Appropros of nothing, here are some perfectly cromulent highlights from “Hurricane Neddy,” episode 8 of season 8 of The Simpsons.
Orchestra conductors are always facing the music — literally, not metaphorically — which means they never face me. Name any other profession where keeping your back turned to your customers is not considered rude.1
After who-knows-how-many classical concerts, I have finally seen what the front side of conducting looks like. It gave me a new perspective on music — literally and metaphorically.
Here’s what happened and what I saw:
On a trip to Berlin a few weeks ago, I saw the Berlin Philharmonic play. The concert hall is oddly shaped,2 and while most of the audience faces the stage, some seating sections wrap around the sides and back. I bought seat 14 in row 5 in block H — not only an affordable seat at €50 but one that would afford me a direct view of Chief Conductor Kirill Petrenko!
The program featured two works written 100 years apart: Wolfgang Rihm’s modern and experimental IN-SCHRIFT4 from 1995 and Anton Bruckner’s Fifth Symphony from 1895. From my seat behind the stage, I saw how Petrenko adjusted his conducting style for each composition.
Up several flights of stairs. Find my seat. The lights dim. An announcement in German that I assume means, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please silence your mobile devices. Photography and recording are prohibited during this performance,” but may have been, “Any rebroadcast, reproduction, or other use of the pictures and accounts of this performance without the express written consent of Major League Baseball is prohibited.”
Rihm was a bittersweet addition to the program. He was supposed to be the Berlin Philharmonic’s Composer in Residence for 2024-2025 but died in July, one month before the season began. The performance was dedicated to him.
If I had to describe IN-SCHRIFT with just one word, it would be “heavy.” It emphasizes percussion and downplays strings. There were five percussionists, each with a full set of drums, cymbals, gongs, chimes, bells, pachinko machines,5 and more. In a break with convention, most of the string instruments were placed in the middle rows of the orchestra, while woodwinds (and one harp) got first-class seats at the front.
So, how did Petrenko handle a work like this? He led the orchestra with intense focus and discipline. I recognized the look on his face — it’s the same look I have when trying my hardest to concentrate on something complicated instead of slipping into a state of flow and falling back on instinct.6
Each movement was deliberate and seemed practiced. And it had to be. IN-SCHRIFT is unorthodox in structure, pacing, and orchestration. Petrenko’s precision left no room for error.
Intense applause. Intermission. Down some stairs. Restroom! Whew. Get a drink? Nope, the line’s too long. More stairs. Oh, hey, a gift shop!7 Oh, that’s the signal to head back to my seat. Oy, so many stairs.
After the intermission, Petrenko was just as precise as before — but also lively, energetic, and joyful. Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 5 in B-flat major is more conventional and better known than IN-SCHRIFT. Even if Petrenko and the musicians had never performed it before, they’d be familiar with similar works from the same era. That made everyone on the stage more comfortable and confident than with Rihm’s piece.
Petrenko looked like he was having fun. His motions were fluid and animated. He smiled more. He was more engaged with the musicians, acknowledging their hard work with thumbs-up gestures.
Now, this was an artist in a state of flow. He was having the time of his life, and I was, too.8
Thunderous applause. Everyone jumps to their feet. Lights come up. Other people start taking photos, so I do too. No longer need to fear discipline from the Berlin Philharmonic and/or Major League Baseball.
The well-deserved standing ovation lasted more than five minutes. Petrenko returned to the stage several times to bow to the audience and recognize the musicians.
Sometimes, when I drag the Complimentary Spouse to the symphony, I’ll nudge him and joke about how the conductors take all the credit while the musicians do all the work. Of course, I know conducting is hard work, but I couldn’t fully understand or appreciate it until I saw it for myself.
A new perspective on music, indeed. Literally and metaphorically. Bravo, maestro.
