a thank you to the brave ones

(gay prom photo by Kim Komenich SF Chronicle) 

Did anyone else wake up this morning feeling like I they got punched in the stomach? Proposition 8 stands- stripping away my fundamental right to marry whom I choose. I know everyone is saying not to worry, that it's only a matter of time, that they've won the battle, not the war. I guess in the back of my mind I believe that, but aren't we allowed some time to be outraged and speak up about it? And I'm curious: what is actually going to happen in that "matter of time?" What force of nature is so inevitable? What is going to radically re-educate those full of fear that our love, our hands holding, our kiss is just as natural in the world? While we're rallying and producing more commercials and mounting our offensive, they'll still be teaching their children lies about us. 6th graders will still hear someone call their friend a "faggot" in a school that won't allow an after-school gay student group. Most gay teens will still be going to prom wishing they were dancing with someone else. And this weekend millions will take their kids to churches where they'll be taught that marriage was almost saved completely from the immoral gay agenda. More and more, I'm realizing that the freedom to accept and express yourself doesn't begin at the ballot box. It starts when a straight 6th grader stands up for his gay friend in the lunch-line. The ball rolls forward for everyone when Jennifer takes Amy to the prom. A congregation will be forced into dialogue when an entire youth group walks out during an anti-gay sermon. There are brave young ones out there. There are brave teachers and administrators and parents and people of faith who create safe communities with zero tolerance for violence of the tongue or the fist. It is in these unseen moments in the classroom, at the staff meeting, in the sanctuary and at the dinner table that some of the broadest strides are made. So when the same volunteers outside my coffee-shop ask if I "have a minute for equal rights" I'm going to ask them if their organization has a campaign in place to provide legal and community support for these braves ones who are doing the real work of educating through visibility and courage. What am I doing to support them? Until I'm confident of my answer, I'll not spend another dollar or moment of my time supporting a campaign of TV commercials and letters to my representatives. So I'll step down from my soapbox with a final and heartfelt "Thank You" to every brave one out there. If you chooses to take the risk of speaking up and being visible in places unsafe, you are the ones undoing the loud lies being muttered, written and preached about us. It is you I am truly grateful for and encouraged by. My shortlist of heroes: Gay Married Couple: Jeff Crerie and Mykel Gubin (http://www.utmosis.net/herecomethegrooms/us.htm) Parent: Robin Scovill (www.robinscovill.com) Educator: Dara Gordon of the Harvey Milk High School, NY (www.hmi.org) Oranization: The ACLU (www.aclu.org) Person of Faith: Mel White (www.soulforce.org) Warmly, Matt

A Collision at Sunset Junction

So my day had consisted of a skipped breakfast, a morning rehearsal with my senior citizen chorus, The Forever Young Chorale, and a 3-hour nerve racking audition for Parade: The Musical. I was ready for some coffee and harmless window shopping in Sunset Junction.
I grabbed a take-away Americano from Intelligentsia and was texting someone when I heard that sound-- the one that even though you didn't see the onset, you know beyond a doubt that that was the sound of a human body against the hood of a car.

She was bouncing off the hood like a sack of bowling pins spilling
down onto the pavement. I stared for an instant to see if she would move.
She did, and I rushed out to the center of Sunset Blvd hoping to find a girl
more scared than injured.

"Let's get you out of the street," I urged, offering my arm. "Is anything broken?"

"No, I don't think so," she shuttered.

The driver, a young geeky Jewish boy with a Honda full of groceries and
the look of death on his face couldn't stop apologizing to the girl who
needed some space.

"She could probably use some juice," I said pointing to The Casbah Cafe. And off he scurried.

We sat on the curb next to the fire hydrant and the crowd that was gathering.
"An ambulance is on it's way," someone offered. She was crying and fumbling for her broken pink glasses.

"I'm Matt," I said with a half grin.

"I'm Danielle," she said in a brokenly.

"You didn't hit your head, did you?"

"No, just my left side and leg."

I could see the geeky driver emerging from The Casbah with a sparkling lemonade and paper cup in hand across the street. We sat in silence for a moment when she turn to me and says, "This is going to sound random, but are you a singer?"

