When I was a first-year in undergrad, I met this boy named Oscar. I had a huge crush on him, but was afraid to say anything because I assumed he'd think that I was just a dumb white girl. He was a little on the fruity side and talked a mile a minute, like Six did on Blossom. It was hilarious to listen to us talking because then I'd start talking faster, and between his spanglish and speed, and my speed and giggling, it must have sounded like we were literally on speed. He was from Hartford, and before that, Puerto Rico. He was geeky and would always hang out with the girls, whereas I would always hang out with the boys. One day he REFUSED to let the other girls on my floor (and it was all girls on that floor, so he was kind of conquering our space) have the tv to watch a Yankees game because he wanted to watch a VH1 Behind the Music that was all about Madonna. I found out later that semester that he liked me too. By then I had decided to hang around with this dirty punk who showered like once a semester and had a huge record collection.
I don't care about the Oscars. But I cared a lot about a Oscar.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Mock Lock
I am probably not supposed to talk about lockdown procedures. I am probably not supposed to discuss anything. We had a play lockdown at work today. The event in itself was no big deal, but the rumors I hear around it are. I heard, from the students, that teachers told them the timing of the drill had nothing to do with the war. The impression I was given was that the drill had everything to do with this, since there is a new procedure added if it is a statewide code red lockdown. I found out that I am permitted to physically restrain students from leaving the classroom in a real lockdown scenario. This makes me uneasy. . . because I can put myself in the kids' shoes. I would not want anyone laying a finger on me if I chose to flee the room. While I personally have no qualms about taking someone down or holding them back (in a physical sense. this does not make me nervous. i'm the first to intervene in fights and whatnot), I don't think it is necessarily right, unless we're talking child (under 12) or a student who has some kind of disability. Yes, I would make sure a 6 year old didn't leave, but their mindset is different from a 17 yr old. You have to wonder which is worse-- being a sitting duck waiting in a corner of a room for a "potential threat," or running away possibly facing danger, possibly facing freedom. Like I said, I tend to get in the middle of things, and can easily see myself getting out there trying to take down somebody with a gun because 1) maybe I'm crazy like that 2) it wouldn't be the first time I've encountered violence or firearms, and 3)sometimes if you wait for the police or someone else to intervene, it is too late. I don't know what I am trying to say here. This is all speculation since I have never been out in such a situation before where I had to simultaneously protect others and protect myself.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The other Olympic Sport
I was eating my lunch today in the lounge and heard an uproar. It turned out that the kids were having a maple syrup chugging contest. God Bless Em.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Riddle Me This
What I am doing at work now for the next few weeks requires me to work in rooms with other teachers. Which means, when it is time for the Pledge, there is an adult who is able to possibly give me shit for not standing. So I stand. I don't cover my heart. I don't say it. I stand and face the flag and think of how I'd rather be having my teeth cleaned with the poky metal tools than pledge allegiance to a country that reminds me more of nazi germany every day. And I understand how ballsy turning one's back to the flag is now. I have tried to be late to homeroom to miss the pledge altogether. Maybe that's what I have to do is just be using the bathroom or in the lounge until that little ritual is done. It seems so petty, but it doesn't feel that way. When I was little (like under 12) and going to car races with my family, they'd yell at me for refusing to stand for the National Anthem. I clearly remember being 7 at Stafford Motor Speedway, and telling them I was not going to stand for any patriotic song. I never had an easygoing childhood. Last summer, I went to a rodeo in Maine, and mortified the person who took me there because I wouldn't stand then either. God forbid his family think I'm a pinko red. I've always hated ritual and ceremony, so even if I was a sappy-ass patriot, I'd probably still refrain from these activities because they are so forced and corny.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Take Back the Night
The last march I went to was in April 1998.
I went to the Take Back the Night events and march tonight at Central Connecticut State University. Because I have been asked about what this event is, I'll give a little background info.
Take Back the Night is events/marching to protest: rape/date rape/acquaintance rape, sexual abuse/assault, sexual harassment, dating violence, and childhood sexual abuse/assault. The events preceding and following the march differ from college-to-college (or city-to-city), but there is always a keynote speaker who shares her experience, followed by others speaking out, and then the march. The one I attended tonight had dancing, singing, and a banner contest.
Tonight's events opened with a few short speeches, and then went into 2 latin dance numbers with these excellent sexy dancers. After another brief speech, The Ebony Choir was brought up to the stage where they sang two songs...the first one made me start to cry. After this, the keynote speaker came up. She had been gang raped by 4 football players at a university in 1998. She spoke mainly about her legal procedings because she is pressing charges. After her presentation, they asked that people from the audience come up and share. I listened to so many variations of pain. I saw a lot of women cry. One girl, this beautiful blonde who could have been a model, was sobbing like I have never seen before. That got me started. I can't stand to watch others suffer.
I went up on stage. I didn't know this chance was going to be offered, and I don't think I would have planned to go up if I did. The lights were so blinding up there. I could really only see the people in the first few rows...everything else was blotted out...but I had known the place was packed ahead of time. I did not get into specifics. I just stated the facts on two situations, I named the anger...I think I said the f-word in front of 300 people. The weird thing was, my voice was not shaking...or it didn't sound like it to me. Everybody who had spoke before me was shaky and crying. I could get every word out clearly. It was like an out of body experience. I did not cry. I was not nervous. I just thought the lights were really bright and that I was telling everybody about what happened to me at 15, and then one other time. I think part of the reason I got up there was to be a good role model for kalia...though now I must confess, what kind of role model says "fucking" into microphone at the student center? In front of the police?
I got off the stage and jetted past the TBTN counselors, because I did not want hugs or counseling, I just wanted to sit down. As I was getting to my table, I noticed Kalia had gotten up and was walking up on to stage. Here is her writing about the night. I am very proud of her. She does not speak in public, and I am very proud of the courage to not only say what she did, but to get up at all. I admire her honesty and coherence (and ability to not swear). I hope that speaking made her feel better.