Jimmy Carter turns 100 years old today. I once had dinner with him. It’s a cool story. Here goes:
I was a senior at Emory, and the university invited about 50 student leaders to have dinner with the President before he spoke at a campus-wide event. Somehow, I made the invite list.1
The dinner was held at Harris Hall, a women’s dorm with a big meeting room facing busy Clifton Road. I arrived, signed in, clipped a name tag to my lapel, and participated in the usual small talk. President Carter arrived a while later. The chatter stopped and everyone turned to look at him. I think it was probably because a world leader and leading humanitarian had just entered the room but, in hindsight, we may have just been stunnded to see that he had forgotten to pick up his name tag.
After President Carter arrived, we trickled from the reception area to a massive rectangular dining table. It took me a while to find my place card, and that’s because I wasn’t looking in the right place. I didn’t expect to be seated at the head of the table, with just one chair between me and the President.
Whoa.
I don’t remember much about the person who sat between us, except that she wasn’t a student — I think she was associated with the Carter Center. What I do remember is that she didn’t speak much. That meant that I got to talk to the President quite a bit, as long as he was facing to his left.
The first thing I ever said to the President?
“Can you pass the salt?”
I’m not making that up. It is a real thing that happened.
With seasoning out of the way, I asked the President about his most recent book (“Turning Point,” about his first political campaign). I can’t remember his response, but I followed up by asking how he took the time to write.
His response (which I don’t remember well enough to quote) was that he made time to write because it was important enough. Over the years, I’ve distilled what he said down to this: Be passionate about writing and disciplined about scheduling.
We talked about other topics, but the conversation would always circle back to writing. At one point, I asked him how he approached poetry versus prose (“Always a Reckoning, and Other Poems” would be published the following year).
His exact words elude me again, but my takeaway was that Carter thought of himself as a writer. Not a former President who writes. It didn’t matter if what he wrote, or if it was for himself or posterity — all writing has value.
Again, whoa.
Carter seemed to enjoy the conversation. I suspect he gets asked about the same things repeatedly, and it felt like he appreciated talking about something important yet unrelated to politics.
All of this happened long ago, and there’s a good chance I’m misremembering or misrepresenting what happened.2 Stories, like storytellers, tend to evolve with age. I don’t know what, if anything, President Carter remembers from our discussion — not because of his age, but because he’s had 100 years of extraordinary encounters and experiences, so why would this one stick out?
But, who knows?
Happy birthday, President.
A few days ago, just before sunrise, I saw more dolphins along Bayshore Boulevard than I’ve ever seen there. Here’s a short clip:
My last post was a bunch of logorrhea and omphaloskepsis about my experience at Machu Picchu. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s cut out the five-dollar words and see some pictures!
I’m going to start in Cusco. If you’d rather skip this part and go directly to the sections about Machu Picchu, you can click here. Just go ahead. Jump over my carefully crafted, witty prose and wonderful photos. I don’t care. Whatever.
One does not simply walk into Machu Picchu. Getting there requires trains, planes, and automobiles, but not in that order.
Also a bus.
First, you fly to Cusco, which is 11,150 feet (3,400 meters) above sea level. Everyone warned the Complimentary Spouse and me about the lack of oxygen at that altitude, but I didn’t feel it one bit!
For about five minutes, anyway.
By the time we reached the baggage carousel, I was breathing heavily and felt a twinge of nausea. (Spoiler alert: Nausea will be a recurring theme in this travelogue.)
From Cusco, you need to get to Ollantaytambo, which is about two hours by car East-northeast. We had arranged for a driver to take us there. My half-assed Spanish was better than his nonexistent English, so Britt didn’t understand a word we said, and I’m not sure the driver and I understood each other either.
About an hour into the drive, I was severely nauseated. I asked the driver to pull over at the next shoulder, hopped out, and heaved for a few minutes.
Are we close to Machu Picchu yet, Dave? Not even close. Calm down.