Puzzled, I answered, "Yeah, I am."

"I saw your video on Logo. It was great."

As the siren came into ear-shot we sat there, both of us dumbfounded
and chuckling, and I thought: this whole 'putting your music out into the world'
is the strangest thing.

(note: Danielle walked away from the accident with minor scrapes and a pair of broken lenses. I went home with a grin feeling lucky.)

Princess Leia Makes A Mean Fried Chicken

Ok, so for the record: I'm not making this up.  Maybe she wasn't actually dressed as her cosmic alter-ego, but this weekend I was in fact served the yummiest fried chicken and sweet potatoes ala marshmallow-mode by none other than Carrie Fisher at her quirky posh hacienda in Beverly Hills.

The occasion was a Hollywood 'who's who' shindig for Gus Van Sant's pivotal film MILK starring Sean Penn which (for those of you living under a straight rock) chronicles the political rise to fame and ultimate undoing of my hero, our hero, Harvey Milk. MILK received no less than 10 Oscar nominations this week and to celebrate, and hosts Princess Carrie Fisher and Obi Wan Ewan McGregor gave a bash to be remembered.

As the lucky guest of my friend and actor Stephen Spinella (who plays the ultra-suave poster boy of the conservative gay politico) we arrived early, breezed passed the paparazzi and found ourselves quickly sipping our first cocktails with Mr. Van Sant himself and legendary songwriter Diane Warren.  

Downing my first olive I looked him straight in the eye, offered my hand and thanked him for telling our story.  I explained that I'd taken my dad to see the film in San Francisco over the holidays and what an emotional and healing afternoon it had been for us both.

With that reparté under my belt and another martini in hand, I looked up to find the glittering patio had filled up with the likes of Kathy Najimi, Diane Ladd, Helen Hunt, Matthew Perry, Daryl Hannah, and the original lady-killer himself, Mick Jagger.  We piled high our plates with southern dishes only my grandma's recipes could rival.  

Satisfied with our supper, my buddy Robin Scovill (director of my music video for End of the World) shot me a huge grin.  We slugged one back, wiped our chins and headed out into the crowd to rub elbows.

Now, it's not an everyday that Daryl Hannah offers to share her coconut-pineapple cake with me, so I took the opportunity to thank the first naked woman I'd ever seen on television for her courageous work on the film Call + Response, a recent documentary exposing the thriving business of global human trafficking.  (A must-see for anyone who calls themselves a world-citizen.)  

I took her reaction to mean she was used to her fans praising her more often for her work as a mermaid or an assassin.  She dropped her party-face, and in an instant we were just two people who were talking about something not enough people are talking about.  Daryl explained to me how she flew to third world countries and shot insider footage exposing the business of selling children into slavery as part of her own feature film currently being edited.  I thanked her for giving me the last bite and let her be.

My buddy Robin circled back and picked me up for a quick smoke on Carrie Fisher's front porch.  He'd been talking with Diane Warren, who'd been a close friend of his wife Christine's for years.  Apparently when you need a good a fart joke, you sit next to Diane.  We finished our cigarettes and with a courageous buzz on, we took a leak on Princess Leia's agave plant.

(Carrie, if you're reading this, a man just can't turn down a dare like that and walk away with any dignity.)

The rest of the evening was surreal and beautiful.  Catherine Keener offered me the seat next to her at the fireplace and bummed me one of her American Spirits.  Josh Brolin waltzed in with Diane Lane.  Sean Penn arrived fireside and after my buddy Robin lit his cigarette, on a dare, Mr. Penn exposed his willie to Catherine who shrieked giddily leaving me to wonder, as I often have before... When will Ewan McGregor show me his famed light saber?

We closed out the party with actor (and co-star of my new video) Zak Barnett in Carrie's bathroom where I discovered a lonely Yamaha upright piano.  Zak had brought with him a relic of gay history-- an original copy of the San Francisco Chronicle the day after Harvey and Mayor Moscone were murdered, which we advised him to gather signatures from the cast to commemorate the find.  