After, we got glowsticks (!!!glowsticks are the best thing ever!!!), and went to march. Because of the construction on campus, we had an extra long walk, which I found enjoyable. I yelled, a lot. My throat is killing me, despite my effort to yell from the diaphragm. I'm kind of sore, but I feel mentally energized.
Oh, and I got a cool TBTN pin and a free bumpersticker that says: "Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed"--Martin Luther KingJr.
I went to the Take Back the Night events and march tonight at Central Connecticut State University. Because I have been asked about what this event is, I'll give a little background info.
Take Back the Night is events/marching to protest: rape/date rape/acquaintance rape, sexual abuse/assault, sexual harassment, dating violence, and childhood sexual abuse/assault. The events preceding and following the march differ from college-to-college (or city-to-city), but there is always a keynote speaker who shares her experience, followed by others speaking out, and then the march. The one I attended tonight had dancing, singing, and a banner contest.
Tonight's events opened with a few short speeches, and then went into 2 latin dance numbers with these excellent sexy dancers. After another brief speech, The Ebony Choir was brought up to the stage where they sang two songs...the first one made me start to cry. After this, the keynote speaker came up. She had been gang raped by 4 football players at a university in 1998. She spoke mainly about her legal procedings because she is pressing charges. After her presentation, they asked that people from the audience come up and share. I listened to so many variations of pain. I saw a lot of women cry. One girl, this beautiful blonde who could have been a model, was sobbing like I have never seen before. That got me started. I can't stand to watch others suffer.
I went up on stage. I didn't know this chance was going to be offered, and I don't think I would have planned to go up if I did. The lights were so blinding up there. I could really only see the people in the first few rows...everything else was blotted out...but I had known the place was packed ahead of time. I did not get into specifics. I just stated the facts on two situations, I named the anger...I think I said the f-word in front of 300 people. The weird thing was, my voice was not shaking...or it didn't sound like it to me. Everybody who had spoke before me was shaky and crying. I could get every word out clearly. It was like an out of body experience. I did not cry. I was not nervous. I just thought the lights were really bright and that I was telling everybody about what happened to me at 15, and then one other time. I think part of the reason I got up there was to be a good role model for kalia...though now I must confess, what kind of role model says "fucking" into microphone at the student center? In front of the police?
I got off the stage and jetted past the TBTN counselors, because I did not want hugs or counseling, I just wanted to sit down. As I was getting to my table, I noticed Kalia had gotten up and was walking up on to stage. Here is her writing about the night. I am very proud of her. She does not speak in public, and I am very proud of the courage to not only say what she did, but to get up at all. I admire her honesty and coherence (and ability to not swear). I hope that speaking made her feel better.
After, we got glowsticks (!!!glowsticks are the best thing ever!!!), and went to march. Because of the construction on campus, we had an extra long walk, which I found enjoyable. I yelled, a lot. My throat is killing me, despite my effort to yell from the diaphragm. I'm kind of sore, but I feel mentally energized.
Oh, and I got a cool TBTN pin and a free bumpersticker that says: "Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed"--Martin Luther KingJr.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
[excuse this post. i am just working out a really bad day in a public place. don't try to make sense out of it. war. no food in house. papers to write. no days off from work for weeks. mean people. lazy rude coworkers. misunderstandings. zits. okay. now for the incoherence]
I should be in bed preparing for my weeks of hell ahead. I will not have a single day off, and then, I get to come home to write 2 5 page papers and 1 25 page paper, and maybe if I am lucky I can go out to a poetry reading on Thursday even though I am feeling antisocial because I am sick of dealing with hissyfits and phoneys and liars and egomaniacs. And poetry readings are magnets for all of those.
I should be doing something worthwhile but instead I am wanting to blog because I feel like I always have something to say, except tonight, it's a lot of nothing. I am cranky. I am living off crackers and ramen noodles and I desperately need something of nutritional value, but there is no food in the house and I am too tired to go buy any.
I feel bad because I told someone to "cheer up" and I didn't mean it like, "oh, it's easy, all you have to do is cheer up" because I know it's not. All I meant to do was tell her that I recognize she's going through tough emotions, and that I hope she feels better, but it didn't come out like that. Nothing I say anymore comes out like the way I intend it to.
Nothing happens as I intend it to. Nothing.
I feel like fucking John Cougar Mellancamp. Not literally. I mean. I fight authority and authority always wins. I fight and fight and fight and Nothing.
I go to work and deal with rudeness and come home with an empty stomach to find no food and want a cigarette so badly and oh, yeah, there is a war going on and all these people are dying, and I feel like a fucking empath.
I feel like a vampire.
I make things suffer.
And I don't mean to.
I can't help how people respond to me.
I wish I were drunk. I want something to blame this on.
This is not a fucking blog entry, this is lj-style crap, but I don't care for that tonight.
And how is it that anyone is expected to live off $7/hour wages and how is it that stress is not going to kill? How is it that we are all complicit in these murders everywhere because noone has had the balls yet to stop it? I certainly haven't proven myself. I don't even know where to begin to make change.
I want to tell everyone that I am sorry, but I don't feel apologetic for anything I have ever done, except maybe to S____ for 1995 and maybe to J____ for all that bullshit from years ago, but I think I have already said I'm sorry and you can't force someone to accept an apology.
I'm not sorry.
I'm not.
I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm fed up with fairweather friends and talking in circles. I'm tired of backstabbers and low pay. Tired of having no health insurance.
I'm going to name names. I want to talk to liz and dave and suzanne and meg and kevin (even though) and kalia and I want to talk to them because they understand me. I don't want to bother with people who are going to pass judgement or fight me.
