While I'm a Kentucky boy through heritage and experience, by an accident of the draft and the Vietnam war, I was actually born in California. Given today's big pro-marriage rights ruling, and Schwarzenegger's decision to uphold the court's decision, I'm tempted to claim native-son status from the state.
Wow. Everyone should bask while they can. This is a big, big deal.
Howard Kurtz tosses one off at the end of his Post media column today, noting NBC anchor Brian Williams consternation at all the sexy, sexy stuff in recent issues of the New York Times.
Finally, Brian Williams turns media critic on his NBC blog, questioning (without quite saying so) whether the New York Times is out of touch with mainstream America:
"It's tough to figure out exactly what readers the paper is speaking to, or seeking. Consider this: the Sunday Styles section lead story on April 13th was 'Scavengers on the Urban Savannah' (people buy things at flea markets!), and promoted on Page One was 'A Sex Chair Becomes A Battlefield.' Alrighty then.
"This Sunday's lead story was 'Through Sickness, Health, Sex Change . . . ' in a section that included the essay, 'Was I On A Date Or Baby-Sitting?,' and 'Let's Say You Want To Date A Hog Farmer' (and who among us hasn't?).
"The magazine cover story this week was 'The Newlywed Gays!' (happy gay men in Massachusetts who are married outdoor grilling enthusiasts!) . . .The lead story in the Travel Section? The rise of vacation resorts catering to nudists."
All the sex that's fit to print.
You know those stories about young gay men getting married and, in many cases, committing to monogamy -- nothing but sex, sex, sex!
Really, given that it looks like neither one of them bothered to read the Newlywed Gays story -- I did, by the way, and it's pretty good overall -- it makes me wonder what pictures go through Williams's and Kurtz's heads when they hear the word "gay." And if they did read the story, well, ingrained bias is an ugly thing.
In a strange day of political developments, I'm struck by the reaction to the far more minor eruption in North Carolina where Gov. Mike Easley made his endorsement of Hillary Clinton more newsworthy by tossing out the loaded word "pansy."
But what strikes me more than the utterance itself is the blog posts and e-mails I've been watching that defend Hillary's defender because "pansy" isn't really an anti-gay term, or because Easley's just a humor-impaired old straight guy, or because "OMG, I didn't even know 'pansy' was a gay insult!" And, no surprise, some gay Obama supporters have been pushing the story, while some gay Clinton supporters have been pretending it's no big deal. Both of which are useless pursuits.
Anyone who votes against Clinton solely for this Easley flap probably shouldn't be voting anyway because it kind of indicates a lack of any sort of critical thought about either candidate; the same goes for anyone who votes against Obama because of Rev. Wright or some other supposed "surrogate." There are far bigger issues at stake, and far better arguments for both candidates.
But. But, but, but.
As a 40 year old gay guy with strong memories of how homosexuals were verbally degraded in my rural Kentucky hometown -- faggot, queer, pansy, homo, etc. -- and even stronger memories of those words and others being used against me in college and beyond, the dismissal by some of a pretty nasty little word strikes me as a pretty egregious case of granting an exception for political purposes. I've watched the gay community over the past few years rear itself up with righteous dudgeon over the use of the word "gay" by pre-teens. Yet the 50-something Democratic governor of a southern state gets a pass with a wink and nod? Isn't he the one who should know better? Isn't he the one we should be holding accountable?
Maybe we should come up with a list of words that are acceptable and those that are not. "Pansy" = okay. "Faggot" = off limits. "Cocksucker" = depends on the context.
The idea that Clinton should have reacted immediately and cast Easley aside to give some soul-stirring speech denouncing the history of the word pansy is, frankly, silly. But the idea that we as a community should react with no more than a laugh and a wave of the hand is disheartening.
Via Towleroad, I caught wind of a new book, You're Going to Be Gay!, that features photographs of adult gays and lesbians alongside childhood pictures that should have announced to the world at large their upcoming homo-tude. Like any gay man who looks back fondly at the days when friends and family refused to see the flaming truths in front of them, I love these sorts of pictures.
Luckily, when I was last at my mom's house going through two big boxes of old photos I managed to begin a long-term scanning project that, in addition to chronicling the history of my family, will show exactly how nelly a little boy I was. For example, here's a shot of my sister and me with our Grandpa Joe (actually our great-grandfather) circa 1975:
Honestly, the gunpowder horn, rifle and miniature football jersey aren't fooling anyone -- maybe it's the way I'm striking a pose. Although those pants would have made anyone look gay. Just FYI, despite her hair and the big animal trap she's joyfully carrying, my sister turned out straight.
School pictures and other portraits seemed bring out some of my best unintentional swishiness, but I haven't gotten the chance to scan some of the more obvious evidence. I do have a couple instances, though, including this one from a couple years before my rifle-totin' pic:
It may not seem obvious in these more enlightened days, but I took huge amounts of shit in elementary school for having such long hair, and was called "hippie" with some regularity. I, however, loved my hair. It was very luxuriant and lustrous and felt good in the wind -- I was an early connoisseur of such things as Body on Tap. Interestingly, my shirt appears to be a prescient Native American interpretation of Space Invaders. But even before my locks grew long, I think I looked pretty gay. In fact, I couldn't even be bothered to wear pants:
As opposed to my sister, who though sleepy managed to maintain a sense of propriety. Of course, all this nelly-ness may be mostly in hindsight, at least as far as the photographic records go. Then again, I know my parents never ran to grab the Kodak when I donned my sister's clothes or commandeered her Barbies, so my pool of evidence is limited.
