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Sunday, December 13, 2009

A friend reviews my novel How They Scored

My friend Lisa B wrote a very nice review of HOW THEY SCORED. An excerpt:

After the men gather, the plot picks up steam and their interactions increase, with Pritchard quietly portraying a shifting dance of male alliance and competition. Their picaresque sex tales start to cast a subtler light on their characters. The story of the Serbian fashion model ends poignantly. A tale of a threesome takes an unexpected turn, with the storyteller unable to perform, feeling both sentimental about an old girlfriend and ambivalent about the suddenly aggressive behavior of his current one. In short, the scorekeeping of these men becomes less about tallying up sexual conquests and more about assessing their own strengths and weaknesses -- and the elusiveness of their desires.

Wow, thanks Lisa!

Labels: books, heterosexuality, maleness, pornography

Sunday, March 01, 2009

'This is what you guys have come up with?'

In the March 2 New Yorker, Ariel Levy turns in a massively entertaining portrait of a group of lesbian separatists of the 1960s and 70s, the "Van Dykes," so called because they all bought vans and went on the road, and because they all took "Van Dyke" as a last name. A now sixty-ish protagonist, whom the reporter calls "the last of the Van Dykes," reminds the reporter not once but twice that she is disappointed in her, the reporter's, generation and their version of what it means to be a lesbian.

"I don't want a wife," she told me. "I want sometbody that I can run around with, like Batman and Robin, you know? ... Your generation wants to fit in," she told me for the second time. "Gays in the military and gay marriage? This is what you guys have come up with?" There was no contempt in her voice; it was something else -- an almost incredulous maternal disappointment. "We didn't sit around looking at our phone or looking at our computer or looking at the television -- we didn't sit around looking at screens," she said. "We didn't wait for a screen to give us a signal to do something. We were off doing whatever we wanted."

That is the end of the article, but at the bottom of the column is printed in small type:

NEWYORKER.COM
An audio interview with Ariel Levy

I haven't listened to it, but I get the palpable sense that after that scolding, the reporter -- born in 1974 -- will be only too happy to put in her two cents. That being said, she is a staff writer for the New Yorker -- it's not like she's some housewife with deferred dreams who hasn't done anything with her life.

But I do sympathize with the article's subject. Though I was much more one who, in the 1970s and 80s, did "sit around waiting for a screen to give a signal to do something" than I was a bold actor, I've shared the sense that the goals of generations X, Y and Z are somewhat paltry compared to the dreams of mine. We really did believe that by the time we reached our parents' age (i.e. now) we would see viable alternatives to capitalist institutions. Instead, we're splitting hairs over digital copyright issues, pretend "carbon offset credits," and even more ephemeral things like online identities and whether our airline frequent flier miles will ever be worth anything.

To sum up my generation's pitiful state, I offer this squib from another magazine, the back page of The Atlantic for March, where a columnist asks people to coin neologisms -- that's the whole conceit of the column. A reader writes in:

Often my wife and I will decide to watch a DVD, and then she will delay coming to sit down, thereby subjecting me to the repeat-loop sounds and visuals of the DVD's main menu. What the word or phrase for this interminable experience?" -- David K. Prince, Lansdowne, Pa.

I have only two words for you, Mr. Prince, the epitome of a man who "sits around waiting for a screen to give you the signal to do something": kill yourself. Preferably in the Grand Canyon, at Niagara Falls, or in some other way that your wife won't have to clean it up.

Labels: maleness, New Yorker, queer, rock and roll, the Sixties, women, zeitgeist

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Man stuff

Cris asked me to what extent I feel, when I'm walking down the street, male -- how much of my public identity "depends" on my being a man or somehow projecting maleness. I can't quite remember why she asked, but her question reminded me of this post by our friend Chris Carraher on gender identity and "models."

I thought for a minute before answering, because the way I can honestly answer that question has changed over my life. I said that in my 20s it had been very difficult to think of myself as "a man." Part of the reason was that I always looked young for my age (e.g. this photo when I was 25 or again when I was 37). Another part of the reason is that I seldom took part in stereotypical male activities -- even the neighborhood softball team I was on during the mid-80s was composed primarily of jazz musicians -- and that was because I didn't have any close male friends.