I'm a fucking mess. I'm going to bed.
Work better be good tomorrow or I'm gonna shit a brick, I swear to god.
No, I have more to say. I am sitting here fighting back tears because there are things I can not control and I need to have control. I can't control who is dying and my cousin is over there, and I am just waiting because I have no illusions about mortality, and he could be dead now for all i know, and yes, the reason I can't get close to my buddy dave is because I am afraid he'll be sent next to die. there. there is as close to a confession as anyone will get me. i hope he never reads this. yes. i like him. a lot. but fuck, i can't get attached. he's too old for me anyway. i don't want anyone reading this to know about him, but everyone seems to find things out anyway. i have no secrets.the last time i had sex with a person (as opposed to sex w/ toy) was so fucking long ago I can't even remember. Like, we're talking, last summer. Maybe. I'm going to guess it was a lot longer ago than that. Nobody reading this needs to know that. I can't even remember what I was talking about. Now I have one more thing to be annoyed about.
I refuse to buy the myth that these are the happiest years of my life. It is not all downhill from here. I've been down enough.
I want dance revolution! hippo revolution! I want more joy and less of this he said/she said bullshit.
I want to have more dates spoken primarily in Spanish.
I want to have fun and not be up with insomnia because the world blows goats right now.
Sleep is good, but I get only a few hours if I'm lucky.
I just go go go go go. I get amazing amounts of nothing done.
I am supposed to write about how women accomodate for men. I try to write about sociological ideas and relate it to literature. If I were a history teacher, I'd have been fired by now for being too opinionated.
I haven't had caffienated coffee for months.
And yet I am still up.
I am still up because I can't fix the world, and no, that is not the first time I've realized that. And I am angry at myself for contributing to an ageist conversation today. I am angry because my intentions are always misread.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
It's like undoing those knots that happen in thin necklace chains.
the harder you try to fix it, the worse it gets.
you hand it to someone else, and they know how to undo it right away.
i need to fix things that need fixing. i can not fix these things.
I should be in bed preparing for my weeks of hell ahead. I will not have a single day off, and then, I get to come home to write 2 5 page papers and 1 25 page paper, and maybe if I am lucky I can go out to a poetry reading on Thursday even though I am feeling antisocial because I am sick of dealing with hissyfits and phoneys and liars and egomaniacs. And poetry readings are magnets for all of those.
I should be doing something worthwhile but instead I am wanting to blog because I feel like I always have something to say, except tonight, it's a lot of nothing. I am cranky. I am living off crackers and ramen noodles and I desperately need something of nutritional value, but there is no food in the house and I am too tired to go buy any.
I feel bad because I told someone to "cheer up" and I didn't mean it like, "oh, it's easy, all you have to do is cheer up" because I know it's not. All I meant to do was tell her that I recognize she's going through tough emotions, and that I hope she feels better, but it didn't come out like that. Nothing I say anymore comes out like the way I intend it to.
Nothing happens as I intend it to. Nothing.
I feel like fucking John Cougar Mellancamp. Not literally. I mean. I fight authority and authority always wins. I fight and fight and fight and Nothing.
I go to work and deal with rudeness and come home with an empty stomach to find no food and want a cigarette so badly and oh, yeah, there is a war going on and all these people are dying, and I feel like a fucking empath.
I feel like a vampire.
I make things suffer.
And I don't mean to.
I can't help how people respond to me.
I wish I were drunk. I want something to blame this on.
This is not a fucking blog entry, this is lj-style crap, but I don't care for that tonight.
And how is it that anyone is expected to live off $7/hour wages and how is it that stress is not going to kill? How is it that we are all complicit in these murders everywhere because noone has had the balls yet to stop it? I certainly haven't proven myself. I don't even know where to begin to make change.
I want to tell everyone that I am sorry, but I don't feel apologetic for anything I have ever done, except maybe to S____ for 1995 and maybe to J____ for all that bullshit from years ago, but I think I have already said I'm sorry and you can't force someone to accept an apology.
I'm not sorry.
I'm not.
I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm fed up with fairweather friends and talking in circles. I'm tired of backstabbers and low pay. Tired of having no health insurance.
I'm going to name names. I want to talk to liz and dave and suzanne and meg and kevin (even though) and kalia and I want to talk to them because they understand me. I don't want to bother with people who are going to pass judgement or fight me.
I'm a fucking mess. I'm going to bed.
Work better be good tomorrow or I'm gonna shit a brick, I swear to god.
No, I have more to say. I am sitting here fighting back tears because there are things I can not control and I need to have control. I can't control who is dying and my cousin is over there, and I am just waiting because I have no illusions about mortality, and he could be dead now for all i know, and yes, the reason I can't get close to my buddy dave is because I am afraid he'll be sent next to die. there. there is as close to a confession as anyone will get me. i hope he never reads this. yes. i like him. a lot. but fuck, i can't get attached. he's too old for me anyway. i don't want anyone reading this to know about him, but everyone seems to find things out anyway. i have no secrets.the last time i had sex with a person (as opposed to sex w/ toy) was so fucking long ago I can't even remember. Like, we're talking, last summer. Maybe. I'm going to guess it was a lot longer ago than that. Nobody reading this needs to know that. I can't even remember what I was talking about. Now I have one more thing to be annoyed about.
I refuse to buy the myth that these are the happiest years of my life. It is not all downhill from here. I've been down enough.
I want dance revolution! hippo revolution! I want more joy and less of this he said/she said bullshit.
I want to have more dates spoken primarily in Spanish.
I want to have fun and not be up with insomnia because the world blows goats right now.
Sleep is good, but I get only a few hours if I'm lucky.
I just go go go go go. I get amazing amounts of nothing done.
