My senior year in high school I bought the soundtrack to Rent, the smash Broadway musical. It was a 'box set' of 2 long-play cassettes which got a lot of airtime in my car. I've never been a really big fan of musicals, but this one was and is different in that the music is alive and soulful and completely addictive. (Compared to that terrible organ refrain that's played a quadrillion times in Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, which is unforgettable in a bad way.) Ok, ok. There are other exceptions, as well. For instance, I like The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and The Jungle Book. Maybe it's just Broadway musicals that lead me to believe all the musicians and actors with no real talent go into musical theater......

Back to Rent.

I listened to the soundtrack over and over and over again, and had many of the song lyrics committed to memory so that I might become a choir member while listening to my cassettes. Because I enjoyed the music so much, I assumed I would enjoy the theater and movie versions.

I was wrong, kind of.

I haven't yet watched the stage version, and I probably won't. It costs too much and I'm cheap. However, I did watch the newly released DVD of the film a few days ago, and was thrilled to hear those songs all over again! I hadn't listened to them in years! (Except, I must confess, the Tango Maureen, which I have the mp3 for on my computer and on a burned mix CD in my truck.)

The plot and storyline are time-proven. The conflict between socio-economic classes has always been an easy theme to draw from. Poor vs Wealthy; Sick vs Healthy; Artists vs Reality. Add a little song and dance routine to a sick, starving artist and voila! You have Rent!

The actors, very comfortable in the roles they first inhabited over a decade ago, were also on top of their game. With only exception, Jesse L. Martin, who plays Tom Collins. Now, this is hard for me to say because I am a pretty big fan of Mr. Martin, since he stars in one of my favorite television shows, Law and Order, but maybe he's been in television drama too long and didn't quite transition back to theater well. I can't really pinpoint it, but he just seemed...... mediocre. I think it was the canned facial expressions that are so common in theater and slapstick comedy, like he was still in high school drama class or something.

But the message, ah! It's not just all entertainment, no. There are a couple of messages which entwine their way through the Rent story, sometimes contradicting our notions or ideas about the film. The first one deals with how underpriveledged (poor!) people cope with their uneasy lives. In Rent, we're first presented with the idea that the artsy folk are the poor ones and the rich people are against them because they want to take their homes and construct a technology center. That's the standard rich vs poor story we're used to. We think the rich guys are the bad guys, because the story makes us like the poor people. But while maintaining our good opinions of the poor people, Larson shows us that these particular poor people have chosen to be that way in the pursuit of their artistic ambitions. Then he shows us that there are different kinds of poor, and even when we think we have it bad, there's always that bag lady on the street who has no home at all, no place at all, and at least we are better than her. Her view of the artsy people was no better than the artsy people's view of the corporate people.

And, of course, as Larson wrote this in the 90's, AIDS was celebrating a decade of unchecked killing. Only the drug AZT was helping AIDS victims, and then not very well. The characters in the movie that do have AIDS carry small beepers to remind them to take the medicine every four hours, even at night. "AZT break!" Watching the Angel death montage was difficult, as I have seen people waste away exactly the same way.

But I have mixed feelings about the message Rent gives about living with AIDS. Sure, you shouldn't sit around and hate yourself because you have the virus. You can't do that with any disease. I understand that it was especially hard with AIDS because so little effective treatment was available at the time, but I think there does, in fact, have to be some change in your life when you aquire HIV. You can't live your life exactly the same. If you caught the disease from sexual contact or sharing needles, then continuing those behaviors would only put others at risk, as well. But the late 80's and 90's was a time when some AIDS activist were being a bit... strange. Proposing crazy ideas about the virus itself and the treatments and being hysterical in general. So that attitude seems to have some foothold in the Rent characters.

Of course, that in-your-face attitude also comes from their desperate defense of their bohemian lifestyle.

One of my favorite lines: "Bohemia! Bohemia! It's a fallacy in your head!" (My very favorite line, "You should try it, in heels!")

Here is the problem I have with New York urbanite Bohemians: they want to live a life of art and think everyone should join them.

"What's so bad about that?", you say. Well, on it's face, nothing is bad about it. However, practically, it's impossible. There are six billion people in the world. If everyone followed their practice, nobody would be eating because nobody would want to plow the fields and butcher the cows. (Stupid vegans, of course I wanna eat beef!) A better solution would be to convince a wealthy person, or the government, to become patrons of your particular endeavors.

