Rookies vrs Barbarians: How to Look Good During an Ass Whoopin'

Look. Generally, I like to get spanked a little. Hell, I liked to get spanked a lot. I am sure there is some sort of Oedipus, PTSD, childhood trauma root cause of me liking to get that ass torn up now and again, but I prefer it in the bedroom (or on the kitchen table), bent over, with The Rock doing the disciplining...I, however, do not enjoy getting my ass beaten on the softball field.

Well, if the Rock was doing the beating, I would lay down ass up on the pitchers mound and chalk it up to taking one for the team.

This week...my beloved Rookies and I played softball on Randall's Island amongst the Little Leaguers. God help the things those poor children hear and learn when they play ball interspersed with homosexicals swinging long phallic objects big enough to give the most devout size queen the vapors. I can just hear little Timmy asking Tia Juanita, "Mira, Tia, what is a auto-fellatio while getting a rim job by a midget?"

"Ay dios mio!" I can hear it now.

So we played a double header against the Barbarians. The Blue (that's Umpire for you civilians) was our favorite blue. This dude is pretty amazing. He's a straight Latin guy that LOVES umping (and humping I am sure) the gay softball league. He is RIDICULOUSLY supportive. Hell, when I was on the mound throwing the ball everywhere BUT in the strike zone, he was like a self-esteem coach from 20 yards. And when I switched to playing catcher (it's rare...but it happens...heyyyyyy!), he was cracking jokes, and I almost peed on myself. Really. I almost peed. At home plate. While squatting. Scottie taught me that.

So our first game had little to recommend itself in terms of reporting. No one, and I mean no one was living life like it was golden. Thank God Mason showed up in the third inning...cuz between my inability to pitch and the rest of the teams inability to catch, we were stuck in an inning that felt like Groundhog's Day up in that piece.

The second game was much more exciting.

Reggie put me in at catcher, which, for the first time I really enjoyed. (Shut up faggots...I know what you are thinking). There were some AWESOME plays by Vinnie, who was pitching (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Sorry...sexual visual there---love you Vin), and Joe proved once again that he is 50 and LOVING it. Shit, by the time I'm 50, with all the drugs I've done, I will be happy to be able to run a Rascal through a blow tube, and Joe was running to and fro snatching balls out of the air.

For the first couple of innings, we were down, but not as much as in the first game, which, incidentally was called for time and for pure humiliation. Then, by the grace of God and Cher, we tied the friggin' game. For two innings we held 'em, and then this hot ass mo'fo from their team steps up to the plate, smacks the ball way out to Jesus, and the Barbarians scored five runs.

Now, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away, I pretended that we came from behind, tied the game, and then I had a nasty public sexual escapade that starred The Rock, Dan's new boyfriend, a couple members of the Rookies whose names I shan't reveal, and Bozo the Clown (don't judge), but, in reality, we never made it back, the games ended, and off we went to drown our sorrows in Eric the Bartender's pecs at Gym Bar.

God I love gay softball.

In the end, our team was prettier. And really, in America, we know the pretty people always win. GOD BLESS THE US of A!

Queendom: Bebe Zahara Benet's One Woman Show

In early 2007, I started making regular Thursday night appearances at the Town House, a little bitty queer bar, beloved by lesbians, tucked between a used car dealer lot and a junk shop on University Avenue in St. Paul, MN. Thursday night was the weekly Pumps and Pearls Drag Revue. My first night at the revue I was dazzled when Monica West, the host of the show, introduced the French speaking, African Diva, straight (or gayly) from CAMEERROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON: Bebe Zahara Benet.

Over the next year and a half, I rarely missed a show. I burned through a boyfriend and at least 1,000 $1 bills celebrating the art, beauty, grace, and fierceness of Bebe Benet. I was there, at the Town House, in early 2008 when it was announced that Bebe had been selected to be a contestant on the new reality show on Logo: RuPaul's Drag Race. I about fell out of my chair in excitement.

In August 2008, I left Minneapolis, and I wasn't sure if I would ever see Bebe again. Of course I saw her again, on Logo. I watched every week and every week I texted Bebe sending her love and support. And then she won. Great googly moogly, she won. I had total faith in her, and I was so happy to see a queer black African immigrant win what instantly became drag's new highest honor.

Much to my delight and surprise, I ran into Bebe a couple of times in NYC. Last year, on my birthday, we had dinner. And then glory of glories last November she moved to New York. I now count Bebe amongst my best friends. We are family, and I would do anything to support her as a person, her career, and her artistry.

On Thursday, May 20th, you also have a chance to support this remarkable man-dressed-as-a-woman. If you are in New York, clear your calendar and join us for Bebe's show--Queendom: An Intimate Experience with African Royalty.

Here is the information:

Venue: Don't Tell Mama
Address: 343 W. 46th Street (between 8th and 9th Avenue)
Time: 8:30-10:30pm
Cost: $15 and two drink minimum

Description:

Queendom is not simply an utterly unique and entertaining performance. It is an interactive experience that transports its audience to the royalty of Africa. The theater becomes a majestic African palace and the audience members become its honorary guests. A story is told through a fusion of upbeat American music with harmonious African chanting and tribal elements resulting in a fresh and edgy musical experience that is beautiful to the ears and healing to the soul. Glamorous animal inspired high fashion original costumes and décor are a visual treat. And speaking of treats, royal guests never leave empty handed as special gifts that tickle the senses are given to everyone at every show. Each season brings a new Queendom performance making this an ever changing event worth visiting again and again. The star and creator, Miss Bebe Zahara Benet (Winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race, Season 1), is a Cameroon native and left no detail gone unnoticed. It is a production built on great knowledge, impeccable taste, and deep passion. It will leave you feeling good and sassy! Queendom is a must-see.


