It hurts to look at you

Somewhere, Angela Chase is sobbing into the sleeve of her flannel shirt. Oh Claire Danes, honey, no. When I heard that you had signed on to shill for that creepy eyelash growing prescription medication, I was appalled. Latisse? The stuff that “may cause increased brown pigmentation of the colored part of the eye, which is most likely permanent?” What’s wrong with mascara? What’s wrong with normal lashes? Anything sounds better than a drug that will make your entire eye turn brow. Are longer lashes really worth “eyelid skin darkening, which may be reversible?” You were already so beautiful it hurt to look at you. Now you want everyone to get weird bushy eyelashes. This is not what you stand for. This is not what Angela would do. STOP RUINING MY CHILDHOOD!

OK, sorry, I had a moment. Actress is not the character. Actress is not the character. Actress is not the character. But still, when an actress you identify so deeply with something meaningful in your life (and, oh my fucking God, “My So-Called Life” was meaningful, even if it only unjustly ran that one season), it hurts your soul when years later that person’s actions seem in diametric opposition to everything that you once held dear. But hey, everyone’s got to eat – right?

“Sometimes it seems like we’re all living in some kind of prison. And the crime is how much we hate ourselves. It’s good to get really dressed up once in a while. And admit the truth – that when you really look closely, people are so strange and so complicated that they’re actually... beautiful. Possibly even me.”

That’s with or without long eyelashes, Angela. With or without.

Free as a bird now

And now, for some real outrage. The Swiss government has decided to not extradite Roman Polanski so he can finally face justice for his rape of a 13-year-old girl in 1977. He is now a free man. Though “free” is kind of relative considering the majority of his “imprisonment” was being confined to his luxury Swiss ski chalet and grounds. We should all be so lucky.

This puts a sad, sickening end to the spectacle that has been the Free Polanski movement. His supporters are no doubt thrilled, but what are they really thrilled about? That a very rich, very successful, very acclaimed, very entitled man was able to – again – evade justice that is long overdue? This is something to cheer about?

That Roman Polanski is talented has never been the issue. He is talented. “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Chinatown,” “The Pianist” – great films. But talent is not a get out of jail free card. Much discussion has been made around this case (and others) about what responsibility an artist has. As an artist, your greatest responsibility is to make great art. But as a human being, your responsibility is to be good to other human beings. Not all great artists are great human beings, obviously.

Professionally, brilliant. Personally, abhorrent.

While we may quibble some on what being a good human being means, I think we can all safely agree that raping a 13-year-old girl – no matter if it was in the 70s and everyone was doing it, no matter if she had had sex before, no matter if you directed “Chinatown,” no matter if you had a tragic personal life – is not being good to other human beings.

So what, then, is the great injustice of finally facing justice? That he doesn’t want to? That he is too talented to? That he has earned the right not to? Fail, fail, faility fail.

The Internet is often a place it fueled by outrage (that and terrible, terrible spelling). With the click of a button we can register our unwavering anger about anything: two wars, an ongoing oil spill, whether “The Daily Show” is sexist, LeBron James, the iPhone 4 reception problems, how an octopus could be better at predicting the World Cup than every veteran sports analysts, whether a movie where a lesbian sleeps with a man can be good. So much so that we can fall into outrage fatigue. What are we protesting? How many petitions do I have to sign? Will I really need to learn a new chant?

But I hope, most sincerely, that in our exhaustion at everything that is wrong with the world, we can still muster enough righteous indignation to realize that never letting justice be served in a case where a man admitted to drugging and raping a child is wrong. Because that, that is an outrage.

All Right Now

Love makes a family.

We chant it at our rallies. We plaster it on our bumpers. It’s as true as four words strung together can be.

But love is easy.

Marriage is hard.

For a marriage to work it takes love, first and foremost. But it also takes commitment, responsibility, communication, trust, compassion, forgiveness. Lose any and any marriage can become vulnerable – gay, straight, whathaveyou.