A minor tempest over at Queerty as touchy Madonna fans take the gayer-than-thou site to task for daring to criticize She Who Must Be Worshipped. From the comments:
I wouldn’t be a proud gay man without Madonna.
And that, my friends, is the saddest thing I've ever read.
Though I'm a little late to the game after this weekend's latest "gaffe," I'm up to play. Because if after eight years of Bush you're not bitter, then you're not paying attention.
My reasons to be bitter:
And the list goes on and on.
Following up on its attention-grabbing antics of last week when it ran a blank stretch of space on its front page to emphasize the Obama campaign's decision not to do an interview with the paper, the Philadelphia Gay News continues its campaign this week with the front page with the complaint that it's been "1,529 days" since Obama interviewed with the "local gay press."
The complaint last week in a PGN editorial was that "It has now been 1,522 days since Obama has been accessible to our community." Now that the Advocate has snagged an interview with him, the PGN complaint has shifted, essentially, to kvetching that Barack Obama won't interview with me!
PGN publisher Mark Segal, in a press release this morning highlighted four "questions of importance to the LGBT community of Pennsylvania":
1. Why has he not spoken with local gay media in 1529 days?
2. Why has he accepted only two interviews with gay media since 2004?
3. Why interview only with gay media when in damage control now that the national LGBT press is urging you to talk to us, not at us?
4. Finally, with all due respect Senator, you've now avoided answering the single most important question which PGN readers must ask. The LGBT community of Pennsylvania wants to know your stand on the anti gay marriage state constitutional legislation currently before the Pennsylvania Senate.
You know, when three of your four "important" questions are essentially re-phrased versions of Barack Obama won't interview with me! then there's a bit of a substance problem to the complaint. The idea that we don't know anything about Obama's positions on GLBT issues -- or, conversely, that we now have some special insight into the mind of Hillary Clinton because she interviewed with PGN or Kevin Naff at the Blade -- is a non-starter because the positions have been spelled out, they've been discussed in public events, and they've been covered in press both mainstream and niche. And if you're a reporter who wants to know a candidate's position on a particular issue -- say, a Pennsylvania anti-marriage amendment -- you call the campaign office, ask them, and report the response (or non-response).
Tempest? Meet the teapot.
Hey, it's an invitation, not an insult. At the top of the left hand column you'll see the return of Bugg Bites, which I had previously boxed like an emotionally unstable Three series due to Twitter's unnerving habit of locking up my site. When you're looking to increase your regular readership beyond a number you can easily count on your fingers, toes and one other appendage, you really want to make sure the damn page will load in a browser.
But, all things considered, the Twitter feed seems to be playing a little nicer now, and maybe when they finish their maintenance later today it will work in the beautiful, seamless way in which the Internet is supposed to bring us all together through the magic of technology. Except when it doesn't.
So, let the navel gazing (re)commence.
I wanted to do something romantic with Cavin on Sunday afternoon, given that we had made such progress cleaning the house the day before. So I asked him to go out with me to shop for a new office chair.
Such is the life of gay, married* suburbia.
Although it did have it's romantic moments -- I suppose that's what you would call Cavin spinning me like office-supply dervish in a faux-leather executive chair -- the trip ended up more of an odyssey. To start, I trekked over to the local Office Depot, where I spent about 40 minutes or so carefully perusing the selection, comparing prices and determining exactly how comfortable my ass would be if ensconced in one for hours on end. I ultimately chose one of the most expensive models that, while ugly as a deformed pig, offered some seriously superior comfort. The plastic-envelope that contained the price tag bristled with tickets to be taken to the register for purchase. Satisfied, I snatched one and headed to the front.
Where after some confusing back-and-forth on the store radio, the cashier informed me that the chair I desired was not in stock. And how was I, a simple-minded customer, supposed to determine that the chair was not in stock when it was essentially plastered with "buy this chair!" tickets?
"Um, we don't have that chair in stock."
Okey dokey. Time to go to Staples, where I found a near perfect replica of the brown leather Jean Luc Picard chair that I used at the magazine office. Was it in stock? Of course not.
So, off to a different Staples where the Picard chairs were in stock. At least, that's what the computer said. How could that be wrong? Was the chair in stock? The nice Staples employee -- I mean nice in the non-ironic sense, given that this guy was the friendliest person I'd met all day, Cavin included -- couldn't find the boxed chair in the store room.
"What about the four of them sitting up front?" I asked about the floor models I'd seen when entering the store.
"Oh, those are for sale pre-assembled."
Finally, a breakthrough. Plus a challenge: Getting a pre-assembled, high-back office chair into the back seat of a 3-Series BMW is akin to one of those challenges on The Amazing Race that often augur the end of a relationship. But we persevered, and now I sit in my home office, occasionally spinning around and declaring "Make it so!"
I may even get some work done soon.
*Cavin and I aren't married in the legal sense, as we live in Virginia. However, we had our own Buddhist/agnostic ceremony with our families out here in Falls Church, and that's good enough for me to say I'm married. It's not like the Virginia police can send a SWAT team to break us up. Yet.
I tend to shy away from those moments when the gay community rallies in response to a hate crime -- so often things grow to the point where the victim is no longer remembered as a person, but as a symbol. But I find myself unable to ignore or pull away from what happened to Lawrence King. Maybe it's because when I was a closeted gay kid circa 1981, eighth grade was one of the most painful inner circles of hell I ever experienced. It's hard for me to imagine, even in more "enlightened" times, what it's like to go through that as an open gay kid.
So I'm posting the same link to Ellen Degeneres speaking about Lawrence King on her show that so many people are. I'm not much of a crier, but I'll admit that this was different. And as she says, it's not about the politics -- it's about getting to a place where simple human dignity wins out.
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