Cazwell throws some shade

I was beginning to think camp was dead. But it's not; it's just different.

I'm old enough to remember pre-AIDS camp. Back then, "camp" was synonymous with "gay." "Gay" meant "underground." "Underground" meant "immoral." Camp was subversive, dangerous, even anarchical. It defied description and categorization. You just knew something was camp. If you were not on that wavelength, camp meant nothing to you. In mainstream America, camp was unpatriotic. It was up there with Communism.

The camp icons I remember most in the 1960s were Charles Nelson Reilly, Liberace, Paul Lynde, Alan Sues. Women were not camp, but rather the objects of camp: Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and, of course, the obligatory Judy Garland. Despite featuring men in drag, the 1959 movie Some Like It Hot is not camp, unless you count the presence of Marilyn Monroe. A man's mere wearing of a dress doesn't make him camp or gay or immoral--or funny, for that matter. An illusion of reality has to be created. As much as drag could be considered a distortion or exaggeration of women, it is really an homage to them. Post-Stonewall drag queens like Divine, RuPaul, and Dame Edna portrayed women as confident, sassy, and complex. They inspired empathy and affinity, but they were still camp. The difference is they were in on the joke.

By the 1970s, essays like Susan Sontag's "Notes on Camp" redefined "camp" to emphasize "artifice, frivolity, naïve middle-class pretentiousness, and shocking excess." Sontag said, "You can't do camp on purpose." In a way, she's right. Camp has to come from the heart, however misguided. In the past 15 years, the gold standard of camp has been, of course, Showgirls, an earnest, jaw-dropping, 15-car pileup that purports to portray the real-life, gritty underpinnings of exploited Vegas performers.

On television there have been camp-like roles, such as Patsy and Edina in Absolutely Fabulous, the women of Sex and the City, and Karen in Will and Grace, but there's a self-consciousness there: gay spirits inhabiting the bodies of real women. I think that one reason straight women and gay men get along so well is because they concurrently fought to be treated as equals and in the past 30 years have gained political clout. They can now use mainstream media to express themselves and large numbers of people don't see them as subversive anymore. That's a far cry from the creepy innuendoes of Paul Lynde's bitchy retorts on The Hollywood Squares (which, by the way, are still hilarious).

The other day I stumbled onto a YouTube video by gay rapper Cazwell called "I Seen Beyoncé at Burger King." At first I thought it was amateurish and not funny, but about halfway through the viewing, it hit me: This is John Waters for the New Millennium. This is the new camp!

But is it camp if the intent is deliberate? To me it is, since it incorporates the three main components of camp: attitude, humor and allusion, and drag.

If the grammatically flawed title doesn't clue you in, the garish, seizure-inducing, psychedelic color scheme and irritatingly monotonous synth track will. Influenced by artists such as Deee-Lite, Caz crafts a novelty song that's as clever as it is annoying. Decked out in what can only be described as white-trash rapper couture, Caz and his over-the-top homo-nerdy sidekick Jonny Makeup let viewers in on their dirty little secret: they've spotted Beyoncé in the Home of the Whopper chowing down on a host of calorie-laden food items.

In the video, "Beyoncé" is a tranny who uses her wiles to get Caz to lend her 10 bucks because her car is parked 3 blocks away and "that's just too far, too far." Caz lets on that he and Ms. Knowles are tight, as he nonchalantly advises her that she'd better repay him. In a subsequent encounter at JC Penney, Beyoncé shows up in her '94 Chevy bedecked in curlers and shades and asks Caz to watch her car while she shops. Caz reminds her of the 10-dollar loan, which she dismisses with a fierce "f**k it." And then Ms. B delivers the ultimate bitch slap, mistaking Caz for a liquor store employee while she shops for a case of beer.

This far-fetched sequence of events is interspersed with shots of Makeup in various ridiculous getups (the nosy neighbor, the fashion-challenged queen) gossiping with a half-stoned Caz, himself dressed in a pink scooped-out tank top and bling, about the alleged sightings. Whether intentional or not, the addition of backup dancers in Burger King uniforms and kitten outfits is a great tribute to camp variety shows like Hullaballoo.

The line on whether this video is more satire than camp is blurred. The premise of a white-trash gay rapper dissing a glamorous hip-hop star in the 'hood is a smart statement on what constitutes celebrity and reality, something John Waters exposed so brilliantly in Pecker. Everyone has something to say about Britney, Lindsay, and Paris, but what do we really know about them?

The YouTube commenters don't seem to get what's going on here, but then viewing comments on that site is like visiting a putrid cesspool. Uh-huh, the music is lame. Yeah, the cinematography is garish. OK, the acting is silly. That's the point. The best that YouTubers can muster up are unironic remarks like "GAY," "Retarded," and "Fucking stoopid!"--remarks that indicate camp is still the purview of those who are in on the joke and that Beavis and Butthead are alive and well and surfing the Web.

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Spice girls

For most of my life I spent Christmas Eve at my aunt's house in Brooklyn, tearing my way through a seven-course fish dinner in the Italian tradition. This year things were more subdued but still a little spicy.