I expected to laugh at “The Kids Are All Right.” And I did, a lot, at its sharp elbows and keen observations. I did not expect to cry as much as I did at “The Kids Are All Right.” But I did, a lot. It wasn’t the jagged sobs that come with pulled heartstrings. But real tears that come with the realization of something broken that you want badly to be fixed.

After hearing so much about the film, my expectation were high while my mood was anxious. Anyone who has seen the trailer knows my trepidation. [Spoiler Alert: Key plot points follow.]

You see, this is a movie about a marriage, a lesbian marriage. Nic and Jules (the amazing, amazing duo of Annette Bening and Julianne Moore) have been together for two decades and have two teenage kids. But it is also a movie about a lesbian marriage where one of the partners cheats with a man.

That will make some people very mad, and understandably so. It’s an infuriating cliché. The lesbian who leaves her partner for a man. The lesbian who was really just going through a phase. The lesbian who secretly craves dick.

Yet you know what, it’s not about any of that here. Those portrayals come from a place of deep-seated homophobia. A belief that lesbianism doesn’t really exist, that all a gay lady needs is a good man. That is not where the infidelity in “The Kids Are All Right” comes from. This is not to say that because director Lisa Cholodenko is lesbian means she is automatically immune from these criticisms. But this is most definitely not a movie that thinks lesbians are make believe.

What makes a gay movie, or any gay representation, good is honestly. The movies that show us as undeniably human. Still to be seen as such is no small feat sometimes considering there are those who think we are too unworthy to even share space on the planet with them. Those who think our every existence is an abomination.

These people are wrong, of course. They could not be more wrong.

But it is also wrong to think that only the most angelic portrayals of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people will change their minds. Really, almost nothing will change those people's minds – small and hate-filled as they are.

But there are plenty of other minds that can be changed: the people who think we’re icky, the people who aren’t sure about us teaching their kids, the people who casually vote down our right to love legally until death do us part.

Portrayal of a couple like Nic and Jules, trying their best to love each other until death do them part, is what makes a difference. At once so recognizable yet so new, they are a couple you could know. You might know. You’d want to know.

Seeing their problems play out, you feel for them intrinsically. You cry for them, with them. You laugh with them, at them. You even roll your eyes at them with their kids. Oh, Momses!

What Ilene Chaiken will never understand is that we don’t want our gay characters to be perfect. We want them to be real. We want to feel, as different as their lives may be, that we can relate. We want them to be true.

The truth is what makes “The Kids Are All Right” not only a good gay movie, but a good movie period. The truth is what makes you care about this family, and hope that they will truly be all right.

[NOTE: Read my full review of “The Kids Are All Right” on AfterEllen today. Yes, I have even more to say. You just can’t shut me up. I’m almost insufferable.]

My (Retro) Weekend Crush

Now, as a rule, I only luxuriate the Weekend Crush love on a lady once (and once with me is all she needs – rimshot!) And this lovely lady has, indeed, already felt the Crush. But this, this is an extra special case. You see, this bodacious blonde babe is apparently Rachel Maddow. Rachel Maddow circa her school days at Castro Valley High. Rachel Maddow with bleached-blonde hair. Rachel Maddow with a pearl necklace. Rachel Maddow with pearl earrings. Rachel Maddow in what looks to be an off-the-shoulder dress. My head? Have you seen it? I think it exploded!

It does not appear to be a hoax (though, there is always that possibility). But if you look at verified pictures of a teenage Rachel (yes, there was a bleached-blonde phase) as well as compare the neck freckle (seen here and here and even Simpsonized), it’s hard to deny that this femmey fantasy is our very own Dr. Maddow. I am going to give you a couple seconds to realign your universe. Planets will need to be juggled. Gravity will need to be reassessed. Also, can someone help me put back the pieces of my head?