One experience that helped me be able to adopt a self image as "a man" was becoming a high school teacher at age 28 -- before that I didn't feel anywhere close to being an adult -- and another was being in the Street Patrol when I was in my late 30s. What did those two experiences had to do with each other? Both was an experience where I had to conquer physical fear. By the time I had done a year in the Street Patrol, I was physically pretty fearless. I could wade into an argument on the street between two drunks (which was most of what the Street Patrol dealt with, frankly) without worrying about whether or not I would get clonked, and just deal with the situation.

But there are at least three different things here: First, how I feel as I walk down the street -- how much of that confidence in my ability to deal with the street and whatever situation it presents has to do with being "a man"? Second, what I project as I walk down the street does not necessarily represent what I feel inside; how much overlap is there between what people see and what I feel? Finally, there is what passersby project on me: the impression they form based on a glance.

And how much can you really tell about a stranger on the street anyway? When I taught high school, I had a big obstreperous teenager who once strolled into class proclaiming in a booming voice: "I'm a pimp!! I'm a pimp!!" Maybe he was (though he was only 16); what was funny about it was not just the incongruity of a high school kid with baby fat proclaiming his pimpness, but the balls-out self-proclamation itself. Most people don't walk down the street proclaiming who and what they are, nor do they need to -- but is there really that much difference between that high school kid's loud proclamation and a bunch of us running around, several years later, yelling "We're here! We're queer!"? How about when I had a brightly-dyed mohawk? Is that any less in-your-face?

Now I purposely signify less and less, unless you count the Giants cap or the Bernal Heights hoodie. I blend in. Ironically, my self-image is probably closer to my actual presentation as it ever has been.

All this may become somewhat important in the next six months, as I try to write a short novel in which the characters are all straight males -- a species about which I actually know very little. So I may have a few more meditations on maleness for the rest of the year.

But to get back a little closer to what my friend C. Carraher was talking about -- the local paper recently had this review of a performance evening by local choreographer Joe Goode and company. When I read it, I had just read Carraher's blog post, which reminded me of the annual Fresh Meat transgender performance artist weekend I went to last year around this time. When I went to that show, I was struck by how the inability of the audience to read the gender of the performers beyond the surface they present made me uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. (See my post from June 2006.) Here's someone on stage who seems to be male, but since this is a transgender show I might suppose he started out life as female. I realize I better put my assumptions on hold, since what is going on under the surface -- even under the costume -- is much more than I as an audience member can know. And yet to realize this is to be forced to depend upon the surface only, to appreciate the performance only for what is being performed. It's a strange position to be in, unsettling and yet intellectually bracing.

Contrast that experience with this segment from the review of the Joe Goode show:

In one wallpapered room, a 1950s high school girl in petticoats and pink skirt (Jessica Swanson) is lying on the floor as though she'd been shot. Soon enough she's up and on the telephone, chatting with a video-version boyfriend about Pocahontas and other details of Virginia history in her homework.... Around the corner (or down an interior hallway), two nearly nude men (Melecio Estrella and Alexander Zendzian) are confined in adjacent tile cells.... Meanwhile, in an adjacent fur-lined niche, a woman (Patricia West) is wailing about a planned dinner at a restaurant.

Clearly the audience member's apprehension of the dynamics in those vignettes depends largely not only on the perceived gender of the performer, but a lack of doubt about that perception. What if the audience were forced to suspend their assumptions about the gender of the performer playing the "high school girl"? What if the audience was aware the "men" in the cells were transmen? do the scenes mean the same thing? An observer who has just seen a lot of transgender performance art might find the Joe Goode show one-dimensional.

And that's not to slam Goode, a long-time Bay Area performer (he was doing stuff when Carraher and I were performance artists, more than 20 years ago) whose work I've never failed to enjoy. It's just to say that there's so much more going on when the audience is put on notice that its assumptions are probably suspect.

So, having read both Carraher's post and the review of the Joe Goode piece, it was curious that Cris asked me that question this afternoon.

technorati: Fresh Meat, transgender performance, maleness

Labels: gender, maleness