I am supposed to write about how women accomodate for men. I try to write about sociological ideas and relate it to literature. If I were a history teacher, I'd have been fired by now for being too opinionated.
I haven't had caffienated coffee for months.
And yet I am still up.
I am still up because I can't fix the world, and no, that is not the first time I've realized that. And I am angry at myself for contributing to an ageist conversation today. I am angry because my intentions are always misread.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
It's like undoing those knots that happen in thin necklace chains.
the harder you try to fix it, the worse it gets.
you hand it to someone else, and they know how to undo it right away.
i need to fix things that need fixing. i can not fix these things.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Not Like They'd Even Try To Make Sense
House members endorsed oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge tonight as they considered a wide-ranging energy measure that seeks to spur domestic energy production and provides tax incentives to oil and power companies.
Opponents of the auto mileage standard proposal said it could harm the economy by forcing automakers to cut production of popular sport utility vehicles and increase the risk of car crash injuries in the smaller cars that would meet the standards.
"Bringing smaller cars in results in more deaths on the highway," said Representative Bart Stupak, Democrat of Michigan, the state that is home to much of the auto industry.
Okay, listen carefully...that's called, shh, enabling. Pet the heads of those SUV drivers. Don't make the culprits pay for gas guzzling. Displace animals. It's the American Way!
The bill grants oil and gas companies tax breaks to encourage production from marginal wells and those in deep offshore waters, allocates millions of dollars for the development of new coal technology, eliminates a tax on diesel fuel for trains and barges and allows utilities to more quickly write off the cost of new transmission systems.
Corporate welfare pisses me off.
Opponents of the auto mileage standard proposal said it could harm the economy by forcing automakers to cut production of popular sport utility vehicles and increase the risk of car crash injuries in the smaller cars that would meet the standards.
"Bringing smaller cars in results in more deaths on the highway," said Representative Bart Stupak, Democrat of Michigan, the state that is home to much of the auto industry.
Okay, listen carefully...that's called, shh, enabling. Pet the heads of those SUV drivers. Don't make the culprits pay for gas guzzling. Displace animals. It's the American Way!
The bill grants oil and gas companies tax breaks to encourage production from marginal wells and those in deep offshore waters, allocates millions of dollars for the development of new coal technology, eliminates a tax on diesel fuel for trains and barges and allows utilities to more quickly write off the cost of new transmission systems.
Corporate welfare pisses me off.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Have I mentioned that I Heart Mark Morford?
Here is one, from last week:
Is Sodomy Patriotic?
Where naughty gay sex in Texas meets the rigid U.S. Supreme Court. Hide the children
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist Wednesday, April 2, 2003
And then there's the one about the surly Bush-lovin' U.S. Supreme Court, soon to be deciding whether a gay Texas couple violated that state's law by having consensual homosexual sex in the privacy of their own home without first taking the necessary precaution of moving the hell away from homophobic big-haired gul-dang panty-bunched Texas in the first place.
Or at least hanging some blackout curtains and barricading their front door with iron bars against homophobic neighbors and lawmakers and Bible-groping pro-family Texas zealots who apparently still think good sex means a bottle of Jim Beam and 30 seconds with a belt sander.
What, too harsh? Let's look. Texas is one of 14 -- count 'em, 14 (down from 25 not so long ago) -- states that still have anti-sodomy laws on the books, four of which (like Texas) specify homosexual acts in particular, laws that make it a crime -- often a felony -- for gay couples to engage in oral or anal sex.
Anywhere, at any time, under any circumstances, because it's just wrong, an abomination against God and beer and sports and whatever, big scary threat to marriage and family values and the sanctity of "Touched By an Angel" reruns. Or something.
Here's the rub: As recently as 1986, the Supremes, to much derision and general scorn, upheld an older, 1976 ban on homosexual and heterosexual sodomy in Georgia, a precedent which Texas then followed, though Texas took the additional step of criminalizing only consensual anal or oral sex with your same-sex lover, but not with your hetero partner. Or with an animal. It's true. Sheep: legal. Gay lover: illegal. Now you know why they call it cattle country.
The current case, Lawrence and Garner vs. Texas, could reverse that inane 1986 decision. Maybe.
Lest we begin to think we are the land of the free and home of the libidinously brave. Lest we begin to think our sexually bewildered nation doesn't still harbor elements of snarling puritanical fundamentalist thinking, not really all that different in tone and pitch and implied hatred than, oh, say, Iraq. Or Saudi Arabia. Or the Taliban. You don't think so? Look again.
After all, there is a fine line between a Taliban "freedom fighter" beating a woman for displaying an ankle in public and a macho frat guy in Arkansas who would crush the skull of a gay man who accidentally flirted with him in a bar.
Fine line between the Islamic zealots who want the world purged of the "Great Satan" and the innumerable Bible zealots in the flyover states who wish everyone in San Francisco if not the entire state of California would all be gassed by terrorists and get AIDS and die. And those are the polite e-mails.
Naturally, as with anything related to sexual mores and uptight religion in the U.S., irony and hypocrisy are rampant. The term "sodomy" itself, for one thing, has gone through as many definitions as a Texas Republican has trophy wives.
"Sodomy" has, at various times, meant everything from mutual masturbation to sex in the wrong position to bestiality, sex without intent to procreate or just plain ol' hetero sex between a man and a woman.
Basically, "sodomy" has been used to refer to just about any sexual act, save maybe "the GOP Special," a.k.a. three grunting minutes in the missionary position right before NASCAR. The negative homophobic connotation to the term is relatively new, actually, and what with the Catholic Church going one ugly step further and tossing priests and young boys into the definition's mix, well, good ol' sodomy may never recover.
Which might seem to bode ill for San Francisco and other sexually progressive and enthusiastic cities, places where happy consensual sodomy not only isn't a crime, it's an art form, a cultural revolution, a point of pride.
