Friday, January 26, 2007

Extensive Discussion of Gleegate

Here's a long article that attempts to get the facts straight over what happened during the New Year's party where the Baker's Dozen were smashed to bits by a van full of 10-12 rich kids.

The father of the woman hosting the party had this to say:

"If this had been a party involving African Americans or Hispanics," Passaglia
said, "I just don't think this kind of influence would have been exerted on the
police and the DA's office, and the press would care less. But because these are
Yalies, all of a sudden, it's been distorted."

Well such is the power of influence. I still stand by the fact that it's absurdly hilarious that these thug rich kids managed to organize in such great numbers to attack an a-cappella group.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Or Is It Gleegate?

SF Chronicle columnist Jon Carroll riffs on the intertwining of "small town" politics in San Francisco and what he calls the "Gleegate" scandal now erupting from what is still the funniest beatdown of the year.

Baking Very Slowly

Everyone's favorite a-cappella mishap now has an infamous name: "The Baker's Dozen Case." It sounds like a bad noir radio play episode: "Guy LeStrange and the Baker's Dozen Case." In any case, the attorney for two of the homophobic anti-a-cappella kids said this today:

Passaglia said there was a lot of drinking at the party. "Everyone was
intoxicated. The Baker's Dozen is not the angelic choirboys they are being made
out to be -- they were drinking, too."

Mmmm alcohol and all-male a-cappella. What could possibly go wrong?

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

The Hits Keep On Coming

So says this SF Chronicle article. Now, they only managed to interview a-cappella singers at Yale, which says to me that everyone else is laughing at this. If anything, someone should be teaching a-cappella groups how to defend themselves.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Whoops, Wrong About That One, Boss!

The a-cappella beating of 2007 made it to the front page of the SF Chronicle yesterday and the AP picked up the story awhile back. These turns of events put my theory that no one would care about this incident into the toilet and flushed it. Matier and Ross did, however, agree that the fight was probably all-male a-cappella jealousy manifested. Again, I'm surprised this shit hadn't already happened.

I've still got a week left here. Well, less than a week. I somehow ended up at a diner in Millbrae last night around midnight. I sat at the counter and ordered a tuna melt and the soup of the day, then watched a drunk patron flirt with a woman and seat incoming customers. I imagined myself some gallant, chivalrous fellow who'd go a "save" that lady from the drunk dude, but alas, I'm not that much of a cock.

There's a rowing machine at the gym I attend here in Pacifica. Whenever I think about rowing, I think of Dan Garcia (when he was a rower) and the rest of the Conn crew team -- big dudes that never did anything without each other and always seemed to walk in two, single-file lines. I saw them as particularly insular, a group of popular loners, even worse than distance runners, but not nearly as annoying.

But, the stationary bike started to get really boring since I'm still with clipped wings (er, leg... er foot) so I contemplated a move to the "erg." Of course, no Villegas does anything new without looking it up in a book, or in my case as a "contemporary" Villegas, on the internet. Armed with this video, I set to work on the rowing machine.

Admittedly, it's harder than I thought. Number one, the seat is hard plastic, so my paddingless butt gets uncomfortable after ten or so minutes. Number two, I keep imagining Dan Garcia compelling me to row until my arms fall off. Finally, my foot injury and my turn to the erg reminds me too much of an ex-girlfriend who took a similar path from running to rowing. Collectively, those constitute what I call "wimpiness" -- an all-too familiar psychological affliction I find myself confronting most of the time. It's the perfect combination for my half-baked absurd hero schitck: physical discomfort, the macho superego egging me on, and my heartbroken but competative egomania. Of course, if I think about it hard enough, nearly everything I do finds its motivation through that troika.

Given that, I manage to sit on the erg for 15 minutes tops. Is it satisfying? Partially, since I do feel tired when I'm done. I guess there's no confirmation that this erging will equal me hitting the ground running, so to speak, when I get my foot back. Still, I think I'll continue to erg so I can complain about it while imaginging me looking better naked.

Of course, as the rest of January disappears, I'll be running up to a dubious anniversary of sorts: a year of not getting any since I started getting any in the first place. Now I've told many of you in person that since turning 26, I've been less inclined to have sex at all -- call it the end of my sexual peak or my mockable intention to father children sometime soon -- but here's where the macho superego kicks in and tells me to bed women for the sake of enjoying my youth. In any case, it seems unlikely that anyone will see me naked anytime soon and so this entire process will probably amount to nothing in the short and medium run (other than keeping me off my foot).