JOIN ME FOR THIS EVENT. I will be there. So should you be.

Sit With It

Right now, I am baking chicken wings, making brown rice, and trying to focus on the amazing amount of love that I have received over the last few days. Last night, I was reminded that God is out there, God is watching, and God forgives us even when we have a hard time forgiving ourselves and when others can't or won't.

Here's what happened.

I recently met a guy that I think is pretty cool. We've hung out a couple of times, and he is interested in hanging out more. From the gate, I was up front about my HIV status. I let him know that if that would be a barrier to us hanging out, then he should let me know, and we could call it quits before anything happened. His response was very affirming and sweet, and, in the end, it was at his invite that I went with him to an event last night.

We hung out with two of his friends that I had met on a previous occasion. Both people are nice guys. We had laughed, we relaxed, we gayed it up. Then we decided to go to dinner. One of his friends, without any word, disappeared. A few moments later we received a text that he had gone home.

The three of us that remained went on about our business and stopped into Spice for dinner. Then, about halfway through the dinner, I noticed my friend responding to a text message. Being a little bit nosy, I looked down, and I saw it was from his pal that had vanished and gone home. In it, the text was basically expressing that the person with whom I was hanging out shouldn't be hanging out with me or considering any sort of anything with me due to my HIV status.

As you can imagine, particularly after the last couple of days, that hit hard. But, it is a reality that I live with and have lived with for some time now. Our other pal that was with us, basically almost fell out of his chair when he was informed of the contents of the text.

I needed a minute to myself, so I got up and went to the bathroom.

When I came out, my friend was standing there. He apologized to the woman behind him and then pushed me back into that bathroom.

I was like....ooooh snap...I've seen movies that start this way.

He basically repeated himself with what he said at the table but more emphatically. He expressed that he would like to have a date. That he has enjoyed hanging out with me. That other people do not determine the decisions he makes. The he sees me and knows that I am HIV positive. And he apologized that I had the experience of seeing the text message.

I then asked him to leave so I could cry by myself.

I totally did, and then I rejoined the boys. Our other friend that was with us was still mortified and apologized on their mutual friends behalf. I, again, expressed that this is a simple reality of my life at this point and that while it isn't pleasant it is something I have to plan for an expect, and when I don't plan for it, and when I don't own my reality is when I end up in a bad place (the last several days being a perfect example of that).

Last night, I truly believe, was God stepping in. It was an object lesson that honesty almost always pays off in rich dividends. It demonstrated that fear can keep good things away or destroy good things that you already have. It was a direct intervention into my own shame spiral by my higher power. Ultimately, it made me realize that if I had been honest a few weeks back, I may have had the same experience, much earlier, without causing anyone any hurt or pain.

Hindsight is 20/20, which is good because I am legally blind.

I came home and shared all of this with David, and this morning is when I realized that it was more than just a chance experience that it was a God inspired encounter. I am grateful for that, I am grateful for the love I receive, I am grateful for David, and I am grateful for whatever the future may bring.

Lessons Learned

The last couple of days are ones which I would never like to repeat. Ever. The great thing is that I can control whether or not I will have to relive this kind of experience. Of course, anytime I believe that I have control over anything, the universe has a direct and sometimes cruel way of dispelling that illusion. This list of lessons is by no means exhaustive, but it is what I have learned so far.

1) There is an ugly price to pay for fear. Much of this could have been avoided. If I had been sober, if I had been honest from the gate, if, after the first incident I had disclosed, if I hadn't lied, if after the second incident I had disclosed, if I had disclosed within the first four days, if I would have disclosed before being directly confronted, all of these would have made this experience less hurtful, less painful, less shameful, and less complicated. Each day that I failed to confront my own fear and shame made matters worse. If I had the mind and spirit to be brave, this would have been a better situation all around. I can control the impact of fear on me, I can be brave, because, frankly, facing my fear from the gate, despite the circumstances, would have been better than anything that has happened thus far.

2) I am only responsible for myself. Over the last couple of days, I have struggled to think my way through my responsibility instead of feeling my way through it. The more that I lost myself in my head, replayed the events, replayed the conversations after being confronted, the less able I was to see, clearly, where I was at fault and where my responsibility ended. The itty bitty shitty committee in my head, and the Great Judge that sits at the head of that committee were trying their best to rip me apart and lay the entire experience on my shoulders. Last night, I stopped thinking and started feeling. I asked my spirit if I thought I had done absolutely everything I could to handle the fall out of this situation up to this point. I have. My head needs to shut the fuck up. I am listening to my spirit from this point forward. The truth is that in the absence of rape or assault the responsibility is split evenly down the middle no matter the substances involved or the fact that I lied about my status after our first encounter. I have to live with the fact that I created a false sense of trust in another person and that person acted on the trust. In the end, the choice to act was taken by both of us. The responsibility falls on both of us.