With my friends lounging about and slow-dancing in Princess Leia's stuccoed salle du bain, I played and sang at the top of my lungs, marveling at the evening we'd just shared together in the 90201.  

On the way out, I picked up my jacket and noticed hiding in the corner next to the Yamaha a 3-foot tall replica of R2D2.  I could have sworn it bleeped a giddy little goodbye to me.

Chickens:1, Gays:0 (Truckers:10)

I'd never been to a protest rally. I might be that guy who honks and waves in support
while I'm rushing where, but I've mostly steered clear of rallies-- they bring out my agoraphobia.
But yesterday I get this text from a buddy I don't usually get texts from- and in 45 minutes I was
a fish in the sea of hopeful gays (and quite a few straights) marching in solidarity through the streets
of downtown Los Angeles.

I quickly located my friends on the corner of Spring and 3rd. Shirts came off and a sign made it's way into
my hand. The megaphones came out behind us--

"What do we want?"

A smattering of self-conscious voices replied with something the likes of "Equal Rights."
My friends and I were exchanging news items about the Mormon Church and deconstructing
the bigots arguments for separate but equal. I gave it a few tries, but I wasn't
feeling the angry chant all that much. Somehow when you get that many gays together,
it always turns into a celebration. Maybe it's just that we're so happy to be in each other's
company. Maybe it's that it just feels good to be visible. (Or maybe it's the cute guy cheerleaders of
Cheer LA.)

We came upon the 101 Freeway overpass and saw a crowd of celebrants draped over the railing,
literally cheer-leading the commuters into honking for gay marriage. We made our way to the edge
and a huge Vons semi came barreling down the left lane.

"GET THE TRUCK!" I yelled, my fist jerking downward in the air. "PULL IT! PULL IT!"
My crowd gets the hint and joins in with the motion. We can see the look on the trucker's face--
I can only imagine his amazement driving towards the sea of rainbow flags and sunburned,
ecstatic faces. He waits until he's just below us and pulls the horn as he blazes through the tunnel.
You'd have thought the Kings just scored on a shoot-out in overtime for the play-offs.
We repeated this about a thousand times until the 50 of us became 400 of us nearly encircling
all four railings overlooking the bustling freeway.

My friends needed to leave. I couldn't tear myself away. It was my first rally and
I had some making up to do. We stayed for 3 hours and caught a second wave of
cheerleaders from those who had followed the march to it's anti-climactic end at Olivera Street
and had come walking back towards their cars. There were inevitable lulls in energy exacerbated by the
dry heat and thick smokey air from the fires burning through southern California.
But it never failed-- a trucker would always come along to rev us back up.
Cement trucks, rubble-haulers and oil tankers alike would always give us the horn.

I suppose we do have a lot to be angry about. In California we voted for chickens rights over gay rights. My friend's Jeff and Mykel who were just married in San Francisco are now wondering if the state will decide to honor their commitment. My friends Armistead and Christopher who've been loving each other as husbands for years are wondering the same thing. And to know that fundamentalist churches once again funded the bulk of the anti-gay rhetoric does boil my blood.

But yesterday I marveled at one thing more than any other: our sincere desire to celebrate each other.
It's easy to scream across an angry mob that God hates fags. But celebration is contagious.

As I left the railing and stumbled back towards my truck, arms aching and cheeks sore from cheering,
I walked through the historic old hispanic neighborhood near Olivera. Three Mexican guys huddled beneath a shade umbrella for "Star Tours" bus-lines were recalling the days events with sincerity and optimism.

"Man. I never knew there were so many faggots."

Job well done.

Why Does Logo Hate My Penis?

This month marks the 10 year anniversary of Matthew Shepard's murder.  Legalized hatred of gay people is still a disturbing reality in America.  Our Armed Forces routinely hunt out and discharge gays and lesbians, even against its own rules of engagement.  Californians are being allowed to vote against my right to marry another man in just a few weeks. 