If you fancy garish, over-the-top seasonal displays mixing religious and secular icons like those in Dyker Heights (who doesn't love a manger scene with Santa and his reindeer riding on top?), London is not the place for you. Wreaths, trees, white lights, and the occasional Father Christmas are common, but not a lot else. England is neither a terribly religious or showy country.

Christmas Eve here is quite civilized. Even at midday the streets were quiet. After shopping at one of my favorite stores, Reiss, which had pre-Christmas Day sales, Luis and I had a tasty plate of bangers and mash at S&M Cafe (not what you might think). While Americans shop into the late hours of Christmas Eve, most stores in London close at 5 on Christmas Eve and don't reopen until Boxing Day or the day after. There's the occasional corner market or candy store run by non-Jesus-worshippers that remains open, but by around 7, at least in Islington, the streets were empty. It was tough to find a restaurant to book past 8:00. Luis's sister M and her friend L came to Niamh and Jan's flat for drinks, and then M and L and Luis and I had dinner at a wonderful Turkish place called Cafe Gallipoli. We ate many delicious dishes: grilled hellim (halloumi cheese), boreks (pastries filled with feta and parsley), and sucuk izgara (spicy Turkish garlic sausages).

Things got a little rowdy after a few glasses of wine. L started grooving to the infectious Turkish music, and next thing you know, she was up on a chair dancing, followed by M. The Turkish waiters started clapping and egging them on, then turned up the music and started dancing too. (They slipped a little, though, and accidentally turned on "YMCA".) Even the kitchen staff came up from below to watch the spectacle. Our waiter was very into the dancing, as you can see in the following video. (It's sideways. I swear we weren't THAT drunk.)

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City mouse, country mouse

According to a recent report, more people in the world now live in urban instead of rural areas. For me, the thought of living in a rural area holds little appeal, but it's nice to visit every once in a while.

Saturday morning we drove out to Niamh and Jan's country house in Barningham, about 90 miles northeast of London. Traffic within London was jammed as people sought to escape or do holiday shopping. Once we got on the M11 motorway the lanes cleared up. On the way we passed Stratford, where many of the 2012 Olympics venues will be built. The country expects to sink some £9.3 billion (about $18 billion) into the event.

Amid news reports of Gordon Brown's tax dilemma, suddenly on the car radio, a newscaster's sanguine voice delivered breaking news: "Tony Blair has converted to Catholicism."

I laughed at this "revelation," but the Brits didn't. Catholics are unloved as much in the US as they are in the UK, but in the US this would never be considered "breaking news." For the first time in 500 years, though, Catholics reportedly outnumber Anglicans in the UK, and Tony Blair, whose wife is Catholic, is one more validation of that.

More amusement as we passed the Cock Inn. You see "Cock" everywhere in Britain, as well as "Balls," "Gay," and "Bottom." Britain has lots of hilarious place names.

Barningham has an excitement all its own. The local paper blares some of the most sensational headlines this side of The New York Post. When discussion is not centered on the installation, maintenance, closure, feasibility, and ownership of public toilets in the market square, it is focused on real cliffhangers, like "Hopton School Cook Retires".

Our friends' retreat is a cute 19th-century cottage painted "Suffolk pink," a color unique to the area that ranges from light rose to pale brownish-red. Theirs is on the rose-to-salmon side. The only establishments within walking distance are Spar, the British version of 7-11, and the Royal George, the local pub.

There aren't many places to eat around Barningham. One Chinese restaurant was closed, and the only other one within driving distance didn't deliver. Niamh and Luis had to drive to the local air force base to pick it up. The dishes were quite different from what we'd get in New York and quite tasty.

In the evening we went to the Royal George to meet Niamh and Jan's friends Simon and Jay and have a few pints. Jay has become a casual reader of my blog. She has increased my readership by 8 percent, from 12 to 13 readers! Kayo Kid is now read on four continents. After 4 years of blogging, this is very exciting news indeed! Welcome, Jay!

On Sunday morning we had breakfast at The Leaping Hare at Wyken Vineyards, a working farm run by married couple, a Brit and an American. The food is fresh and delicious. Llamas, sheep, and horses roam the pasture. We woke to fog, and everyone thought it might burn off, but it lasted all day. It was so thick that more than 100 flights from Heathrow were canceled.

After breakfast we visited Simon and Jay and their two sons. Jay had just made sausage rolls, which were delicious, and she took us out to see the chickens, one of which was a prized variety she'd won on eBay! Each chicken lays an egg a day. I was fascinated by the chickens and realized that, despite being descended from a long line of dairy farmers, I had no clue about farm animals.

On the way back to London in the afternoon the fog was very thick, and traffic was bumper to bumper almost all the way. To assist drivers, there signs appeared all over the road as reminders.

While visiting my cousin in Essex in college, he said it was a pity that I wasn't staying longer so I could see the cow give birth. I said I had never seen such a thing, and he seemed incredulous. I reminded him that I lived in New York City and we didn't have many cows there.