3) I get to be a a human with flaws. I made a mistake. It was a huge and terrible mistake. It could have far reaching consequences. But there was no maliciousness. There was no intention to do harm. I can and will learn from this. I have learned from this. And I get to be flawed. I will not be held to a higher standard or responsibility because of HIV status than any other person having consensual sex. Every day people make stupid ass mistakes involving sex. People make even more stupid mistakes when drugs and alcohol are involved. Yet, the fact remains that mistakes happen. There are consequences that can come from them. But I am NOT a bad person for making a mistake. I am human. It comes with the fucking package.

4) The outcome is now out of my hands. I have spent hours trying to deal with my emotional baggage from this and the rage and hurt of the other party. The truth is that until the test results come out, there is a limit to the comfort that either of us can receive. I spent an hour at the SGI Buddhist Center last night chanting and asking the Universe to create healing from this and to limit the impact of my mistake and his. As a person of faith, I now have to believe that no matter the outcome, there will be healing to this, though the timeline for that healing may be outside of my control. By being active in my faith, I can send out the healing energy that I hope to get back. I will be returning to pray tonight.

I will not lie and say that I am at peace with what has happened. That would be a huge fucking lie, and I am done with lying out of shame, fear, or as a way to comfort myself. Its a false comfort. There remains active work that I can do to create learning from this. Last night, I was contacted by a health educator in San Francisco that trains youth to be HIV, STI and Sexual Health Advocates. He asked if he could use my last blog as an education/discussion tool for the youth with which he works. I consented. Ultimately, I write about my life experiences in the desperate hope that someone, somewhere will learn from my experience and not repeat my mistakes. I don't believe what I have written about is an act of bravery. It is an act of community preservation. I know that I am not the only person that has had this experience. I know I am not the only person in New York City that is having this exact same experience right now. But we all walk around in a cloud of self-delusion thinking that good people don't make bad choices. We believe that making a bad choice makes us a bad person (that's the difference between guilt and shame...guilt says I made a bad choice, shame says I am a bad choice). We walk around believing that we are the only one going through what we are going through, and so we keep out stories to ourselves. We don't admit our mistakes or our own responsibility when responsibility for mistakes are shared. We don't talk openly about sex and our own bad choices. We, and I include myself in all of these, start with trying to blame/shame/point the finger at everyone but ourselves. We try to demonize, hurt, break down, and otherwise spiritual crush the object of our anger. We also run away from our own responsibility and hope and pray that everything works out for the best when honesty, up front, is the way to guarantee that it will all work out for the best. We take refuge in our own sense of self or sense of shame.

I know my responsibility. I know my culpability. I am no longer willing to feel ashamed. I feel the guilt as a tool to help me remember the possible tragic outcomes and the real emotional toll when I make a mistake. I am human. I am a good person. I make mistakes. I am loved. Thank you to all of you that have been real with me over the last few days, given me love when I have been deep in my own pain and shame, and pointed out that I remain a good person and that my contributions to this world and my community far outnumber the mistakes I've made. Thank you for reminding me that I do have a responsibility here but that doesn't include tearing myself apart nor to allow myself to be torn apart in order to mitigate the pain of anyone else. .

Shame

Last night some of you had a chance to read the now vanished post. My guess is that it was a glitch in the system and not something that blogger did considering the content.

I am ashamed of myself.

I am choosing my words very carefully right now, because there is a difference between guilt and shame. And right now, in this moment, I am struggling to keep ahead of the shame.

I have written here before about my HIV status. I have written about the responsibilities of HIV positive people to disclose and also the responsibility of negative people to be accountable to their own behaviors which put them at risk. My conclusion, and I still believe this, is that each person in a sexual situation has the ultimate responsibility for his own sexual health.

Recently, I failed at my responsibility as did the person with whom I had sex. Twice. Further complicating the matter was that I was not truthful between the two sexual experiences, and I wasn't honest until I was confronted with the truth.

The person with whom I had sex was, rightly so, freaking out. I did my best to communicate the facts to him about my own health, likelihood of transmission, and specific tests that he can get done NOW that would alleviate most of his fears, while also being honest about the window period. No fluids were exchanged in our sexual exchange, but there is still risk. That is the truth.

He read my blog post last night and asked me why I would write it and so openly. My reasons were very simple: accountability, transparency, and ownership.

1. By admitting publicly that I fucked up, that I failed to follow through on my own beliefs, and did not live up to what I have publicly written and spoken about, I needed to return to that same forum and own my behavior. For me, to do otherwise, would be hypocritical.

2. Though all of my inner tapes are blasting me right now, telling me that I am worthless and a 'bad person,' I refuse to lets those tapes win. I am a human and made a huge mistake that could have significant consequences. I do not go out and make a habit of having unprotected sex nor does it thrill me to put another person in harms way. I am not a predator. By admitting, publicly, what happened, I am owning to my community that I failed to uphold our collective and my personal standards.

3. I am not a superhero, an angel, a saint, or a God. I can't navigate this on my own.

Last night, I was on the phone with this man for quite some time. I listened to him express his anger. I answered his questions the best I could, and I was as honest I could be including saying that fear and shame kept my mouth shut. Is that an excuse? No. It is the reason. Was it the right and best thing? No. I can't change the past, but I can manage the future differently.