Ollantaytambo is notable for only one thing: the Ollantaytambo train station.1 I got some water, and we boarded the train to Aguas Calientes. I instantly felt sick, as if someone had turned my nausea dial up to 11. I tried to focus on the landscape rolling past the window. Then I closed my eyes and listened to relaxing music on my headphones. This was interrupted by a rather loud and lousy Incan dance performance in the middle of the trip.2
Two queasy hours later, I stepped off the train and into a maze of souvenir shops. Aguas Calientes is the town closest to Machu Picchu, and its sole industry seems to be tourism — hotels, restaurants, tour guides, and souvenirs. It’s the Kissimmee of the Sacred Valley: A place that’s only visited because it’s close to the place people really want to visit.3
We spent the night in a hotel whose staircase was inspired by M.C. Escher. In the morning, we met our guide, boarded a bus, and headed at last to Machu Picchu.
And, since I know you’re curious, the road was indeed narrow, twisty, and nausea-inducing.
At last, we had arrived at one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, the snack bar outside Machu Picchu.
Our guide, Mauro, suggested we wait about half an hour for the best views. Right now, he explained, the site would be shrouded in fog. Later, there would be no fog at all. In 30 minutes, things would be spectacular.
Boy oh boy, he was right.
After walking up about eight flights of uneven, rocky stairs, we turned the corner and saw this:
A few minutes later, Mauro offered to snap a photo. Who were we to refuse?
If you move those two handsome gentlemen out of the way, here’s what you’d see:
The weather was pleasant — 65°F (18°C) with 68% humidity — but the trek was quite a workout and Britt and I warmed up quickly.
Machu Picchu is 8,000 feet (2,400 meters) above sea level — well below Cusco, but high enough to make breathing difficult. There was a lot of uphill and downhill walking, and the stairs were treacherous, so we had to walk carefully.
First, here’s a llama …
And a llama, llama, llama, llama …
And now a chameleon.
Now, let’s all sing it together!
Llama, llama, llama, llama, chameleon.
You come and go, you come and go.
Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dreams.
Red, gold, and green, red, gold, and green.4
What can I say about the view from the upper terrace? This view is as iconic as the Mona Lisa — everyone on the planet has seen it — but it’s another thing to be there and experience it for yourself.5
From the upper terrace, we slowly worked our way down to what’s called the urban zone. “Urban” simply means it is where people lived, worked, and congregated. It is not, as you probably thought, named after Australian country musician Keith Urban.
Mauro said that it’s very likely that human sacrifices were performed at the Temple of the Condor, which makes it very unlike any of the temples I’ve ever belonged to. Our services usually end with a little nosh. As advanced as the Incas were, I don’t think they had mini black-and-white cookies.
You know how you can check out of the Hotel California any time you want, but you can never leave?
Machu Picchu isn’t like that. Visitors have a four-hour maximum limit, and you can leave. In fact, I think they’d be quite upset if you tried to stay.
My short video about Machu Picchu won the Palm d’Or at Cannes.
Here’s how long and far we travelled:
Before heading back to Cusco, we had to return to Aguas Calientes. That meant, once again, a nausea-inducing ride on a bus along comically narrow roads with no guardrails. Would I throw up? Plummet to my death? Or both?
Fortunately, neither. So we were able to treat Mauro to lunch at a restaurant whose name I have forgotten.
I was still somewhat nauseated, so Mauro ordered me a glass of muna tea. Muna is similar to, but not quite the same as, mint. It settled my stomach for a while.
At last, the time had come to reverse our steps and return to Cusco. After receiving our bags from the hotel, we boarded the train to Ollantaytambo. My nausea returned as soon as the train started moving, and because I was facing backward, it was twice as bad as the previous day.
It took about 15 minutes to locate our driver in the chaos outside the Ollantaytambo train station. Less than two queasy hours later, we arrived at our hotel.
Our Machu Picchu adventure had come to an end, but there’s an old Incan proverb I learned that comes to mind when I think of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
As they say in Quechua, the language of the Incans: “Ama kaypi wiksaykipi kaqta qarquychu.”
Rough English translation: “Do not throw up here.”
I visited Machu Picchu 81 days ago. I understand it as well as I did 82 days ago. In fact, I understand it less.