These people don't even want to pay rent, for God's sake!

Don't get me wrong, I wish the world was different, too. I wish there were no corporations. None. I dislike the corporate environment of our society today to no end. But having everyone sit around writing poetry isn't gonna solve that.

I always seem to point out things that I don't like! But Rent is still entertaining and fun to listen to, so it is very deserving of 4.5 out of 5 Giant Roosters!

There is no better way to escape the wannabe urban disaster that is Vegas than visiting a Bangkok whorehouse full of cheap and tireless ladyboys. Since Thailand isn't exactly within driving distance, and my truck hasn't been jerry-rigged by Cubans for an ocean-crossing journey, I had to settle for the close-second of camping in the tranquil ponderosa forest of northern California. Besides, pine trees offer a much lower infection rate of The Clap than an Asian hooker, though getting the sap off your dick is just as tricky.

On Thursday, after loading up the truck with beer, camera, dog and new tent (the last one was destroyed in my second-to-last trip), Rei and I headed out for a twelve hour night drive through the desert. Tonapah, Beatty, Goldfield... They all kind of look the same at night. Considering those three towns have a combined population of 2, they're easy to miss, except Beatty has some gas station combined with a candy store, Death Valley Nut & Candy Co., with long row after row of yummy sweet goodness. I found a half-pound of dark chocolate pecan caramel clusters for $5, which are best described as an orgasm on your tongue without the salty mess.

After Reno, it's three and one-half hours further to Modoc Co. California, our destination.

Though I normally suffer through cold water showers, or none at all, while camping, we discovered we could pay $5 a day to use the hot water showers at a rarely used tent & RV campground about ten miles from my land. I love the serenity of the outdoors and tent camping, but there's nothing wrong with driving a few miles to take a hot shower. It was worth it.

The tent was hella big compared to my old one. At 12x10 feet, it has enough floorspace to sleep a basketball team, and is tall enough for me to easily stand upright while balancing an apple on my head. (Basketball players would likely have to stoop, still.) Like my last tent, though, it has huge mesh 'windows' on all sides, plus the top. While there is a rain fly to cover them in case of, well.....rain, the open view comes in handy for star gazing, day dreaming, locating the damned woodpeckers in the tree next to you who pause in their loud calling to one another only long enough to rap on the tree trunk in that short, rapid, sleep-ending pecking that they seem eager to do.

After resting and hiking around a bit Friday, we headed in to town (Alturas) to eat at my favorite grubbing spot there, Black Bear Diner. (If you want to try it without leaving the valley, there is one on Tropicana ,near Jones.) The portions there are pretty big & the food is always delicious. This particular day, I pulled out my PDA to jot down a note, when I discovered open Wi-Fi! Who'da thunk it? Apparently the two motels on either side of the restaurant both provide Air2Data wireless broadband for their guest, but they don't hide or encrypt the signal. Whoo ha! So my phone doesn't work there but I have WiFi. Awesome. I love checking email, reading MySpace, random Google searches during breakfast.

I've been to Alturas to visit my land a half-dozen times or so since I bought it about four years ago, but never made it up during any kind of event.... Like the annual balloon festival or migratory bird festival (both happening Sept 17 & 18 this year), or the Modoc District Fair, which happened to be occurring this weekend! I didn't plan it that way; didn't find about the fair until the day I left Vegas. I was excited to finally get the chance to 'experience' the place, instead of driving through it. So on Saturday, we drove through the South Warners via Hwy 299, over Cedar Pass, to Cedarville, a quaint & tiny town on the eastern edge of the county. After locating the fairgrounds-- not hard to do in a town with two streets-- I parked the truck and Rei leashed up the dog, only to be turned away at the gate, being told, "No dogs." I unsuccessfully tried to convince them he was actually a sheep, participating in the evening's livestock show and that they would be held responsible if he was disqualified for being late for check-in. Apparently Adonis is an unconvincing miniature grey-haired sheep, since we weren't allowed to enter. Instead, we posed for a photo at the sign near the entrance.

Instead of watching the dancing bear, demolition derby, poultry show and, yes, sheep show, we headed back to the tent to do more exploring in the forest, napping, avoiding of mosquitoes and installing my new camp shower stone. (Free, courtesy of forgetful cashier at Wal-Mart's garden center who, despite my twice reminding him, failed to charge me for it.)