And the truth is that I am having a hard time separating out my responsibility in this and his. I am not wholly to blame nor am I guilt free. I made poor choices, and he did as well. But, regardless of the reality, the truth is that I feel as if the responsibility is wholly mine to bear. Feelings aren't right or wrong but they can be needle sharp and debilitating.

This is a situation that words can't fix. I can't make things better, though I am skilled at making things worse. Thank you for those that reached out and offered love and support last night.

This blog is my apology to him, myself, and my community.

Blogger Deleted My Last Post

I will be happy to forward it to anyone that would like it.

Lena Horne

Last week, I found myself listening to the song, "If You Believe," as sung by Lena Horne, almost non-stop. Last night, Lena Horne left this world for the next one.

Dear Ms. Lena, thank you so very much for helping me to believe in myself. Rest in peace sweet spirit, powerful woman, child of Africa. You brought us love and lived with dignity during a time when dignity was denied to black people and most of all black women. I love you, Ms. Lena. We all do. Sleep well.


Lena

In dignity denied
during Jim Crow's time
you held your head
cocked to the side
smile curving
breasts and hips
taped up in black soldier's lockers
paraded across USO stages
staged a one woman war
to protest military segregation
marched in Birmingham
on Albany
because you believed
in your own freedom
free will to free yourself
and freed us
from head rags
and rag time
left behind minstrel shows
and showed the world
that black woman and sex symbol
are synonyms
made L.E.N.A
into an acronym: LUSCIOUS, ELEGANT, NEGRO, and ALIVE
you refused to hide
your sensuality or sexuality
the duality of living in a black/white divide
skin a passport and a barrier
harried by children that called you white
never white enough for Hollywood
you kept on
and kept us
keeping on
with song and dance and laughter
a beautiful sister
unafraid to be black
unashamed to be woman
unsurpassed as a human

Sweet mother
you've earned your peace
sleep well.

Ashe. Love. Lena.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-May 10, 2010

Rookies vrs Diablitlos and Renegades: Booty Shorts and Titty Twisters

Holy softBALLS it was cold today, and the wind was blowing directly out of the Cold Miser's asshole. The patch of skin below my bottom lip is chapped, and I am still chewing grit six hours after the last game ended. Steve Herrick showed up in shorts, and I thought we were going to have to rub Scottie's legs together to get a fire going to stave off hypothermia.

Despite playing in near arctic conditions with siroccos wheeling across the field as if we were in Iraq instead of Red Hook, the games were a blast.

The first gay(me) was against the Diablitos (please refer to my previous blog post about our match up against them and Captain Prison Porn). Today...the Diablitos got their ASSES handed to them. While Captain Prison Porn was still smacking balls this way and that, by the end of the third inning, the lead was 11-4 Rookies. On the way to the field, I'd found an old kung-fu grip GI Joe in the tall grass. I set up this little butch dude as our mascot by attaching him to the fence in our dug out. I attribute his mystical powers with sapping the Diablitos of their strength. That and they only had nine players and were missing at least one of their super stars.

That didn't stop Captain Prison Porn from sliding on his side across half of the outfield to catch a fly ball, which he did, and which caused Scottie's booty to vibrate, and Noah's shaved head turned bright red sort of like one of those blue nosed baboons butt's when its horny.

Later, in the second game, Roy decided to try to pull the same maneuver but since his legs had frozen into ice blocks, he just fell over. Noah's head turned as green as Joe's 1982 windbreaker that he obviously stole from the costume closet from the set of Breakin' Two: Electric Boogaloo.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The first game saw two amazing double plays starring Mason and Vinnie, but the true star of the show was Antony the Straight who, in the first game, and his first time ever pitching, struck out four, count 'em, four people on his own. There is a Rookie's tradition that when you strike someone out, you get a titty twister from someone in the infield. By the end of the first game Antony's name had been changed to Purple Nurple, and Reggie was screaming, "KEENEY WHO?" (for you lay people, Scott Keeney is our regular pitcher who happens to be sunning it up on the island of Elba for the next three weeks...I'd like to wish him safe travels, but I am too bitter and jealous to do that).

What? What?

The final score of the first game was something like 16 to 8 or around that mark. The Diablitos got the butt whoopin' they deserved for having half their team being fresh from the Mets training camp.

Werq!!!

The second game was not as pretty. And by not pretty, reverse the score I just mentioned, then halve our runs and double theirs and you will have something around what the final score was.

The highlight of the second game was when dear Scottie, who, when there isn't an Ice Age forming above the fields, wears some booty shorts that gets my bait and tackle doing a little samba in my britches. During the first game, he was a demure princess and kept his sweat pants on (though strategically hiked up to show a little ankle), but since we were playing the number one ranked team for the second game, we had to pull out the secret weapon: Scottie's pert little boogina.

One of the many reasons that I adore Scottie is that he knows how to work his ASSets and is proud of it. First he strips down to his black boxer briefs that leave little to imagination and let's everyone know the exact shape and shade of his religion. Then he puts on his poom poom shorts, followed by the "bend and snap," and then tops it off with a ho stroll.