Hell, you can take classes. You can attend workshops and buy wondrous insertable silicone thingies and pluglike doodads at friendly boutiques and no one blinks an eye just don't tell your mother. Sodomy here isn't just an act, it's a way of life. Our motto: Keep sodomy free, or the terrorists win.
Of course, we're all going to Hell. Alas.
Do we even need to mention that each and every one of those 14 anti-sodomy states voted for Bush? Or that these are the states that tend to be the most homogeneous, the least diverse, the least culturally dynamic? Pretty much a given.
But let's be even clearer: There is a very direct correlation between those who find unusual or otherwise naughty or kinky or open or delicious sexual practices to be a direct insult to a whiny uptight God and/or family values, and the current aggro attitudes of a nation at war.
To put it another way, those who are staunchly pro-war and pro-Bush and pro-guns and pro-violence and anti-outsider tend to be desperately fearful of the different, the openly sexual, the carnally adventurous. This is, after all, the basis of the conservative platform. Gays are an abomination. Women and minorities in their place. Don't ask, don't tell. Nothing new there.
But as we storm into a poor, repressed nation in the name of justice and power and our smirking inarticulate president's born-again God, killing hundreds (soon to be thousands) of Iraqis in the process, it's good to be reminded just what sort of values we are, ostensibly, fighting to inflict upon the world.
Is now a good time to mention how many psychologists and sex therapists believe that a great many of the world's ills, including war, are in part fueled by thwarted or otherwise repressed sexual desires among its manly leaders?
Dictators and warmongers and fear suckers and Dick Cheney -- it is safe to say they turn to a love of power and money and ego strutting because of sexual rejection and lack of virility and decent orgasm? Too much of a stretch to point out how many of the most violent, turbulent or unstable nations in the world tend to be the most sexually repressed? Think about it.
The good news is, the few states that do still have sodomy laws on the books rarely, if ever, enforce them. Despite Ashcroft's famous bilious homophobia and ShrubCo's anti-choicism and the general terrified puling of God-fearing outlets like the fun-lovin' Family Resource Council, such blatantly discriminatory laws are slowly vanishing, becoming less and less relevant. No one in recent memory, for example, has received the maximum 20-year prison sentence for committing gay fellatio in Oklahoma. Otherwise, they'd have no football teams.
But what isn't disappearing quite so fast is the hatred, the misinfo and the mind-set that inspire such laws in the first place. No matter which way the Supremes decide in the Texas case, the fact remains that we reside nowhere near the moral polar opposite of our fundamentalist enemies. In fact, with the Bush/Ashcroft/Cheney axis of cultural evil, we remain much more similar to our foes than we may want to believe.
All of which makes the ultimate irony even more, well, ironic. The truism remains: Those who fear and tremble and fret and clutch their Bibles and their ideologies the most when sodomy is mentioned are the very ones who could, of course, most benefit from it. As the saying goes, it's not just a punch line, it's a fact.
Is Sodomy Patriotic?
Where naughty gay sex in Texas meets the rigid U.S. Supreme Court. Hide the children
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist Wednesday, April 2, 2003
And then there's the one about the surly Bush-lovin' U.S. Supreme Court, soon to be deciding whether a gay Texas couple violated that state's law by having consensual homosexual sex in the privacy of their own home without first taking the necessary precaution of moving the hell away from homophobic big-haired gul-dang panty-bunched Texas in the first place.
Or at least hanging some blackout curtains and barricading their front door with iron bars against homophobic neighbors and lawmakers and Bible-groping pro-family Texas zealots who apparently still think good sex means a bottle of Jim Beam and 30 seconds with a belt sander.
What, too harsh? Let's look. Texas is one of 14 -- count 'em, 14 (down from 25 not so long ago) -- states that still have anti-sodomy laws on the books, four of which (like Texas) specify homosexual acts in particular, laws that make it a crime -- often a felony -- for gay couples to engage in oral or anal sex.
Anywhere, at any time, under any circumstances, because it's just wrong, an abomination against God and beer and sports and whatever, big scary threat to marriage and family values and the sanctity of "Touched By an Angel" reruns. Or something.
Here's the rub: As recently as 1986, the Supremes, to much derision and general scorn, upheld an older, 1976 ban on homosexual and heterosexual sodomy in Georgia, a precedent which Texas then followed, though Texas took the additional step of criminalizing only consensual anal or oral sex with your same-sex lover, but not with your hetero partner. Or with an animal. It's true. Sheep: legal. Gay lover: illegal. Now you know why they call it cattle country.
The current case, Lawrence and Garner vs. Texas, could reverse that inane 1986 decision. Maybe.
Lest we begin to think we are the land of the free and home of the libidinously brave. Lest we begin to think our sexually bewildered nation doesn't still harbor elements of snarling puritanical fundamentalist thinking, not really all that different in tone and pitch and implied hatred than, oh, say, Iraq. Or Saudi Arabia. Or the Taliban. You don't think so? Look again.
After all, there is a fine line between a Taliban "freedom fighter" beating a woman for displaying an ankle in public and a macho frat guy in Arkansas who would crush the skull of a gay man who accidentally flirted with him in a bar.
Fine line between the Islamic zealots who want the world purged of the "Great Satan" and the innumerable Bible zealots in the flyover states who wish everyone in San Francisco if not the entire state of California would all be gassed by terrorists and get AIDS and die. And those are the polite e-mails.
Naturally, as with anything related to sexual mores and uptight religion in the U.S., irony and hypocrisy are rampant. The term "sodomy" itself, for one thing, has gone through as many definitions as a Texas Republican has trophy wives.
"Sodomy" has, at various times, meant everything from mutual masturbation to sex in the wrong position to bestiality, sex without intent to procreate or just plain ol' hetero sex between a man and a woman.