Now, I point out now just to gawk (though, seriously, how long have you just been staring open-mouthed at the screen?), but to make a point. And that is that we, as humans, are constantly changing. Who we are today may not be who we were yesterday or who we become tomorrow. And this is a good thing. If you are unhappy, uncomfortable with the hole the world wants to pigeon you into, you can change. You can’t just look at a person – at age 18, at age 40, at age 4 – and say, “Oh, this is who this person is.” Like books, we can’t be judged by our covers. But, also like books, hopefully our covers accurately reflect our insides. And if they don’t, may we will have the freedom to fix that as best we see fit.

Of course, who knows, maybe Rachel loved her high school look. I pegged my pants for a couple years in the 80s and thought I looked was awesome. So rock on with long, blonde self, high school Rachel. I wonder if she and Susan ever pull out this picture and laugh and laugh and laugh. And later play dress up. Happy weekend, all.

Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her

How do we solve a problem like Lindsay Lohan? How do you catch her career and stop its fall? How do you find the words to make her understand that she needs to change, once and for all? The spectacle that has become Lindsay Lohan is well documented. And by now everyone has processed and over processed her impending 90-day jail sentence (followed by a 90-day rehab stint, for good measure).

Her case, life, fame stands as an unfortunate testament to our times. It both irks and intrigues me that we spend so much of our waking lives discussing, critiquing and analyzing her every foible. And in the end, it just makes me sad.

I know not everyone feels this way, and I know much of her predicament is entirely of her own making, still I feel genuinely sorry for Lindsay. Sure, she seeks out this spotlight herself. Sure she blames others for her own mistakes. But she is so young and, as her continual shenanigans attest, so immature. I feel about Lindsay the same way I feel about Amy Winehouse or Courtney Love. I take no joy in seeing the on-again, off-again freight train of crazy that has become their lives. Fair or unfair, I feel worse for those stars whose lives have become a public circus when they are indeed truly talented. And Lindsay, back in her “Mean Girls” days, was indeed truly talented.

So I take no pleasure in her pain. I feel no schadenfreude at her sobs. When did we become a society that roots against the best in others? Instead, as I’ve said before, I find myself in the odd situation of wanting to be shield her publicly from her critics while scolding her privately for squandering that abilities.

Certainly, many of her past actions can’t be applauded. Drinking and driving is wrong, period. Taking Abusing drugs is bad, period. Missing court-appointed dates is stupid, period. But we don’t become the people we become in a vacuum. Look at the nightmares that are her parents – a father who cares more about seeing his face on TV than his daughter’s well-being; a mother who cares more about being a best friend that what it means to truly be a mother. And if she indeed has an addiction, that is something else entirely. Those aren’t excuses, just maybe explanations.

In the end, I think only Lindsay can solve the problem of Lindsay. Perhaps those days in jail, however many they end up being (because, believe me, it won’t be all 90), will be a time enough to really reflect. Perhaps, instead of writing “fuck u” on her fingernails to the world, she will think, “How did I fuck this all up?” Perhaps she will see that only she can stop herself from being an unfortunate headline and start being the promising actress we first met and were charmed by, all those years ago. I want to be charmed by Lindsay Lohan again. I want to see her act again. I want to root for her. If only she’d let me.

For richer, for poorer

Lots of marriages don’t work. Gay marriages. Opposite marriages. People enter with the best intentions and then, for whatever reason, end up with irreconcilable differences. Until death do us part is really more of a suggestion these days. So the end of Melissa Etheridge and Tammy Lynn Michaels nine-year relationship is in and of itself not shocking. Sad, but not shocking.

But what is shocking, and also sad – not to mention really fucking disappointing, is what seems to be a shirking of responsibility on Melissa’s part now that their marriage is over. Melissa filed for divorce on Friday, citing that old standby “irreconcilable differences.” She also asked the court for a) joint custody of their 3-year-old twins and b) to not pay financial support to Tammy. Um, what?