Then someone has the brilliant idea to have Scottie trot out and fetch the bat from whomever had just run to first base. I didn't notice who it was since I was too busy oogling the team goodies. Not only did Scottie get the bat, but also he got a NINE bat salute from the opposing team, if you know what I mean. The pitcher's jaw dropped so hard and fast that it left a crater in the dirt, and I doubled over laughing so hard that I farted.

It was AWWWWWEESSSOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEE!

In the end, though we lost our second game in points, we won it in style and sass. At one point Reggie was channeling Suzanne Sugarbaker and was twirling a bat like she was in the Miss Georgia pageant, and though the lights stayed on in Georgia, the spirits were way up in Red Hook.

Thanks for an AWESOME round of games Rookies. See you next week.

Everyday Heroes: Bernadette Keenan

Now and again an unexpected angel comes into your life. Angels are way sneakier than demons. They don't spit up on you. They don't have green skin, and they most definitely do not use crucifixes as sex toys. In general, they walk around looking like everyone else. Sometimes they are a bus driver that happens to say just the right thing at just the right time. Other times it's an old friend that calls you just say that they love you. And other angels read every single blog I write and lets me know exactly how it connects with her life. That angel is Bernadette Keenan...a Canuklander, Mother, environmental warrior, and all around beautiful spirit.

I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Bernadette in person. We connected through Facebook through a mutual friend. But for months, she has faithfully read and responded to each of the crazy rantings I post here. We have had funny and serious conversations. I learned that she has a tremendous daughter that she loves more than just about anything. I know that she works for peace and justice in Canada, that she is engaged in environmental struggles and that, according to her daughter, she dresses like a hobo.

Bernadette has gone through some things and seen some things in her life, but she has kept her head high, met life's obstacles and continued to push forward, raising her beautiful daughter and doing good in the world. This world is better for her. And I am honored that she takes time from her life to read the ramblings of some goofy dude south of the border that believes that Canadia isn't a real country and should basically be annexed to Minnesota.

Thank you for reading, Bernadette. Thanks for being an example of good Mom, and thanks for caring for the world in which we live and trying to leave it better than you found it. You are an Everyday Hero.

Rookies vrs. Dish(Chargers): The Garden State

Last Sunday, I stepped out of my apartment and broke out into a sweat so thick and greasy I thought my scalp had started producing afro-sheen. At about 1:15pm it felt like I had left my building and walked directly into Satan's asshole in a steam room in Hell.

By the time I reached Scott Keeney's palatial building a short four blocks away, after bumping into my teammate Vinnie's Forest on the street, my socks were wet, my mouth was dry, and I was wondering if I could fake a stroke on the car ride to Jersey.

Yes, I said Jersey. As in New Jersey. As in the armpit of America, called the Garden State because some wise ass in the legislature had been an English teacher and got off on permanent and legislated irony.

When we reached the fields, though, I had to downgrade my dislike of New Jersey to mild loathing from outright disgust...as the park and the surrounding neighborhood looked homey...and, frankly the fields were better than anything we have in the city. Hell, the bathrooms had air conditioning and a pleasant old Italian man refilling the lavender air spritz while his palls were playing boccie ball outside.


There were actually two fields...one that was basically the Versailles of softball and the other one that was more like the Bastille of softball. We excitedly set up our stuff at the Versailles, at the insistence of Dr. Scott "Mouse Balls" Kenney, only to have our hopes smashed to pieces when an Ancient Umpire (from the Roman Empire, I think) slithered through the grass to tell us that we were, indeed, on the wrong damn field.

This week we were facing off with the Dish (Chargers). To begin with, there team is largely queer. They have one straight guy that our fearless leader (and a number of other Rookies) want to take for a spin around the boogina track, but other than that piece of man meat the rest are largely mouthy queens that are sometimes amusing and other teams could test the patience of a rock.


The games were awesome. Both games were nail biters. In the end it game down to the 7th inning in both games with the home team scoring the runs needed to win during their last up. The Rookies won the first game, and the Dish took us in the second game.

There were some awesome plays by Noah, Scottie, Bowman, and Herrick. Antony and Scott kept snatching line drives out of the air. Everyone played very well, even when the Dish really knocked up the obnoxious juice by trying to "intimidate" us...including me. Big Mike almost got a Big Bat in the back of the throat at one point. But Mama taught them mean old queens to back the hell up when she gets up to bat. And when they thought that they would single out Herrick in right field as a weak link, he snatched the ball up out of the air, and showed them how a REAL lady acts by not showing her coochie or opening her mouth. That's a real woman!

In the end, despite the fact that we were stank ass funky by the end, and with the loving support of Rich, Frank, special guest Gary Eggers, and Rich's parents (Bowman spent both games showing out for the parents in law)...we had a great time...and....well...there was air conditioning in the bathroom.

It's Time to Fight Back New York.

Last Wednesday morning, I was sitting in front of the computer, a glass of iced coffee in my hand, and our debit card in the other hand.

I logged into www.fightbackpac.com, opened the donation page, and made a gift of $250 to Fight Back New York Political Action Committee.

For those of you that know me well, you know that I am not wealthy. I work for a small non-profit magazine. I am a poet. And I spend dozens of hours a week supporting a number of justice movement efforts. That calculus equals a fulfilling life but a relatively low cash flow existence.

To bring it into perspective, $250 represents 20% of one of my net paychecks.