Basically, "sodomy" has been used to refer to just about any sexual act, save maybe "the GOP Special," a.k.a. three grunting minutes in the missionary position right before NASCAR. The negative homophobic connotation to the term is relatively new, actually, and what with the Catholic Church going one ugly step further and tossing priests and young boys into the definition's mix, well, good ol' sodomy may never recover.
Which might seem to bode ill for San Francisco and other sexually progressive and enthusiastic cities, places where happy consensual sodomy not only isn't a crime, it's an art form, a cultural revolution, a point of pride.
Hell, you can take classes. You can attend workshops and buy wondrous insertable silicone thingies and pluglike doodads at friendly boutiques and no one blinks an eye just don't tell your mother. Sodomy here isn't just an act, it's a way of life. Our motto: Keep sodomy free, or the terrorists win.
Of course, we're all going to Hell. Alas.
Do we even need to mention that each and every one of those 14 anti-sodomy states voted for Bush? Or that these are the states that tend to be the most homogeneous, the least diverse, the least culturally dynamic? Pretty much a given.
But let's be even clearer: There is a very direct correlation between those who find unusual or otherwise naughty or kinky or open or delicious sexual practices to be a direct insult to a whiny uptight God and/or family values, and the current aggro attitudes of a nation at war.
To put it another way, those who are staunchly pro-war and pro-Bush and pro-guns and pro-violence and anti-outsider tend to be desperately fearful of the different, the openly sexual, the carnally adventurous. This is, after all, the basis of the conservative platform. Gays are an abomination. Women and minorities in their place. Don't ask, don't tell. Nothing new there.
But as we storm into a poor, repressed nation in the name of justice and power and our smirking inarticulate president's born-again God, killing hundreds (soon to be thousands) of Iraqis in the process, it's good to be reminded just what sort of values we are, ostensibly, fighting to inflict upon the world.
Is now a good time to mention how many psychologists and sex therapists believe that a great many of the world's ills, including war, are in part fueled by thwarted or otherwise repressed sexual desires among its manly leaders?
Dictators and warmongers and fear suckers and Dick Cheney -- it is safe to say they turn to a love of power and money and ego strutting because of sexual rejection and lack of virility and decent orgasm? Too much of a stretch to point out how many of the most violent, turbulent or unstable nations in the world tend to be the most sexually repressed? Think about it.
The good news is, the few states that do still have sodomy laws on the books rarely, if ever, enforce them. Despite Ashcroft's famous bilious homophobia and ShrubCo's anti-choicism and the general terrified puling of God-fearing outlets like the fun-lovin' Family Resource Council, such blatantly discriminatory laws are slowly vanishing, becoming less and less relevant. No one in recent memory, for example, has received the maximum 20-year prison sentence for committing gay fellatio in Oklahoma. Otherwise, they'd have no football teams.
But what isn't disappearing quite so fast is the hatred, the misinfo and the mind-set that inspire such laws in the first place. No matter which way the Supremes decide in the Texas case, the fact remains that we reside nowhere near the moral polar opposite of our fundamentalist enemies. In fact, with the Bush/Ashcroft/Cheney axis of cultural evil, we remain much more similar to our foes than we may want to believe.
All of which makes the ultimate irony even more, well, ironic. The truism remains: Those who fear and tremble and fret and clutch their Bibles and their ideologies the most when sodomy is mentioned are the very ones who could, of course, most benefit from it. As the saying goes, it's not just a punch line, it's a fact.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
not really a hiatus...
but I have to get my shit together and I can't do it with everybody looking at me. So if I am away from here for a few days, don't anyone panic. Not that anyone would give a fuck.
Monday, January 15, 2007
a theme here
A few weeks ago I realized that my internal monologue has the same voice as Samuel L Jackson, which is a little frightening considering I am about as opposite him as one can get. Perhaps I've watched Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown too many times.
And then, tonight, I realized that when my blood starts to boil, I always get the "let the bodies hit the floor" song in my head.
How bizarre.
And then, tonight, I realized that when my blood starts to boil, I always get the "let the bodies hit the floor" song in my head.
How bizarre.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
My Sister
I don't know how I plan to write a decent cheerful post when my head hurts and I feel like throwing up.
Liz and I played tonight. We ate crappy fast food and listened to goofy songs she downloaded from the internet and then we watched American Beauty. That is not the first time I have seen the movie, but it meant a little more this time, seeing it.
I don't know why we don't hang out more than we do. Oh, I know why. Because I am a deadbeat friend who doesn't return phonecalls or emails.
Liz and I played tonight. We ate crappy fast food and listened to goofy songs she downloaded from the internet and then we watched American Beauty. That is not the first time I have seen the movie, but it meant a little more this time, seeing it.
I don't know why we don't hang out more than we do. Oh, I know why. Because I am a deadbeat friend who doesn't return phonecalls or emails.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Satsuma
the short story
I had fun.
the long story
My last block class was hell today, and so afterwards, I was determined to make the rest of my day feel like life is worth living. I got a ton of neat stuff at the post office, including a zine that Erin made especially for me (as well as a whole box of goodies from her including chocolate, hello kitty candy, a bumpersticker, a postcard, zines, and a turtle. Did I leave anything out? Oh, and pin up girls). Justine sent me a zine book! I got a lovely letter from Roni, who has beautiful handwriting, by the way (Roni, I'll respond to something you brought up in the letter...later...). I went to Target and got myself new underwear, pink kitty socks(!), and a new purse, and some barrettes.