That’s why I’ve taken so long to write this post. I still struggle to describe the nonphysical part of the experience. So many of the words other people use to describe Machu Picchu simply don’t capture my feelings.
There are only two terms that accurately describe my experience at Machu Picchu. The first is groin-grabblingly transcendent.
My editor rejected that.
That leaves me with sublime. I’m thinking specifically about how Enlightenment philosopher Immanuel Kant2 defined the word, not how it’s used broadly today.
Whereas the beautiful is limited, the sublime is limitless, so that the mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot, has pain in the failure but pleasure in contemplating the immensity of the attempt.
Immanuel Kant, “Critique of Pure Reason”
I know what you’re thinking: What the fuck do you know about philosophy or sublimity, Dave? Well, for one thing, I think you should watch your fucking language. For another, travel writer Mark Adams came to this realization first.3
For the first time since dropping out of graduate school, I remembered an unpleasant weekend spent struggling to comprehend the philosopher Immanuel Kant’s explanation of the difference between calling something beautiful and calling it sublime. Nowadays, we throw around the word “sublime” to describe gooey desserts or overpriced handbags.
In Kant’s epistemology, it meant something limitless, an aesthetically pleasing entity so huge that it made the perceiver’s head hurt. Machu Picchu isn’t just beautiful, it’s sublime.
Mark Adams, “Turn Right at Machu Picchu”
Adams, referring to Kant, found the most appropriate word — perhaps the only word — to describe what I felt at Machu Picchu.
Why was Machu Picchu so agonizing to understand but so wonderful to contemplate? Because it blew up my understanding of what a “place” is.
I think of places as distinct things.
At Machu Picchu, I saw that the Incas didn’t make these differentiations. The built environment (like temples, living spaces, terraces, irrigation systems, and roads) was aligned with the natural environment (like the mountains and the movements of the sun, moon, and stars).
These connections weren’t limited to the area around Machu Picchu. The Incas didn’t have modern surveying equipment or a written language, but almost everything they built was aligned with manufactured or natural features long distances away.
What happens to the concept of “place” when every place is integrated into all other places? Is my kitchen no longer a discrete space but part of something larger, connected not just to my house but to grocery stores, distribution routes, farms, factories, sunlight, soil, and whatever layer of hell Brussells spouts come from?
Contemplating all that is like drinking a Slurpee. Your brain hurts, yet you want to keep sipping.
I had read about these alignments before visiting Machu Picchu, but I didn’t truly appreciate them till I was there with a guide pointing them out. Seeing was believing, and believing was overwhelming. Every engineering decision was deliberate and precise, and every pebble and blade of grass seemed to have been positioned for a purpose.
That doesn’t happen by accident. It comes from a cultural understanding of “place” fundamentally different from ours, based on the interconnectedness of everything at a subatomic level.5
To put that in the form of a Zen kōan: Machu Picchu is one place and every place.
Now you see why I keep coming back to the word sublime. Machu Picchu challenged me to look at the world differently. I haven’t gained a different perspective on things; rather, I’ve become aware that there is a different perspective I may never see or comprehend. You can interpret that last sentence literally or figuratively. Both ways are correct.
Mark Adams,6 the author I quoted above, has the perfect analogy:
Anyone who has ever studied string theory in physics may have some idea of how I felt. You walk into class one day confident that you live in a three-dimensional world. An hour later you walk out with only the faintest grasp of the concept that there are actually nine or ten dimensions and, quite possibly, parallel universes on top of our own.
Mark Adams, “Turn Right at Machu Picchu”
Will I ever truly understand what Machu Picchu means? No. But I’m fine with that. There’s more to be learned by appreciating this mystery than by solving it.
In everyday situations, I have no qualms whatsoever about calling out bigotry and LGBTQ bias. But I always ignore the guys holding signs and preaching hate through megaphones in public.
At least I did, until St. Pete Pride last weekend.