The country mouse, as we know, was perfectly content in his humble little abode until the city mouse visited, saw his wretched conditions, and invited the country mouse to the city. The country mouse loved all the new things in the city, but being chased by a cat was the final straw that led him back to rural safety. I don't mind the cooks and the cats and the mousetraps. Every now and then it's nice to get away, but I'm a city mouse all the way.

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A modern-day example of elocutio

I got an e-mail from a colleague today with the subject line "Mario Lopez..." Ohmygod, my heart stopped, wondering why a straight guy would send me such a message. Did he know that I not-so-secretly, in the words of Judy Tenuta, want to possess Mario Lopez? Then I read on:

"should win the 'Gentleman of the Year' award for not laughing...

it's both the best and worst thing I've ever seen..."

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss South Carolina. Third runner-up. Come on, people, didn't we see this coming in her pre-pageant interview when she cited Lauren Hutton as the one person she would like to have lunch with?



I could only muster up the following reaction:



Honestly, I won't be happy until Mario Lopez appears in a swimsuit competition on one of these shows.

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Flush with laughter

Wow! It's like the makers of this video did a dump of my brain.


Poor choice of words.

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High anxiety

My friend Hal, who lives in London, is acrophobic. He has been to Machu Picchu (the bottom), the Tower of Pisa (the base), and the Empire State Building (the lobby). He's making progress, though. Recently, on a trip to India, he bravely sat atop an elephant.

Rather than face the dizzying prospect of riding down a moving staircase and being paralyzed by fear, Hal bikes to work every day. It's much healthier and scenic anyway, except when England loses in the World Cup and alcohol is involved.

The Angel Tube stop, near Hal's house, has not a long and steep escalator, but the longest escalator in all of Western Europe. At 200 ft long, it takes almost 2 minutes just to stand and ride on it. You can't see the top from the bottom. I don't have the patience for standing, so I usually walk up or down it and am sweating by the end. That should qualify as a Boy Scout badge or something.

Others have taken on the Angel Tube escalator as their own personal Everest. Sure, you can ride the normal way, but wouldn't it be more fun--and faster--to ski down it, as this Norwegian chap did?

Then, of course, there are riders who go against the natural order and try to run up it, usually while drunk. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they don't.

I'm sure all of this won't make Hal take his feet off the ground.

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Me tube

In my bronze years (as I have not yet reached my silver or golden years), I have developed a mild addiction to YouTube. It is simply the most amazing invention since...well, television. In lieu of having a social life, I can be instantly gratified any time I want to watch The Hoff butcher "Hooked On A Feeling," a cat freak out in a washing machine, Leontyne Price attempt to sell "What I Did For Love," or a pug imitate a blender. The supply of entertainment is free and seemingly boundless, limited only by my ability to type keywords. Where else could I see the captivating coupling of Steely Dan and crabs? The bitchy first meeting of Alexis Carrington Colby and Dominique Devereaux? A bunch of 20-somethings lip-synching to ABBA? It's all there, 24 hours a day. (Except during scheduled maintenance, which seems to becoming more frequent.)

Whether good or bad, free entertainment carries with it the mantle of free speech. Well, most of the time. YouTubers have the prerogative to flag content as inappropriate. They can also flag comments as spam, but that seems rare. Some YouTubers seem to like to watch idiots verbally vomit in cyberspace and then rub their noses in it.

Criminal grammar and spelling aside, I learn so much about the world from the insightful comments. A 26-year-old Canadian commenter on the kitty washing machine video, for instance, had this to say:



Wow. Very helpful. Thanks.

There are also the thought leaders of America who are quick to embrace critical analysis. A 34-year-old commenting on the fascinating and insightful origin of the often-sampled "Amen break" wrote:



That's the kind of eloquent commentary I can rely on YouTube for.

YouTube is like a microcosm of the world. It's a place for people to showcase their nostalgia, creativity, talent, and lobotomies. Without YouTube, my life would not have been enriched by the Diet Coke and Mentos fountain; Maahdu, the Indian preschooler who can name all 50 state capitals (which prompted intelligent comments about child abuse); or the Christmas-tree-obsessed drag queen paying homage to New York moms.

Now back to my regularly scheduled lack of a social life.

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It's not fair!

Finn Tellervo Kalleinen and German Oliver Kochta-Kalleinen, a married couple, have stumbled onto something brilliant and therapeutic-- a way for people to channel the energy they use to complain about mundane things into a choral outpouring. In 2005 they formed a complaints choir in Birmingham, England, and the idea spread to Helsinki. Hamburg and St. Petersburg will follow shortly. There's a Web site to track updates.

European complaints are not so different from our own. Idiots don't know on which side to stand on the escalator, Christmas season does start earlier every year, and ring tones are all irritating.

Some of the YouTube comments posted are equally entertaining. The complaints choirs should include in their litanies "People have no sense of humor."

Birmingham


Helsinki

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