It's truly disheartening to me.  But it is hatred of ourselves that continues to baffle me. How can we begin to demand equality legislation when we continually sell ourselves the message that being a real gay man means having mounds of muscles and enough inches below the belt? I'm sick of the half-naked, steroid-induced, well hung definition of the ideal gay man. Can't we have a new definition of sexy?  And what does it say to a teenage boy who stumbles onto Logo's website when it's easier to buy penis pills than find my music video?

For those who share the same concerns, find attached 

my recent letter to the editor of MTV's Logo Channel:

10-14-2008

My bedroom in LA, 4:02 am

Dear Logo,

I'm writing to thank you for a few reasons and to make one small request.

First, the thanks part.

I'm a singer/songwriter living in LA.  One of my songs is currently being featured

on your website and as a result, my music is making it into the iPods of

young gay teens who otherwise might never have heard my songs.  

For that I am truly grateful.

Many of them write to me and express intensely personal stories

of being rejected by their peers and family, and how they have found

the strength and courage to continue growing towards finding themselves.

As a kid growing up in Wichita, KS before the internet my experience being a

gay teen was quite lonely.  The only way I found to connect with other gay men was through

a free gay phone chat number I stumbled upon in the back of a newspaper or by cruising the park near my home after school. Thanks to the internet and cable television, gay teens today have a mainline entry-point into gay culture and media.

So when I get emails from young people who tell me that my song touched them, or that the lyrics seemed to speak what they've been feeling in their hearts, it is quite humbling.   I am also reminded of the impact and great responsibility that comes along with sending a message in a bottle to the world.

And it is in these wistful waves my bottle has landed on the welcoming shores of your television channel-- a beacon for gay people everywhere who are starved for an equal place in the mainstream media.  As I'm surfing around your site I am excited to see my music video next to other gay independent artists (and one song by Coldplay).   In mid-grin, I can't help but notice the flashing bold text of a banner ad just a few short inches away from my face reading:

"Have You Dreamed Of A Larger Penis?"

"No Woman Is Looking At You?"

"Are You An Average Man?  Stand Out Of The Crowd."

"Make It Bigger." 

"Add 4 inches"

"Try Vimax Pills."

Both the top and side banner spaces are occupied by the same drug company's

poorly designed ads, clearly aimed at selling me on the idea that my body just isn't 

good enough as it is. That being an average man is not man enough and that somehow

4 more inches is all I needed to get a woman to look at me.

Do you know what the main theme of my song currently featured on your website is?

Self-acceptance.  Why is it that despite all the social and political advances we've made, self-acceptance is still the one thing we never do well for very long?  We'll shout from the PRIDE stages a for hate-crimes legislation and gay marriage claiming a moral high-ground, but flood our own media with ads selling an impossible body image, alcoholism, prostitution and penis enlargement.

In disbelief I clicked on the banner next to my video.

This is a quote from the very first page of the link:

"Don't buy into the myth that says women don't care about penis size.  If you are small then

it doesn't matter how good of a person you are, because you won't hold onto your loved one 

for long."

As a 6th grade teacher who knows the internet habits of today's 12 year-olds, I have to say

I am ashamed to imagine that gay teens are learning their first pangs of self-hatred 

from the Logo Channel.  I hope they don't take the time to investigate the ads you are selling.

That kid in Wichita has enough to worry about.

I know you're running a business and that advertising pays for the internet.  But since you're getting my song for free I'm wondering if you might consider making me a deal:

First, that if you agree the above quote is out of step with your message to young gay teens that you immediately remove these banners from your site and end your business dealings with Vimax.  

Second, that you make a few calls and offer to sell that ad-space to a company who has a worthwhile product to sell us.

And lastly, if no one else wants to advertise on Logo, can you at least sell the ad-space to a penis-pill company who markets to GAY men?  All this bologna about "holding onto my lady" is even too much for me to swallow.

With Sincerest Regards,

Matt Alber

Hollywoodland

"I've got two tickets left, and so do you..."

I sang those words so many times yesterday, I think 

they finally sank in.  We shot a music video this weekend

for "End of the World" and those are the lyrics

that sat with me the entire day.  