Finally, I wrote a much-delayed letter to my Uncle, with whom I regularly correspond about matters familial, philosophical and historical. His latest epistle was pining for the days when 16 year old boys cavorted willingly with older men. My response was dismissive of Plato's 'philosopher king', expressed regret at the world's severe overpopulation, as well as annoyance for a certain pair of red-headed woodpeckers.

We were off to sleep early, to wake at 730 for the long drive back to Las Vegas, from where I now write.

I was born in York Co., South Carolina, on March 17, 1979, into a middle-class family of cotton mill workers who went to church three times a week (Wednesday night and twice on Sundays) and grew tomatoes in their backyard gardens. I was, and still am, what my mother prayed not to have-- a redhead. I have never asked her why she didn't want a kid with red hair, but I suppose it's because so many of them appear sickly white and are spotted with freckles. They just look funny. Maybe I look funny, too, but the fact that I have red hair has not made my mom love me any less that my three siblings.

So I grew up to be a shy, smart, average-looking kid, a product of protective grandparents and divorce. I have always gotten along well with everyone in my family, and that has not changed despite the whole sexual orientation issue. There are several events in my life that I feel have had a major impact on who I am: my birth on St Patrick's Day (1979), the divorce of my parents (1985), the death of my paternal grandfather (1989), moving in with my dad and his boyfriend (1991), coming out (1997), meeting my first boyfriend (1997) and meeting my most recent boyfriend (2000).

Some of use are more greatly effected by their birthdates that others. For instance, I was born on St Patrick's Day. My parents briefly considered naming me Patrick, and I am glad they did not. For
one thing, it would be confusing since I know several other Patricks. Also, they decided to name me Karsten Tobias, and I have recieved countless compliments on my unique name. That name, however, has proven both a blessing and a curse. Until I was twenty-two years old, I went by Toby, a derivation of my middle name. My family still calls me Toby, and they began doing so partly because my grandparents could not properly pronounce Karsten. And so it was, as a child, on the first day of school every year, I heard my name mangled and misprounced, often into a feminine name such as Kristen or Kirsten. Even teachers cannot read. In an attempt to abandon the more childish Toby, I began using my first name while in college, and do not regret that decision. As I have explained on countless occasions, Karsten is a name of German origin, still used in both Germany and Scandinavia. I have familial roots in Germany, and Ireland (County Sligo). Though coincidental, my parents were unaware of our German ancestry at the time, my name and appearance suggest each aspect of my European history. I say European because it is a well-known fact that my family also has an African-American ancestor. I remember my grandmother's cousins being a rather yellowish color, and I often wondered why. I later learned that it was because of Black Granny (as she was affectionately called), and that those cousins were even too dark to attend white schools in the segregated South of the early 1900's.

An anectdote about my name: When I was in third grade, we had to do a report on a topic which was assigned to us by plucking a small shred of paper from the teacher's assistant's cupped hands. When it came my turn, I pulled out a piece of paper which simply said, TB. I was slightly confused, and asked the lady, "Why does mine have my initials on it?" After a bout of giggles, she told me it was an abbreviation for tuberculosis.

In addition to my redhair, Irish heritage and birth on the day of the patron saint of that country, I also have a shamrock tattoo on my waist. Unlike some who make the decision to permanantly mark their bodies while intoxicated or as a dare from their friends, I put quite a bit of thought into what kind of tattoo I would get. I chose the shamrock for all of the reasons mentioned above, and I chose to make it three-leaved instead of four-leaved because I have three siblings, and also because three is considered somewhat of a mystical lucky number. There are two additional reasons which contributed to my choice of the shamrock: I spent most of my childhood in a sleepy little mill town in SC called Clover; and one of my favorite things to do as a child was lay down in the thick clover patches in my grandparent's backyard.

Let me again remind you that my birthday is on March 17th. Send presents. You can find out what I want by looking at my wish list on Amazon!

I would go on and on about those other events in my life which have helped to shape me into the quirky person I am today, but it would take more time than I care, at the moment, to give to this biographical sketch.

I have lived in Las Vegas, NV since 2000.

You can contact me on AIM or Yahoo!, screenname KarstenTB.



-Karsten