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Vox vs. Homophobic Gang of Rich Kids

Let's play a game: what if we could get Vox Cameli '01-'02 to fight the homophobic gang of rich kids from the Richmond district that handed the Baker's Dozen their asses? I think we win.

Ironic or not, Doug Gobeille's ICCA judges award for "Best Use of a Muscle T-Shirt" means something when you fight a homophobic gang of rich kids. Also, judging from the post-rehearsal fight between Jordan and Patrick, I think that we'd totally take them. And, Dan Garcia... we win, hands down.


So recall the incident where the Baker's Dozen got crushed by a vanload of 20 rich hoodlums? Well, now the freaking mayor of San Francisco is chiming in, the police chief is under fire, and the whole shebang is now Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler:

Tina D'Elia of Community United Against Violence, a San Francisco organization
that monitors anti-gay hate crimes, reacted immediately to the events, calling
the attacks tragic and horrifying.
"This is really serious on a very public
level," she said, adding that she has contacted the police department's hate
crimes unit about the incident. She said she has left messages at Sacred Heart
Cathedral school -- which some of the alleged attackers attend -- offering to
send anti-hate violence speakers to talk to students there.
The incident,
she said, shows "a level of targeted rage and hatred that is really scary and to
me just screams that it is a problem that's not going away. ... If that's not
addressed, then what do we have? We have dead bodies."

First of all, in none of these articles does anyone even mention that any of these kids were gay, bisexual, or otherwise. If the problem is that straight men were beaten up while their assailants used homophobic slurs, then we've got an entirely different problem.

But again, what kind of people (especially rich people) have a van full of 20 friends ready to beat up an a-cappella group at a phone call? Either these kids are some sort of anti a-cappella hit squad -- and a slithery one since none of them got arrested -- or "dead bodies" is taking this whole business way too far.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Yet Another Reason Not To Sing A-Cappella

Even in the tolerant land of S.F., our rich kids still manage to find outlets for their rage. This time, it's Yale's all-male a-cappella group, The Baker's Dozen. Apparently, after showing up at a party late and then singing the national anthem, some dude called up his friends who came "20 deep" in a van and proceeded to beat up on them. I applaud the assailants for such a premeditated crime: "I'm so angry at a-cappella! Let me sit here with my friends and stew about how much a-cappella hurts me!" they probably said. Then, they proceed to bring the overkill on the Baker's Dozen. 20 people? There were a baker's dozen of them -- did you really need 7 more? This would be even more funny if the a-cappella group "won," but sadly, one sprained his ankle, a few others had minor injuries, and one has to have reconstructive surgery on his jaw.

There's something about all-male a-cappella that brings out the worst in people. For some, it forces them to challenge their concepts of masculinity, especially when their girlfriends have "star crushes" on these singers. For a lot of groups, it's really the opposite: they're breeding grounds for hypermasculine attitudes -- chauvinism (especially) and idiotic, sometimes pseudosexual "traditions" that give the kids an exucse to hurt themselves and others.

I'm certainly not saying those dudes were asking for it, because they certainly weren't. I'm saying that I'm surprised that this hadn't happened yet. Er, or maybe it has and, like this incident, won't get national coverage. Still, bravado met bravado, I'm sure, and I do appreciate tragedy from hubris.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Moving or Not

We have a visitor coming to the house for a couple months, so Mom had me move to the downstairs office. The room I'm moving out of, is, in fact, my first room ever: when I moved into this house in 1991, I scored those digs. Since then, my bros have moved in and out of it (it's currently my littlest brother's room), and it's changed colors quite a bit, too.

My new room isn't a room, really. My mom moved around her office cabinets (and made me and my brother carry the desks out of that room) and made a small alcove for me. Today, my stepdad and I moved my bed downstairs. Of course, the way we have it set up, my bed is precariously close to a multiple outlet plug and a dehumidifyer (a loud dehumidifyer). In addition, my littlest brother and I had to reconstruct the temporary clothes rack that has to hold both our clothes for a bit.

Just to let you know, it wasn't *that* fun, but we're not ones for exactitude here. Anyway, I had to drive my little bro to piano practice today in the City, and in the interstice between arriving and him being done, I went to Irving Street and walked around a bit.

I wandered into a bookstore and browsed a bit. I didn't see too much that caught my eye (I did end up buying an annotated copy of Wuthering Heights and a copy of Orwell's Homage to Catalonia), but a lady came up to me and very earnestly asked me where the cookbooks are. I said "oh, I don't work here" and she apologized. The end, and scene.