And I was damn happy to give the money to Fight Back New York, and I am about to tell you why.

Last year, 38 Senators in the State of New York voted against a law that would have allowed queer couples to get married.

Stop. Breathe. No, I have NOT sipped the gay marriage kool aid.

But whether or not I agree with the amount of resources spent on fighting for marriage rights in the face of other more pressing and more real justice issues in the queer community, I will be DAMNED if an elected official will cast a vote to deny what is, in truth, a basic right and then move happily along with the rest of his or her life.

Fight Back NY is not a queer marriage organization. It is a political accountability organization. It's sole purpose is to make it politically dangerous for Democrats and Republicans to cast votes to deny basic human rights to LGBT people. Anyone that has voted against a gender inclusive ENDA, anyone that has voted against the Dignity for All Students bill, and anyone that has voted against same-sex marriage legislation will be targeted by Fight Back NYC. I will never give money to Freedom to Marry or the HRC--their politics, agenda, and bullying of queer organizations that do not share their same centrist/reformist/sometimes down right neo-con policies is something I can not get behind. But as long as our political system allows for bigots to sleep at night after casting straight up wrong votes, I will happily give money to accountability organizations.

Fight Back NYC is such an organization.

The organization has no infrastructure, and its overhead is almost non-existent. Since it is being supported by Gill Action PAC, it can direct almost all of the money that is gifted directly towards unseating anti-justice Senators.

I subscribe to the philanthropic philosophy that you give until it begins to hurt. $250 was my upper limit. There are others than can give much more and others that can give less, but, whatever your capacity, I hope that you will give.

You can make a gift at www.fightbackpac.com.

Political One Liner of the Week Award: President Barack Obama

This is the first time that I am awarding the Political One Liner of the Week Award to a President. I am sure that this honor will be held up by President Obama with the same awe and wonder that he exhibited upon winning the Nobel Peace Prize. That prize came with $1.5 dollars. This comes with a potential loss of 10% of the Presidents approval rating.

That's just how cool my blog happens to be.

At the annual White House Correspondents dinner, President Obama gave a shout to the Jonas Brothers by saying:

"Sasha and Malia are big fans. But don't get any ideas boys. I have two words for you: Predator Drones. You won't even see them coming."

I almost spit out my iced coffee on my beloved Druscilla III (that's the name of my MacBook Pro).

Congratulations President Obama. The honor is all mine.

Arizona Goddamn!

Yesterday I had to send a prayer up to my beloved Nina Simone and let her know that to Mississippi Goddamn...we now have to add Arizona.

First the Arizona legislature lost their goddamn minds by coming up with this heinous bill that actually makes it illegal to be an undocumented immigrant in Arizona (and, despite Supreme Court rulings to the contrary, basically directs the Arizona law enforcement officers to engage in blatant racial--and clothing--profiling). Secondly, facing an election year, Republican Jan Brewer, waiting until the last possible minute, steeled up her bright red ovaries and signed the bill into the law.

I expect legislators, especially white racist legislators in territory that legally belongs to Mexico and that has consistently violated the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, to try and pull some fucked up shenanigans, but the fault for this bill becoming law lies squarely in the lap of that blocked headed creature of darkness called Jan Brewer.

Not only did she signed the damn bill, with a straight face, she said as she signed it, and I quote, "I will NOT tolerate racial discrimination or racial profiling in Arizona." (Emphasis is HERS and is included in the full text of her speech--the link to the full text is in the box at the bottom of the page).

I almost never ever use the following word in reference to a woman but...excuse me, bitch?

Jan Brewer just signed a law that explicitly makes being an undocumented immigrant in Arizona illegal. Already, we have heard about advice to police from California Rep. Bilbray suggesting that an undocumented immigrant can be identified by his or her clothes (read sombrero y chancletas). And, frankly, there are reams and reams of research that shows exactly that racial profiling is the ONLY way that law enforcement has used, outside of raids into particularly employers, to track and arrest undocumented immigrants. Again. Excuse me. Bitch.

And let me clarify my use of language. When you decide to demonize, demoralize, and establish laws to make a human being illegal (up to this point they were undocumented, now, in Arizona, undocumented immigrants are actually illegal) then you have no more sense than a common wild dog. If you act like a dog and raise your leg to piss on people, then you have earned the use of the term bitch as an apt noun and adjective to describe you.

Already there are calls to boycott Arizona. The Lakota and Ojibwe nations have released a poignant and beautiful statement establishing the rights of indigenous people from across Turtle Island to migrate as they wish as the borders themselves are illegal constructions created by an illegitimate occupying power that used genocidal practices to create their political and military hegemony. And even Shakira, today, has turned her ojos asi towards Arizona and rolled them so far up in her head that she can see her brain.

And, of course, GOP Chairman Michael Steele (who should, as my Mama used to say, be held up and have the black beaten off of him) along with other GOP turd faced pundits called President Obama's condemning of Arizona's idiocy "playing the race game."

This is a race game mother fuckers, and it was not started by President Obama or any other person of color in this nation, but I swear before God that we will finish it either by Malcolm's plan or Martin's, but the shit is on. Bitches.

Arizona goddamn.

(P.S. Just to be clear, if you ain't native...you are undocumented.)

