Movin' Out Moved Me

Yesterday I saw a traveling production of Movin' Out, the theatre production inspired by the music of Billy Joel. I liked it but my friends didn't. Here's the deal. You have to prepare yourself for what your going to see. Don't go expecting to see your typical lighthearted romantic-comedy musical theatre production. Instead, this show is basically a dance recital that's heavily ballet influenced. Let's just make a checklist here of what you get and what you don't.

1. First of all, you get a real live band of very talented musicians that are practically channeling the essence of Billy Joel. Its a really great combo of "real" piano, synth, lead and bass guitar, 2 sax players and a drummer. Several of them shared the vocal duties but the piano player could have been BJ's twin twenty years ago.

2. Secondly, you get very talented dancers that are very verstile in traditional ballet and modern dance. Its a supremely athletic cast. They have to be due to the very physically demanding nature of the show.

3. You don't get any dialogue. The show is basically a production that uses interpretive dance to illustrate a story using Billy Joel's music as the theme.

4. There are no sets. The entire stage is utilized for the staging of the elaborate dance numbers. The lighting and fog machines are used somewhat effectively to emphasize featured dancers and dramatic moments, but that's about it.

I have been a lover of Billy Joel's music every since I was a college kid. I respect him for being a real musician and not just a pop commercial lip-syncer like so many of today's pop musicians. The guy writes his own music. I've tried to play some of thoese piano parts to his tunes. Several of them take the skills of a real virtuoso to pull it off effectively. His vocal abilities are amazing. His range is atypical of most rock stars. As a matter of fact, it took three vocalists to sing the parts to some of the songs that Joel handles himself. So, I loved the show for that reason.

The drawback of this show is that the story was somewhat forced out of the songs. It was beautifully choreographed by Twyla Tharp, but Billy Joel never meant for these songs to be used in a musical. He wrote this material over the course of twenty to thirty years. The writer of this show really had to force these songs together to create a story. Fortunately, Joel's music his stylistically and harmonically unified enough to bind the thing together. If it hadn't been for that it would have been a little tough to stick with it. Because, somone as easily bored as myself can only watch prancing pretty people and fancy footwork for so long before I start to ask, "where's the concession stand?"

Here's the roughly contrived story in a nutshell. Brenda and Eddie (from song) and their friends Tony and James are wild high school kids from the 60's. They dance and romance one another beginning with Italian Restaraunt. The guys head off to the Vietnam War. James gets killed and when James and Eddie return to the states they suffer the obligatory emotional crises required to flesh out the dramatic points for the show. Tony becomes reaquainted with James' widow. And achieves a catharsis. Brenda and Eddie reconcile and they all dance away happily ever after.

My only problem with the story was a brief scene where Tony experiences a nightmarish life of drugs and sexual addiction that has the dancers mimicking various sex acts wearing very skimpy and risque' costumes. I personally don't have a problem with it (I'm a big boy now). But, there were several families with young children in the audience. There was no warning in the program about this scene and it was definitely way beyond PG-13. I'm not saying the scene should have been cut. I'm saying that families should have been allowed to make the choice whether their children were ready to see such things played out so realistically by real people.

Now, as they say, that's the facts, Jack. But, here's the real reason why this show is worth every penny you pay for it. Here's why you should make every effort to attend this show (especially if you happen to be one of the "family" or a female). ITS THE MEN, STUPID! Imagine if you can a whole cast of young athletic men in the twenty to thirty age category who have been working at vigorous athletic, aerobic, and strength training for the last several years of their lives. Do you realize what that type of conditioning does to the gluteus muscles of those fellas? It was amazing. The whole afternoon was like window shopping at a bubble-butt boutique. Its also certain that they had found the most imaginative costume designers to outfit the guys in clothes that definitely flattered their best features. There were a few times when the guys didn't even bother with the inconvenience of wearing a shirt. And my-oh-my, how flexible they are.

Now, as beautifully, eye-poppingly gorgeous as these guys were, my friends and I were very able to control ourselves and maintain our composure. Because, we've got class. However, the same can't be said about the tasteless cow sitting behind us. This two-ton, middle-aged menopausal heifer never shut up for the entire show. While she was well-dressed it was obvious that she had been brought up as an ignorant hillbilly. You just can't whistle and cat-call like she did and not have been raised in the woods. If I were her husband I would have been ashamed and embarassed that my wife acted this horny in public. Every time "Tony" showed us a really hot move she squealed like a horny co-ed at a Chippendales strip show. She also had the audacity to believe that her full-voice singing along to the show actually added to our enjoyment of the evening. I gave her several ugly looks. We put our hands over our ears during the most hellacious screeching and screaming. But, she never got the hint. If there was any justice in the world she would have to pay for our tickets. I couldn't believe that the ushers didn't ask her to control herself.

