of an audience as if the literary brilliance of what they offer trumps boring everyone to death. The book speaks for itself, yes, which is why I read it. At home. If I come to hear you read it, it's now a performance and should be treated as such (via Maud Newton).

How Much is that Blogger in the Window:

Rannie took this photo of me last year at SXSW and now pays me an enormous bit of praise. A little pink in the cheecks over here.

Lalapoof:

I just found out (via Scott Andrew) that, due to poor ticket sales, Lollapalooza will be cancelling all its tour dates.

Well that's a fine howdoyoudo. I was all set to attend at least one day of the two day festival, immensely proud of myself for not only recognizing but actually owning albums by several of the bands on the bill (The Flaming Lips, The Polyphonic Spree, The Coup). The same can not be said of the original incarnations of the festival where, by the time I had heard of many of the headliners, they had broken up, died, formed other bands or begun acting careers.

This year, the theme appeared to be "Music for fans old enough to remember the first Lollapalooza." Tattoos, body piercings and flannel have been replaced by Neo-Beach Boy Harmonies, Fanticiful Electicism from Oaklahoma, and 28-Member Musical Group Hugs.

A friendlier, sweeter place this 'Palooza would have been and I was all set for it. It wasn't "indy", it wasn't "alternative." It just looked like a ton of great music. Perhaps the idea of an entire day of sun, mud and rock doesn't wear well into your thirties, no doubt about the average age of fans for these artists. I don't know. It's sad that we were all willing to throw our bodies into a giant glorious mess for hours on end ten years ago and can barely commit to a tickets worth of listening now.

I didn't buy mine in time either. I have only myself to blame.

What does this lyric mean?

I love the song "The Laws Have Changed" by the New Pornographers particularly this line...

"We are shocked to be here in the face of the meantime"

I would love to be able to use it in conversation but fundamentally have no idea what it means. Do you?

Difficult, Done, Worth it:

Jason Kottke recently linked to a blog posting entitled "How to Read Difficult Books" which couldn't have come at a better time for me. As part of my ongoing attempt to read classic works of literature (a project that has all the alacrity of a knock-eyed flamingo), I picked up Cry The Beloved Country (1946), Alan Paton's classic work of early Apartheid South African literature, last mouth and dove in. Several weeks pass at a 5-10 page-a-day clip, slow going and and often difficult to engage. I considered junking it several times, as is usually my inclination when a book fails to grab me and there are 500 other worthy contenders on a shelf in the next room. But I pushed on and this afternoon, I finished. I'm enormously proud of myself.

Reading classics is no easy feat. They often remind us of the forced literary marches of junior high. Their language, settings, character and values can seen quaint, dated or even offensive. Hardest of all for me is shaking the gnawing take of reading broccoli, that is isn't supposed to take good but instead be good for me.

I thought Cry the Beloved Country was beautiful, sad and completely worth it. But it was not easy to read. I could no more curl up with it at the beach than I could an anatomy chart. The follow tips give you the freedom to read a book like this and not feel like a bad person if you don't read it perfectly.

1) Read passages outloud. The language is often easier to comprehend this way.

2) Read the last chapter first. I didn't do this but it eleviates the guilt from not reading the middle close enoguh.

3) Read supplemental material. It doesn't have to be CliffsNotes but there's nothing wrong with getting the basic plot and characters down instead of diving in cold.

4) DO NOT be affraid to skip. Amen. Nobody's afraid to skip when doing "fun reading." Why should this be any different? Remember, the classics should be fun too.

I Still Believe:

Last night, Suzan and I watched Miracle, the story of the 1980 U.S. Olympics Hockey team which beat the presumably unbeatable Soviet team at the height of the Cold War, then went on to beat the almost-as-good Finland team to win the Gold Metal. It's widely recognized as the greatest moment in the history of American sports.

I was 6 years old, a first grader, on that cloudy day in February. I didn't know anything about hockey, and even less about the Olympics. I remember liking the theme song and being sad when my Mom told me I'd only hear it on TV once every four years.

Back then, we had an old set with VHF anf UHF dials and rabbit ears that sat awkwardly on a cart in what passed as our living room. My dad sat glued to every game while I drifted in and out, curious what all the fuss was about but mostly to play with my toy trucks at my father's feet.

Sadly, I have no memory of the great upset over the Russian team, the "Miracle on Ice" as it would be known in books, a TV Movie and by sportscaster Al Michaels, who with 5 seconds left, and the young American team leading 4-3, screamed "Do you believe in miracles?" and then answered himself. "Yes!"

I do remember the Gold Metal. I remember when center Mark Johnson, the high scorer on the team, scored the last goal of the game, putting the US ahead 4-2. I remember my dad, not an animated man, screaming "It's 4-2!, It's 4-2!" and explaining thhat that meant that our team, us, America, were going to win it all.

I learned about the Soviet game, the Cold War dimension and the tension the nation felt over the hostages in Iran much later when I discovered a box of paperback books about the victory in our basement. My dad told me he had ordered several cases of books to give out to kids in the Ann Arbor Amateur Hockey leagues and these were the leftovers.

I took one for myself and for months poured over the pictures and players roster in the back, memorizing names, positions, and statistics. Bill Baker, Steve Christoff, Ken Morrow, Mike Eruzione, Mark Pavelich and Goaltender Jim Craig. About half of them went onto the NHL and for years afterward, I would ask my dad whenever he watched hockey, "Any guys here from the olympic team?" My favorite of them, Neil Broton, played 17 years in the pros and was inducted into the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame in 2000.

When Miracle came out, my dad and I bonded over it. He told me that I started asking him about playing hockey myself soon after that game and joined the Mite league the next fall. I played for 6 years and both my brothers after me. My dad, who had been interested in hockey growing up watching Gordie Howe play for the Detroit Red Wings in the 1950s, became a fan with renewed vigor and later served as president of the Ann Arbor Amateur Hockey Association.

Herb Brooks, coach of the 1980 team, died just before the film came out. My dad told me that Brooks, the signleminded hardass and no one's idea of a sweetheart, was one of his heroes. It was the first time I'd ever heard my father say that about anyone.

"I think it was the strength of his convictions," my dad said last night when I called him. "There's something about someone who believes something can be done and stops at nothing to make it happen."

I watched the last few minutes of the movie again this morning and remembered what I felt like on that day, even though my memories of why are completely different from my father's. On that day, I felt like that victory, of 20 younger, smaller guys, whom no one believed in, belonged also to me, to my father, to all of us. That we could all celebrate together, despite our differences, despite why were there in the first place, was nothing short of a miracle.

A Human Face:

Jim Meeks was my youngest brother Daniel's best friend from childhood. Back then, we called him Jimmy.

A few weeks ago, while serving as a Second Lieutenant in Iraq, he was driving a truck full of Iraqi detainees when it was hit by a bomb. With serious injuries, he was sent home.

Thank God, despite, losing much of his hearing, he's home safe. That God his injuries will not keep him from living a fairly normal life.

This is a radio story about Jim.