One of these sanctimonious hatemongers had set up shop along the long, slowly moving line to go through security at one of the Pride festival areas. The Complimentary Spouse and I, like thousands of other people, could not simply walk away. The guy knew he had a captive audience. It was like converting fish in a barrel.
This particular homophobe wore an all-black outfit and a brown hat to protect him from the sun. He brandished a Bible in one hand, clasped a portable speaker in the other, and spewed garbage at us through a headset microphone.
It was disgusting and annoying, but not enough to break my equanimity. But then I saw his bodycam. He was recording everyone at Pride, including everyone in line. His actions weren’t just irritating. They were invasive and intimidating.
So, I pulled out my phone and began recording him.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I spoke up. Was it good judgment on my part? Probably not. Did anything he said surprise me? Of course not. Was it fun to use my delightfully sarcastic voice in front of an audience? Hell yeah!1
When I asked about the bodycam, he said he wore it for protection.2
“So what are you going to use this video for?” I said. “Is it for protecting you?”
“Yeah, it serves that purpose, too.”
Too?
“So the video is not going to be used for anything unless you feel attacked?”
“God loves you,” he replied.” He wants you to be saved.”
That didn’t answer the question. But, let’s face it, I was never going to get an honest reply, was I?
Here are a few more highlights from our scintillating discussion:
Does God make mistakes when he makes gay people?
God didn’t make gay people.
So God doesn’t want me to be happy, is that what you’re trying to say?
God wants you to be holy, sir.
God wants me to be horny?
Well, listen. I’m Jewish. Explain it without the Bible.
I know, you can still be Jewish.
You’re still all Bible, Bible, Bible.
Because the Bible’s the standard. I don’t want to give you my opinion. You don’t need to hear my opinion. What you need to hear is the word of God, the truth of the word of God. It’s not about what I think. It’s about what the Bible says, you know.
God made me gay, period, end of discussion. So why do you not accept it?
You see, you were born with a sinful nature.
So you’re saying I can change from gay to straight?
You need to hear the gospel and believe it. Then you can be able to change after you get saved.
When the line started moving, I thanked this kind man for his time. The exact words I used were, “I don’t have any more time for your bullshit.”
What happened next was an epiphany — but certainly not one the guy with the Bible wanted. I discovered a more powerful way to respond to these types of people, and it didn’t require me to utter a word.
A few minutes after I stopped speaking, I saw a woman holding her clack fan in front of the man — not in front of his face, but his chest. She was blocking his bodycam. It was brilliant.
When she had to leave, I took her place, but I didn’t have a fan. So, with the help of someone else in line, I held up my massive Pride flag to block the bodycam.
After a few days of reflection, I’m not proud of engaging this person at Pride. Someone like him doesn’t just want to be heard; he wants to know he’s being heard. Speaking up empowered and validated him.
Only after I shut my mouth did I discover a way to make an impact without saying a word, and it relates to the bodycam that triggered me in the first place. I see now that I should have just blocked it instead of questioning it. The Pride flag couldn’t stop him from talking, but it limited his ability to intimidate us or make us feel unsafe.
Will I still speak back to bigotry? Fuck yes. Heaven help the next person who starts talking shit about LGBTQ people within earshot.
But …
I’ve learned that there’s a better way to engage people who combine the worst aspects of proselytization and street performance. In those situations, unfurling a Pride flag will do more good than opening my mouth.
As Leonardo da Vinci said, “Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.”
Today’s the ninth anniversary of Obergefell vs. Hodges, the Supreme Court decision that solidified marriage equality in the United States.1
Last year, I wrote that the thing that I was most grateful for is that Obergefell made life much more boring for the Complimentary Spouse and me.
That sounds terrible, but it’s anything but.2
Before Obergefell, Britt and I were treated differently than other married couples. We could never take it for granted we’d be shown the same dignity and afforded the same rights as opposite-sex spouses. It depended on where we were, what we wanted to do, whom we were talking to, how much money we were spending, and whether Mercury was retrograde.3
It’s emotionally draining. And financially draining, too, when health care and other employer benefits are involved. One of the worst parts was not knowing if we’d be considered spouses or strangers if one of us was taken to the hospital. No one should ever have to live with that fear in the back of their head.