But, it was an experience I'll never forget.

Super Tuesday Superheroes

I voted early today. I just had to be part of the Super Tuesday primary. Now, I'm not saying who I voted for. But, I will say, "IT WASN'T A REPUBLICAN!!!". I realize that I live in a backwater pseudo-state that barely has enough delegates or electors to make a difference in an election for class president, BUT, I'll be darned if some ignorant, snaggle-toothed, religiously fanatical torch-wielding villager will be allowed to have a say in this election while I sit idly by without letting my voice be heard.

Our little town here only has 7,000 people in it. There are already more than a thousand people who have voted early. Wow, I've never seen such a turnout for an election around here. I encourage everyone to speak up this year. Don't let the GOP elect another old white guy. This year they appear to be on the verge of electing the oldest, whitest, sickest, meanest old goat they've had in decades (and I thought Junior and Lord Vader were bad).


Now, I'm not telling anyone how to vote. Its not my place. We're all entitled to our opinions, even when they might not be correct. But, if you want to vote with the Gemini Art guy, don't vote GOP. Beware of any ballot with the names of mean old white guys on it. Isn't it time we tried something different? It'll be okay. Just do it.

I found two lovely photo portraits of possible candidates to vote for. Take your pick. Vote for one or the other, or both (if you can get away with it). But, whatever you do, don't sit home and do nothing about it. Do not let the uninformed and misled masses make this decision without you.

I'm the Gemini Art guy, and I approve this message.

Fading Heritage

Some of you have expressed interest in learning a little bit more about the Gemini Art writer. I'm not too keen on the idea of having a devoted reader turn into a stalker so I won't divulge any personal information. But, I'll be happy to tell you a little of my background and influences.

Yesterday I had the chance to drive through a little community that played a brief but influential role in my childhood, Caddo Gap. Several members of my extended family lived there, worked there, went to church or school there at some time in their lives. At one time Caddo Gap was a vibrant and thriving little logging and farming community that had its own school, post office and a smattering of stores. I believe it was at its climax during the 30's, 40's, and 50's (no I wasn't alive back then).

My memories of the place come from times my grandmother took me there. It was handy to stop by the Caddo Gap Mercantile if you were going fishing in the Caddo River. You could pick up snacks, sodas, fishing tackle and fish bait. I still have a little straw cowboy hat my grandmother purchased for me at Caddo Gap when I was around 14 years old. That was in the mid 80's. By that time the Caddo Gap school had been closed (since 1971) and consolidated with other small towns. Our country was beginning to make "progress". We learned to shop at Wal-Mart, self-serve gas stations were cheaper than full-service, and convenience stores became more convenient than the Caddo Gap Mercantile. The drips and drops of income from Reagan's trickle-down economics never reached Caddo Gap. As a matter of fact, it dried up altogether.

Now all that remains of the little community that used to be Caddo Gap are the skeletal shells of old store fronts and the lone proud figure of the Caddo Indian monument (more about the Caddo Indian in later posts).

A small but well-tended park and garden mark the spot where the old school had been. No doubt the park was placed there by some of the hundreds of former students that had grown up there and called her their alma mater. The sidewalks bear the names of the graduates as a testament to the contribution made by this little forgotten place.

Let's not delude ourselves into thinking that our current progress has made everything better. Let's also weigh that progress against what we have lost. We don't start school everyday with the noble ritual of students lining up around the schoolyard flagpole to say the pledge of allegiance before we start the day. Schools are so large that teachers only know a fraction of the students on campus. And modern professional decorum looks down on the possibility of teachers and students sitting together at lunch just to visit and get to know one another better. Credit is handled by the impersonal whirring of machines chewing on plastic rather than a handshake and promise between a customer and merchant that, "I'll pay you back after pay day." These days we put cranky old men in "retirement homes" rather than let them sit on the storefront benches to compete over who gets to open a door for a lady or carry her groceries to her car. We don't miss their tobacco spit on the sidewalks but young mothers would enjoy having these old cusses back to tussle with the toddlers on the porch while she picks up a few things for dinner. The simple pleasure of fishing has been perverted into the sport of angling. Most "serious" fishermen need an expensive boat and thousands of dollars worth of equipment to do the same job we used to do with a cane pole and a bucket of worms. Our lakes are so toxic and laws so strict that we have to throw back most of what we catch and buy commercially raised, hormone laden Chinese fish from Wal-Mart. Plastic pop bottles have made it safer to drink a cold drink than the dental chipping glass we used to pull from a machine for a single coin. But, little boys across the country have lost their jobs and tiny income by not having glass bottles to collect and return to support their soda pop habit.

Perhaps we have sacrificed too much in our rush toward progress. Maybe we should have found compromises that would have helped us hang on to our fading heritage.