Tammy, not one to take a headline lying down, took to her blog to let the universe know exactly how she felt about that. She wrote that she was blindsided by Melissa’s filing (she says Melissa had promised not to file until after her tour was over in the fall). And then she had some choice words about Melissa wanting to wriggle out of alimony.

i gave up my managers, agents, contacts, all that good stuff, because i stepped directly into potty training a small boy, and carrying around a small girl on my hip. both excellent souls. and i was a very huge part in raising them for many many years while She with the Guitar focused on her Guitar.

i was always the house wife after that. the only thing i hated about it was not bringing in money- i have made my own money since i started babysitting at 10, and having a newspaper route at 11. having no steady paycheck killed me for those years with her. and now it's really killing me. the other week i had to borrow money from a friend. two weeks ago i had to scrape together $1.25 to pay for gas. i know she doesn't want to give me money. trust. i'm borrowing cash left and right from people to get through this summer, and feed my kids, with a stomach full of ulcers, thank you. no stress here. :-)

Look, She with the Guitar, Tammy helped raise your two kids from your previous marriage. She is raising your two twins. She stuck by you through cancer. She stuck by you when you won an Oscar. She gave up her career to make this all happen. She was truly there for better and for worse. These things, they have worth. She may not have made a paycheck, but those are work. And you benefited from that work. And now, just like any other marriage that ends in divorce where one partner made the money and the other stayed at home to raise the family, you need to pony up.

We can’t enjoy the fun parts and then when things get decidedly unfun say, well, it wasn’t a real marriage anyway. Hell yes, it was. Weren’t you all filled with piss and civil disobedience when Prop. 8 passed, saying you wouldn’t pay your state income taxes because California took away your right to legally marry? Or, as I now suspect, do I detecting much more simple reasoning. Is it all about saving a few bucks and not paying people what they are due?

As we stare down the still-smoking barrel of the latest sorry shooting down of our civil liberties (Gee thanks, Hawaii. Aloha this.), the absurdity of Melissa’s request becomes all the more apparent.

With rights come responsibilities. In this quest to be equal, we have to take the good with the bad. The right to get married? Yes, absolutely. The responsibilities that come if that marriage ends in divorce? Yep, those too. Love is love. Marriage is marriage. Fair is fair. Honey, if you didn’t wanna pay up, shoulda got a pre-nup.

Tank Top Tuesday: Lilith Edition

So yesterday I partied like it was 1999. Meaning, of course, I went to Lilith Fair. The show was great. The artists were great. There was such a great number of lesbians I thought maybe I got my dates wrong and stumbled on the Dyke March again instead. But no, it was just a bunch of amazing, amazing female performers who also happen to look amazing, amazing in tank tops. That is what I call a twofer. Though the one thing I did learn, I can’t bounce back from partying like it’s 1999 like I used to be able to in 1999. Hence, the lateness of my post. Please forgive me and my tired little brain.

Sarah McLachlanOh, Sarah. Even though every time you sing these days I have to fight the urge to adopt a stray puppy, I still love you. You, in your tank top, is better than ice cream.

The BanglesAs a teen I wasn’t sure who it liked more – delicate, doe-eyed Susanna Hoffs or tough, guitar-slinging Vicki Peterson? Now, as an adult, I know – why choose?

Miranda LambertFYI, country music girls do not look bad in a tank top. Not at all.

Colbie CaillatWell, something starts in my toes when I look at Colbie.

HeartSo, um, Fergie is wearing the tank top here. Proximity counts.

A Fine FrenzyRed hair, everywhere.

And here are a few I wish were in my lineup.

Brandi Carlile
Metric
Janelle MonaeYeah, I know this isn’t a tank top. But it’s only two days until Thursday. So consider Janelle a preview.

p.s. I think bikini tops should count as quasi tank tops. So now it’s a rule.
[Look for my full review of the show tomorrow this week on AfterEllen.com.]