All of those injustices, big and small, made our lives unpredictable. That ended with Obergefell.
I can’t begin to describe how groundbreaking and validating the Obergefell decision was. To quote a wise and eloquent man:
No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were. As some of the petitioners in these cases demonstrate, marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death. It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage. Their plea is that they do respect it, respect it so deeply that they seek to find its fulfillment for themselves. Their hope is not to be condemned to live in loneliness, excluded from one of civilization’s oldest institutions. They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right.
Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy
At the same time, it’s important to recognize all of the small, unremarkable, mundane ways in which the ruling changed the lives of same-sex married couples. To quote an equally wise and eloquent man:4
We feel the impact of Obergefell when we file taxes, sign paperwork, and apply for loans. We feel it when we go through customs and immigration at the airport and present our passports together, like any other married couple. We feel it when we’re shopping for auto insurance.
Me
Married life is still exciting and unpredictable.5 It has always been that way for Britt and me. But before Obergefell, we faced many shocks, setbacks, and surprises trying to deal with things that should have been mundane. They were constant reminders that our marriage was unequal and undervalued.
Now, those mundane things are just … well … mundane. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Meteorologists predicted rain for the St. Pete Pride Parade Parade last Saturday. But the Gay Gods had other plans.
When the parade stepped off at 6 p.m., the drizzle was barely noticeable. It lasted only a few minutes — long enough to cool the air and usher in a light breeze.
The Complimentary Spouse and I found a nice spot along Bayshore Drive just in time to see the parade kick off. Then, joined by hundreds of thousands of our dearest LGBTQ friends and cherished allies, we cheered and celebrated the myriad things that make us proud to be gay.
Here’s the video. Keep reading to learn more about St. Pete Pride and see more photos.
St. Petersburg, once nicknamed “God’s waiting room” because of its outsized senior population, is now one of Florida’s most exciting, young, and livable cities.1 It’s also home to one of the largest Pride parades in the Southeast: It draws about 300,000 people a year, about the same as Atlanta’s parade and nearly twice as many as Miami’s.2
Over the years, St. Pete Pride has grown from a modest parade into an entire month of entertainment, education, and empowerment. There’s a festival on the day of the parade, and it’s now so big it encompasses two parks.3
Here are some more photos from our day at Pride.
Lesbian, gay, bi, and trans people have made history since the beginning of human history.
So why didn’t you learn about these folks’ queerness in school?
Blame the historians. For decades — actually centuries — many of them have omitted, underplayed, or obscured the sexuality of LGBTQ people.1 Two men living together and sharing a bed for years? Oh, they were just roommates! Those erotically charged poems Donatello wrote to Tommaso de Cavalieri? When they were published, all the male pronouns were changed to female ones.
Fortunately, today, many historians are setting the record straight queer. Here are just a few of the people you know … but didn’t know were LGBTQ:2
Oh! how I wanted to put my arms around you in reality instead of in spirit. I went & kissed your photograph instead & the tears were in my eyes. Please keep most of your heart in Washington as long as I’m here for most of mine is with you!”
Letter from Eleanor Roosevelt to Lorena Hickok
Renaissance culture was relatively tolerant of LGBTQ people:
In Italy, one of the hearts of the Renaissance, humanism led to the increasing toleration of hedonism and bisexuality as Classical values. Classical myths dignified homosexual intercourse, and artists were both privately and publically homosexual.
Queer Storytelling in Visual Media, The University of Michigan
Here’s a quick look at our fabulous foursome:
This is just the tip of the iceberg. Historians have shoved many queer people into history’s closet, and we’re only starting to discover how many LGBTQ figures there really are.5
Want to learn more? Head to your local library, flip through the card catalog, jot down the Dewey Decimal number, walk over to the stacks, hope the book you need is on the shelf, check it out, take it home, and start reading!
Or just use Google, you lazy schmuck.