Wow, I'm Popular!

1600 + hits to Gemini Art Blog

As Galinda sang in the musical Wicked, "You gotta be popular." I would never have believed such a thing about myself, but it appears to be true. Perhaps I'm exaggerating a little. I personally am not all that popular but "Gemini Art" appears to be.

As a geeky little kid in the small town where I grew up, I didn't get much attention. You know how it goes; wrong clothes, wrong looks, wrong friends, wrong orientation. However, lately I appear to have gotten something right. Apparently I have achieved a little bit of attention for myself while hiding behind the pseudonym of "Gemini Art."

A new friend who is far more computer savvy than myself had checked the statistics on my little blog and told me that I have attracted a respectable audience. Not only that, but the hits were coming from all over the world. I just do this as a hobby. Its the way I vent my primal yawp upon the world. Its the conversation that goes on in my head that no one else hears. I had no idea that anyone else was paying attention except a few local friends who laugh at my foolishness. But, out of curiosity I checked my Google analytics tab. Sure enough, I've grown an audience. Since last year at this time my blog has received more than sixteen hundred visits! It also appears that there have been hits from almost every continent on the globe except Antartica. I'm speechless.

What's the next step? I don't know. I really don't feel I've, "found my voice," as Hillary has. Some days I talk art. Some days I talk about my personal life and the gay experience. Sometimes I just pontificate about how the world should be and my observations about that. So, I don't really know what people are coming here to read. If I figure that out, I promise to do more of it. Until then, you're just stuck reading my editorial nonsense that passes for satire and commentary.

But, if any of you have found something that was special to you in the blog, let me know what it was. I'm always happy to hear from readers.

Bloom Where You're Planted

Wow, what a weekend I had.

I gave myself a mini-vacation for a couple days. I needed a change of environment. I just needed to breathe different air for a while. So, I set myself on an adventure. Here's what happened.

As I've mentioned here before, I live in a cultural wasteland, a void of social activity. The only two pass-times in this area are shooting defenseless woodland creatures and alcoholism. Neither of which is of great interest to me, so I have to look other places for entertainment. There are almost no gay people in my area. The torch weilding villagers have chased them all away. Of course, I love my straight friends. I'm not one to think that the only people who I can relate to have to be gay. But, we all have a need for community and mutual understanding. So, I went on a quest to find it.

I went to visit the "big-city" gays. Oh, my gosh! I've never experienced anything like that before. I stayed with a friend who has a beautiful home in the city. We'll call him "Bobby". For the remainder of this post, the names have been changed to protect the innocent (however, Bobby would be the first to admit that he's not that innocent). The first thing we did was head to a very comfortable piano bar where Bobby's cadre of comrades gather. He got on his cellphone and put out an all-call. Apparently, the "big-city gays" consider the cellphone to be an indispensible tool much like Batman feels about his utility belt. Yet, I digress. Bobby found where everyone was and hauled me over there. I had given him permission to expose me to modern gay culture. I was in for a treat.

I was a little frightened at first but settled in shortly. I admit that I froze momentarily at the bar. I've been out to my friends and family for a while now, yet I was overcome by the knowledge that just by walking in that door with another gay man they all "knew" I was gay. Then it dawned on me that it didn't matter that I was gay because they were all gay too. It was the first time in my life that I've been surrounded by a group of openly all-gay people. Suddenly I didn't have to hide who I was because there was no reason to hide it. There was no one there to hide it from.

Bobby got us a couple glasses of wine and told me where to sit with his friends. I noticed all around me that as acquaintances came in they stopped for a hug and usually a peck on the cheek (I didn't get one, no one knew me....damn!). I wish the torch-wielding villagers had to watch that. It wasn't sexual, it wasn't gross or perverse. It was honest friendship and affection. It was a much more honest show of feeling than the straight guys that barrel into a room screaming, "You ugly son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are ya?" Followed by the obligatory forced laughter and sqeezing each others hands so hard it pisses-off their friend.

Then my interview started. Who was I? Where from? What do I do? How did I know Bobby? Then the biggies, "Boyfriend?", "Seeing anyone?" I have to admit. I loved being the center of attention for a few minutes. Apparently all of us gays love the spotlight. But, things settled down shortly and people broke off into their separate conversations of gossip and such. I shared my sob story about my ex and received the appropriate amount of consolation and encouragement.

The piano playing began, then the singer (show tunes of course. How cliche.). The piano was out of tune, but the pianist was adequate. The singer was worse out of tune than piano. Bobby could have done better on the piano and I could have done better on the vocals. Yet, I digress again. After each number the conversations would stop long enough for brief applause. This was a gay establishment so courtesy to the performer was a given. However, one fella leaned over to me and whispered, "We just ignore him."