I wrote this song almost 5 years ago in San Francisco-- 

most of it on the #30 Stockton MUNI bus en route 

to my performing job in a musical revue called

Beach Blanket Babylon.  The biggest love of my life

had fallen out of love with me because he thought

I had fallen out of love with him.  This was the saddest

thing that had happened in my life romantically to date.

The song was a real attempt to reconcile with someone 

who meant very much to me.

Singing it yesterday on the set- my local barbershop-

in the middle of a beautiful electric

storm of creativity, I became a witness to what happens

when passionate artists unite.  

Sitting there in the barber's chair watching the hunky

grips adjust the lights for the next shot, I flashed back to that MUNI bus,

scrawling lyrics on the back of a bank statement

envelope with some chords written in above the text,

all askew because there wasn't anymore room on the page.

Somehow that crumpled envelope made it to a piano at the theater before

I had to be upstairs getting into costume.  I continued fleshing it out

for weeks, finding the right chords

and changes.  

And yesterday, that song has made 

it's way into enough people's hearts that they are

deciding to send it into Hollywoodland and tell a new story.

I was engulfed by the professional and passionate hands of director

Robin Scovill (robinscovill.com) yesterday.  There was potential 

for failure, and in that potential lives the hope

of greatness.  I watched and participated in something yesterday

that had been generating its own momentum.  Grips and gaffers and photographers

and costumers and actors-- each one of 

us engaged in the same pursuit.  Each team of players vying

for the opportunity to make it greater in some way.  

I liken the feeling to working as a cog in an incredibly fragile 

but well oiled mechanism like a watch.  The pieces are infinitely delicate

but they function at such efficient means that the batteries can last 

well beyond what we expect them to.  That's what it felt like yesterday on the set.  

This video will last.

Only one thing bugged me all day.  I kept hearing the word "artist."

"We need the artist to take his place." 

It wasn't very often, because mostly I was called by name on the set.

But I did hear it a couple of time and I have to say, it was quite jarring

to hear.   Every person in that room was an artist.  

I mean, I wasn't writing, recording or mixing music in front of them.

The talents I have tried to develop I didn't even use 

yesterday.  It was those people who were solving puzzles

all day with their passion and sometimes with sheer 

genius smarts who were performing an art.

Our D.P., Mateo actually calculated the position and exact time 

the sun would be billowing through the front window.

Michael and Joey were pressing the wrinkles from vintage suits

when no one else was looking.  Erin knew when to swoop in with 

powder and exit the shot before the next set up was done.  Zak was charming

me with his eyes when things got stressful and swept me off my feet

in the rays of sun like a pro.  Jerry, who'd never been on camera, 

was performing a straight-razor shave with a camera in his face, a

shop full of gear, and a director firing off instructions-- all while

my dad was outside re-wiring the broken lift on the truck  so we could load-out. 

To be called "The Artist" just wasn't acurate.  I was surrounded by them.

Say what you will about Los Angeles, but in those 12 hours I was humbled by what greatness can emerge from Hollywood.

go hold the box of nails

If you've never shot a major music video on a shoe-string budget

and a handful of dedicated professionals determined to create 

a work of art- you're missing out.

Over the past 3 weeks my friend and director, Robin Scovill,

(robinscovill.com) has been breathing life into a little idea

 we

had at a dive bar in Los Feliz.   I've watched in awe as he steadily built

a production team out of thin air.  A-List designers, costumers, D.P.'s,

photographers and my own brother and dad are all scaling ladders,

dashing to the drug-store and blotting my nose as I look

into the largest camera I've ever seen and sing my heart out.

When it pulls back and the take is over, I glance up to see their faces glued to the

playback monitor and they seem to be in a trance.

And it hits me-- each person in the room is an artist.

Each person is here because a friend said to them,

"Hey, there's this project and it doesn't pay hardly anything 

but it needs you and you're going to be proud of what we make together."

And I shake my head as I sit here on my bed resting while

my brother and dad are downstairs nailing and glueing and I wonder

how on this earth I got this chance to do something great.

Fuck this reminiscing, I'm going to go hold the box of nails.