When I finally got home, I got an email from D* who said he was gonna call me this weekend but "didn't". Turns out he did call, but the male voice on the answering machine threw him for a loop. So, I called him today and we made plans to meet at the bookstore. Yes, I went out of my way to try and look fly, and I put all kinds of smeary black eyeshadow on. No, Karl, I am not a slacker of a student who would blow off class (even a bad bad class) to go on a date. My professor is out of the country this week, so I didn't have class. And as I've been saying, it's a damn shame she doesn't stay out of the country.
So, I get to the bookstore early (of course) and grab a bunch of anarchist and anti-war magazines, because we need appropriate material to be reading for when my army date comes in. ha ha ha. I go to get a scone and soda, and who do I see working there but this chick who used to read poetry all the time at the bookstore in Manchester. We used to hate each other. It was strange, because I was sincerely happy to see and talk to her, and she sounded the same way. It's like an 8 year old grudge match dissipated entirely. So, I take my food and get reading about why military is bad, and in comes my buddy D*. I thought we were just gonna hang out there, but no, he actually wanted to take me someplace.
I"m not a huge movie-watcher, but I said,well, movies would be fine. (I was really looking for an excuse to grope him in the dark, but shush). So, he drives...which means...I got to ride in a Mustang convertible. Hardcore. Yes, it's red. We decided to watch Hunter, because well, it was a toss up between that which was described as "bloody violence" and another movie that just had "violence". We go up to pay, and this couple behind in line gave us free movie passes. Hardcore!!! Watched movie...will spare the details, though nothing really happened, except I finally got to thrill somebody with my gun and knife and brawl stories. Then we went to a bar (!) and talked for a few hours. The bar-lady kept bringing him more beers even though he said only one, and I only had a water. When he gets the bill, they only charged him for one. I did too threaten to slap him just on principle if he mentioned that they undercharged him.
Anyway...I learned a few interesting things. Such as, a few classmates asked D* if he and I were like boyfriend and girlfriend. How cute is that?
And, he got booed off stage while singing in a karaoke bar with my professor...at a gay bar on drag night, in Provincetown.
Okay, that's more than anyone needed to know. The point is, I wish I could spend more weeknights like this instead of in that hell ren class trying to keep my eyes open. Oh yeah, and I had fun for once.
I had fun.
the long story
My last block class was hell today, and so afterwards, I was determined to make the rest of my day feel like life is worth living. I got a ton of neat stuff at the post office, including a zine that Erin made especially for me (as well as a whole box of goodies from her including chocolate, hello kitty candy, a bumpersticker, a postcard, zines, and a turtle. Did I leave anything out? Oh, and pin up girls). Justine sent me a zine book! I got a lovely letter from Roni, who has beautiful handwriting, by the way (Roni, I'll respond to something you brought up in the letter...later...). I went to Target and got myself new underwear, pink kitty socks(!), and a new purse, and some barrettes.
When I finally got home, I got an email from D* who said he was gonna call me this weekend but "didn't". Turns out he did call, but the male voice on the answering machine threw him for a loop. So, I called him today and we made plans to meet at the bookstore. Yes, I went out of my way to try and look fly, and I put all kinds of smeary black eyeshadow on. No, Karl, I am not a slacker of a student who would blow off class (even a bad bad class) to go on a date. My professor is out of the country this week, so I didn't have class. And as I've been saying, it's a damn shame she doesn't stay out of the country.
So, I get to the bookstore early (of course) and grab a bunch of anarchist and anti-war magazines, because we need appropriate material to be reading for when my army date comes in. ha ha ha. I go to get a scone and soda, and who do I see working there but this chick who used to read poetry all the time at the bookstore in Manchester. We used to hate each other. It was strange, because I was sincerely happy to see and talk to her, and she sounded the same way. It's like an 8 year old grudge match dissipated entirely. So, I take my food and get reading about why military is bad, and in comes my buddy D*. I thought we were just gonna hang out there, but no, he actually wanted to take me someplace.
I"m not a huge movie-watcher, but I said,well, movies would be fine. (I was really looking for an excuse to grope him in the dark, but shush). So, he drives...which means...I got to ride in a Mustang convertible. Hardcore. Yes, it's red. We decided to watch Hunter, because well, it was a toss up between that which was described as "bloody violence" and another movie that just had "violence". We go up to pay, and this couple behind in line gave us free movie passes. Hardcore!!! Watched movie...will spare the details, though nothing really happened, except I finally got to thrill somebody with my gun and knife and brawl stories. Then we went to a bar (!) and talked for a few hours. The bar-lady kept bringing him more beers even though he said only one, and I only had a water. When he gets the bill, they only charged him for one. I did too threaten to slap him just on principle if he mentioned that they undercharged him.
Anyway...I learned a few interesting things. Such as, a few classmates asked D* if he and I were like boyfriend and girlfriend. How cute is that?
And, he got booed off stage while singing in a karaoke bar with my professor...at a gay bar on drag night, in Provincetown.
Okay, that's more than anyone needed to know. The point is, I wish I could spend more weeknights like this instead of in that hell ren class trying to keep my eyes open. Oh yeah, and I had fun for once.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Class
[This is not my response to We Have Brains]
I have no class. No sophistication. No elegance. Appropriate words do not roll off my tongue. I don't knpw which fork is for salad, and don't care because I have pie first. I have no sense of grace. When I sit, I don't cross my legs.
Instead, I stutter getting the words out. My thoughts are apparent in my facial expressions. I laugh too loud. Talk too fast and loud. I plunk myself down. When the waiter comes over I alway order first. I am perpetually dishevelled. My underwear or a bra strap always seems to be hanging out. I stomp my feet when I walk. In class, I call out.
I ain't got no class. And that's alright by me.
I have no class. No sophistication. No elegance. Appropriate words do not roll off my tongue. I don't knpw which fork is for salad, and don't care because I have pie first. I have no sense of grace. When I sit, I don't cross my legs.