I was then on my second glass of wine. I stood up to take the glass from Bobby. When I did, I was surprised by a very personal greeting on my backside to which I am most unfamiliar. Apparently, Barry the Bear sitting next to me had found my posterior to be a curious novelty that he felt welcome to touch. I looked over my shoulder and gave an appropriately disapproving quip. If anything, it encouraged him. He certainly wasn't my type but he was friendly and had a nice smile. He continued for the rest of the evening flattering and charming me. I eventually settled into the ritual of the thing and saw it as the silly bit of innocent fun that it was supposed to be. We talked and laughed and had a good time flirting. AND THAT WAS ALL!

The major fascination of the evening for me was the small assortment of straight or ambiguously straight/bi, or otherwise inclined men that populated the environment. There were two there that were supposedly bartenders. However, I don't think they served much other purpose than eye-candy. The most beautiful of the two was an Iranian immigrant. Young, muscular, gorgeous and a hellacious flirt. At first I thought he was gay but the guys told me no. I watched as he went to the older gents, gave them big bear hugs, and kissed them right on the smacker. I must admit to being a little envious of the geriatrics. Why them and not me? I've got a much greater shelf-life than those old codgers. But, it has occurred to me since then that those guys were regulars and he was working for future tips. He should have realized that I had a pocket full of tipping cash, and I was better looking too. Oh well, his loss. I'll be back.

The next day Bobby and I had lunch together and went shopping. We used the time to get catch up with one another. He talked with me about my level of outness. He was actually very good at the psycho/homobabble. He helped me see a few things from a perspective I hadn't considered before, including my ex-relationship and my paranoia of being outed at work. He tried to get me past my crazy notions that there is a conspiracy to out me to the world. I talked about how I feel so isolated and alone where I live. Then he said the words that I'm sure I was meant to hear that weekend, "You can bloom where you're planted." What an epiphany I had in that moment. Everything I had experienced that weekend crystalized. I had been feeling sorry for myself at not living in a more gay-friendly place. I was envious of these men for having such robust and affectionate friendships with other gay people. I had been telling myself that one day I might move to that place or meet those people. One day, some time, maybe.... I have to stop thinking that. I can bloom where I'm planted. As a gardener I can tell you that the little seeds don't care if they fall into the most fertile part of the flower bed or if they fall between the cracks of the paving stones. They can all manage to take root into the soil, be nourished by the sun and rain, and in their time bloom beautifully.

Yes, it was quite an adventure. Compared to the "big city gays" I'm not even a member of the same species. I'm not a flashy dresser, I didn't inherit the gay decorating gene, and I can only think of one word for the color beige. Beige. Yet, I've been introduced to the community. They helped me recalibrate my gaydar and taught me that I can, "bloom where I'm planted." Thanks for the new pearls of wisdom on my necklace of life experience.

New Artist Link

I have a new artist acquaintance. Links to his various sites are being added to this blog. I hope everyone will check out his work.

Alex Ojeda is a photographer working in the Fort Smith, Arkansas area. His black and white photography demonstrates a real mastery of light. The composition and value balances in the prints are expertly handled and are rich with texture. Alex's portfolio of work includes a variety of subjects from still life and architecture to portraiture. (The embedded photo, "Grief", is used by the permission of the artist, Alex Ojeda)

As a person, Alex is very friendly and willing to help a fellow artist. He has given me several suggestions on improving the marketing of my artwork. Alex speaks intelligently about his work and has a genuine interest in learning more about the medium. I expect that anyone working with Alex for comissioned work would likely have a very positive experience.

Randall Good Exhibit - The Way of the Cross

Blue Moon Art Gallery in Hot Springs, Arkansas will be hosting an exhibit of Randall Good's much anticipated Hope Commission of the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. Wow, I can hardly wait.

The brochure came in the mail yesterday and it really made my day. I apologize for the quality of the image in this illustration. I regret the U.S. Postal Service didn't give this parcel the tender loving care it deserved. I was so excited that I took it to dinner with me and showed my friends. Once again I was teased about my love for this work yet not being Catholic. But, if I could attend the church where this work is being installed, I might just have to convert so I could be regularly surrounded by such sublime works.

The exhibit will be held in Hot Springs, Arkansas from March 1-18. I encourage everyone to make time to visit the gallery during this time. I assure you that Pat and Dishongh will make you feel just like family. I've never met an "art snob" at Blue Moon, but I've enjoyed the company of many "art lovers" there. If you come to appreciate beautiful artwork and the skill it takes to create it, you'll be welcome at Blue Moon. I'm already working out the plans for a "road trip" with my friends. I hope we can sync our calendars on a time to go.

For more information about the gallery click on the link embedded in this article or on the side bar link of the blog. You can find directions and contact information there.