Rookies versus Diablitos: Attack of Captain Prison Porn

Last weekend marked the official start of Summer. Don't look at me crossed eye bitches. Summer starts when the first softball is pitched in the opening game of the queer Summer softball season. Mother Nature is a drag queen, and she will not be denied.

On a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, the Ladies of the Rookies (and assorted cheer-wives) gathered at the newly renovated, highly sparkling, goose shit covered softball fields of Randall's Island. With hope in our hearts, we started off with a little practice on a field which amounted to a giant Port-a-Potty for the Canadian Water Fowl nation.

This year we are joined by two Nookies and on sNookie. Only two of the three were there, and I have not yet met our new Gaysian. I super duper heart both Scottie and Roy...and they both bring Super Secret Special Powers to our team. Roy has the power to mesmerize any man within two yards of his Shimmy Shake and Scottie has magic booty shorts that cause spontaneous orgasms when he rubs his stark albino white (yet firm and shapely) thighs together.

With these new magics added to our team, you would think we couldn't lose.

But we did. Twice.

This week we played the Diablitos (for those of you that are Spanishly challenged that translates to "Little Devils"). Los Diablitos had been in a lower division last year, but after he was discovered that they recruited half of their team from Yankees that had been suspended due to steroid use, they dropped out of the season last year and moved up a division this year. The game started off with a bang, and the Rookies scored a number of runs. At first, I thought we had the game in the bag. The opposing teams defense was about as firm as a roofied sorority girls at a sex offender special invitation taping of Girls Gone Wild.

Then we met their secret weapons: Latino the Hun and Captain Prison Porn. These two got up to bat and acted like they were offspring of Superman and the Bionic Woman. I bet they could both shoot lasers from their dicks and shit radioactive turds.

The worst was Captain Prison Porn. He was like 8 feet tall, probably had a 5 foot dick, go go gadget legs, was tatted to hell, and literally every time he hit the ball it landed on the far side of the neighboring softball field.

For those of you that are sports challenged, you are not allowed to position your outfielders on the pitching mound of the field behind you as that would be rude to the team playing on that field.

And we are all about manners.

Frankly, and I ain't afraid to say it, the other team should be ashamed of themselves. For real. Those two dudes could easily play in the highest division of our league, and we are smack dab in the middle. If I wanted to play with a Yankee, I would drape myself in needles full of anabolic steroids and have Roy teach me how to do the Man Shimmy.

In the end, we had fun, and we did mighty well considering the genetically engineered opposition. We had some awesome plays (and some not so awesome plays), and I learned to never listen to Reggie when he is coaching third base.

I can't wait until this weekend's games.

P.S. A special thank you to our cheer section which included two of my besties from Minnesota that were visiting us, Rodrigo and Nubia, as well as Scottie's Hotty Boyfriend Brendan (wife swap anyone?), my very own love David (pictures by him), the ever sexy Rich, and also a surprise visit from Dan's Mom, sister, and nephew!

They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab...and I wrote Poetry

Well...I actually went to rehab...five years ago at the Pride Institute. Those of us that went to Pride and met each other there, often refer to it as our extended time at the spa. If only I had spent that five months getting facials, seaweed wraps, and Swedish massages by a man named Thor.

Instead I spent five months up to my ears in therapy, the 12 steps, meetings, relapse prevention classes, self reflection, and, I believe, I filled about five journals with thoughts, feelings, emotions, rants, raves, and poetry.

Anyone that claims to be a poet and insists that he or she is completely well adjusted, has never had a problem with any sort of mind altering substances, and/or comes from a functional family...is either lying or is an alien and should be reported to the Men in Black. Poetry is the way that marginally crazy people that have seen a little or a lot of the beauty in the ugliness of this world share what they have seen, felt, or experienced...in this waking world or in some other altered or dream reality. Poets go places that other people can't go or wouldn't survive if they went there.

The earliest recorded literature that still exists are epic poems. The stories of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, The Odyssey and The Illiad, fantastic tales written by folks...some of whom that didn't survive too well past publication of their works, yet live on, despite their personal struggles, in the beauty they left behind.

When I was at Pride, a friend of mine was graduating from the program, and I decided to write him a poem to express to him what his friendship meant and how he had touched my life during our time together. That one poem turned into a tradition during my stay at Pride. Soon, folks that were graduating were asking me if I would write a poem for them. Some of these people were folks that I can say with an almost 100% certainty had never voluntarily read a collection of poetry, gone to a reading, or could name more than five working, living poets. Yet, these same people saw something in poetry and something in poetry woke up something in them that made them want to be a part of it.

I am currently doing 9 hours of classes a week in what basically amounts to rehab refresher courses. There are people in the group sessions that have been sober for 13 years and there are folks that were using two days ago. Some are straight up kids, 18 years old, and just in or just dropped out of college. Some, like me, are professionals trying to keep ahead of their addictions, and others are grandmothers and grandfathers trying to make sure they are around to see their grandchildren grow up. Some people walk in that are obviously people of means and others are obviously working poor.

I see poetry in all of these people.

These rooms are filled with folks that come in with their pain, fear, anger hurt, joy, triumph, hope, inspiration, sadness, ambivalence, and frustration. Some have stories that make my struggles seem downright easy, and others have stories that are milder than my own, but each person, it is obvious, is in pain and that pain is real without needing to or being measured in severity against an other's. Some folks have managed to get on my damn nerves straight from the gate, but, I can say with all honesty, I love these people for the poetry in them. They are living, truly living, because they are struggling against their circumstances in a fight to LIVE differently.