Instead, I stutter getting the words out. My thoughts are apparent in my facial expressions. I laugh too loud. Talk too fast and loud. I plunk myself down. When the waiter comes over I alway order first. I am perpetually dishevelled. My underwear or a bra strap always seems to be hanging out. I stomp my feet when I walk. In class, I call out.
I ain't got no class. And that's alright by me.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Noam Chomsky is the Source of All Things Cool
[i snatched this from Jasmine}
"The point of public relations slogans like "Support our troops" is that they don't mean anything... That's the whole point of good propaganda. You want to create a slogan that nobody's going to be against, and everybody's going to be for. Nobody knows what it means, because it doesn't mean anything. Its crucial value is that it diverts your attention from a question that does mean something: Do you support our policy? That's the one you're not allowed to talk about."
Noam Chomsky
"The point of public relations slogans like "Support our troops" is that they don't mean anything... That's the whole point of good propaganda. You want to create a slogan that nobody's going to be against, and everybody's going to be for. Nobody knows what it means, because it doesn't mean anything. Its crucial value is that it diverts your attention from a question that does mean something: Do you support our policy? That's the one you're not allowed to talk about."
Noam Chomsky
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
It's Not About Converting Those Heathens Either
"Our understanding of relief ministries is that anytime you give a cup of cold water in the name of Jesus you've shared God's love in a real physical way. That also raises the question as to why you did that. When people ask you, you explain that it's because of the love of God that has been poured out into my life and I have a deep desire that you know that same love as well."
This reminds me of the hidden track on Living In Clip (ani difranco), in which they are talking about being mortified by these born-again Christians at an open mike who sang a song about "Did Anne Frank find Jesus?"
It's people like this who give Christianity a bad name.
This reminds me of the hidden track on Living In Clip (ani difranco), in which they are talking about being mortified by these born-again Christians at an open mike who sang a song about "Did Anne Frank find Jesus?"
It's people like this who give Christianity a bad name.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
AK-47, the very best there is. When you absolutely, positively, gotta kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitute.
I like watching very violent movies because movies are make believe.
I do not like violence in my reality.
Let's make the distinction between these two.
I like shooting guns, but not at people. This is interesting to me because I do not like fireworks at all. Fireworks make me nervous. I used to go out in fields shooting at pumpkins and coffee cans. If I had to defend myself, then I would. I don't think traveling half-way around the world is defense. I think that is an act of aggression.
If you turn around and stop taunting him, then you won't aggravate him. If you don't aggravate him, then he is not going to punch you.
I like watching very violent movies because movies are make believe.
I do not like violence in my reality.
Let's make the distinction between these two.
I like shooting guns, but not at people. This is interesting to me because I do not like fireworks at all. Fireworks make me nervous. I used to go out in fields shooting at pumpkins and coffee cans. If I had to defend myself, then I would. I don't think traveling half-way around the world is defense. I think that is an act of aggression.
If you turn around and stop taunting him, then you won't aggravate him. If you don't aggravate him, then he is not going to punch you.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Sneezing
A man and a woman are riding next to each other in first class on a plane. The woman sneezes, then takes a tissue and gently wipes it between her legs. The man isn't sure he saw what she did, and decides he is probably hallucinating.
A few minutes pass. The woman sneezes again. She takes a tissue and gently wipes it between her legs. The man is about to go nuts. He can't believe that he's seeing what he's seeing.
A few more minutes pass. The woman sneezes yet again. She takes a tissue and gently wipes it between her legs yet again.
The man has finally had all he can handle. He turns to the woman and says,
Three times you've sneezed, and three times you've taken a tissue and wiped it
between your legs! What kind of signals are you sending me, or are you just trying to drive me crazy?
The woman replies, I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I have a rare condition such that when I sneeze, I have an orgasm.
The man, now feeling badly, says, Oh, I'm sorry. What are you taking for it?
The woman looks at him and says, Pepper.
A few minutes pass. The woman sneezes again. She takes a tissue and gently wipes it between her legs. The man is about to go nuts. He can't believe that he's seeing what he's seeing.
A few more minutes pass. The woman sneezes yet again. She takes a tissue and gently wipes it between her legs yet again.
The man has finally had all he can handle. He turns to the woman and says,
Three times you've sneezed, and three times you've taken a tissue and wiped it
between your legs! What kind of signals are you sending me, or are you just trying to drive me crazy?
The woman replies, I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I have a rare condition such that when I sneeze, I have an orgasm.
The man, now feeling badly, says, Oh, I'm sorry. What are you taking for it?
The woman looks at him and says, Pepper.
The Good Trade...
For all of us who are married, were married, wish you were married, or wish you weren't married, this is something to smile about the next time you see a bottle of wine:
Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Northern Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking on the side of the road.
As the trip was a long and quiet one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a ride. With a silent nod of thanks, the woman got into the car.
Resuming the journey, Sally tried in vain to make a bit of small talk with the Navajo woman. The old woman just sat silently, looking intently at everything she saw, studying every little detail, until she noticed a brown bag on the seat next to Sally.
"What in bag?" asked the old woman.
Sally looked down at the brown bag and said, "It's a bottle of wine. I got it for my husband." The Navajo woman was silent for another moment or two.
Then speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder, she said:
"Good trade....."
Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Northern Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking on the side of the road.
As the trip was a long and quiet one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a ride. With a silent nod of thanks, the woman got into the car.
Resuming the journey, Sally tried in vain to make a bit of small talk with the Navajo woman. The old woman just sat silently, looking intently at everything she saw, studying every little detail, until she noticed a brown bag on the seat next to Sally.
"What in bag?" asked the old woman.
Sally looked down at the brown bag and said, "It's a bottle of wine. I got it for my husband." The Navajo woman was silent for another moment or two.
Then speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder, she said:
"Good trade....."
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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