In this city of millions, I watch people coast through life every day. I watch living automatons moving about their day, oblivious or sedated to the point of oblivion. I watch them do the same things, in the same way, each and every day. Rich or poor they have accepted what they have, without examination, or having examined where they are and what they have, they have chosen to make peace with stasis or at least have chosen the route of apathy.

I want to live, I want to grow, and when I leave this world, whenever that may be, I want to look back on it and say that I struggled against what needed to be overcome, accepted all the love that was freely offered, and returned love freely to those that needed it.

And so I write poetry, because it is the way that I love myself, love the people around me, and love the world. Openly, as honestly as I can at the moment when writing, and wishing only that someone, somewhere finds something in the words I write to help them live a poetic life of their own.

Dating Preferences/Racial Preferences

While I don't think that preferences in and of themselves are racist, I believe that how we come to many of our preferences are a product of the isms under which we live. As a young brown man growing up in Minneapolis, I was told, oh so many times, to my face...almost always by white men (though it was sadder when it came from brown men) that I was "cute," but he (the man in question) didn't do black, brown, dark men (and I am by no means dark, so I can't imagine what would have been said to a dark skinned black person).

Our standards of beauty are absolutely based in race and racism just as is our fetishism and what each individual finds attractive is crafted and shaped by those forces just as much as the messages they got at home and from family. Sometimes family and personal messages/community messages can counteract societal and media messages but not often and never completely.

And, frankly, though I am with a white man now, for five years I refused to date any white men because I understood that it was radical, in our society, to love a brown man...particularly when I came to understand that as a product of where I grew up, when I grew up, and the messages I received that I had been taught that brown/black/yellow wasn't beautiful unless it was exotified.

POETRY: Therapy I

For a clown
muting color
and avoiding notice
is a Herculean task

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-April 14, 2010

POEM: Canis Familiaris

For Mimzy

Perched, she stares at me with challenging eyes
Like old Smaug on his stolen gold
It’s a challenge
to describe how she speaks without words
a sure touch to the leg
can mean so many things
depending on the tilt of her eyes
the heft of brows
the way she tests the air
but it always has meaning
even if I am sometimes too stupid to understand.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-13 April 2009

POETRY: Chardonnay

Cool she slips tartly
over my curled tongue
then boldly
this dryad sinks oaken roots
into the back of my throat
she slides
deftly fingering my soft palette
This is the closest to heterosexuality that I will ever come.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Bristol, CT
-12 April 2010

Rest in Peace Dixie Carter

I am a child of the 80s. Whenever that email forward comes around and lists 100 things from the 80s that should resonate with those that grew up in the 80s, I resonate with 115. From the Monchichis and the Smurfs to Different Strokes and Designing Women, I grew up in a time when all the world's problems were solved in 30 minutes by Mr. Drummond, Mrs. Garret, Mr. Huxtable, and the Golden Girls.

I grew up wishing desperately that I lived with M'am and George in a house with secret rooms and a hidden stairwell behind the grandfather clock in the living room. I reveled in the fact that Punky Brewster's dog's name was Brandon and my middle name was Brandon. I can still, to this day, sing the theme songs to just about every 1980s sit com, Saturday morning cartoon, after school cartoon, and children's show from Sesame Street to the Great Space Coaster. And in high school, when Bob Ross (aka the Channel 2 Art Guy...the white man with the Jewfro that drew happy trees) died...I went into three days of deep mourning.

But, other than Nell Carter, no TV female personality from the 1980s impacted my life more than Dixie Carter aka Julia Sugarbaker aka Mr. Drummond's wife and the mother of Sam on Different Strokes.

I have had three step-father's in my life in addition to my birth father. So when Mr. Drummond decided to remarry and brought a step-mom into the house, I finally felt like I had found a home on prime time television. Add to that the fact that Dixie Carter was as sassy as my own Mother and had a beautiful Southern accent like my Father, and it was love at first sight.

When Designing Women debuted, I was hooked. There was a black man on the show that I loved (Meshack Taylor), and it was four strong, independent, and funny women that took life by the balls and lived it according to their own desires. I watched my Mama doing the same thing, and I loved the show for validating her existence. Since birth, I have been drawn towards strong, sexy, independent, powerful femme women, and Dixie Carter was my goddess. And when the episode aired wherein Dixie stands up for her sister (Delta Burke...another favorite of mine)...I too knew why that Night the Lights Went Out In Georgia.

I know that Dixie was a conservative Republican, but the fact that she, in her art, addressed issues such as blended families, multi-cultural families, valuing ex-convicts, feminism, and sexuality...I can forgive her for being a product of her geography. No one will remember Dixie the Neo-Con, but everyone will remember the Designing Woman.

We lost a great actress and a strong woman yesterday, and I, for one, will always remember her fondly. Say hello to Bea Arthur for me, and do some dirty dancing with Patrick Swayze...one day we will all hang out, have a mint julep, and reminisce about the decade of Greed and the popular culture that forced America to start seeing some realities that it had tried to hide or deny for a very long time. Rest in peace, Dixie. I love you.