Really Gay Racism: Aunt Jamima and Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium (SAY WHAT BITCH?)

In the last month, there have been two events to which I have been invited via Facebook that have made my blood pressure go from normal to cardiac arrest in less than a nanosecond.

One event was called "Aunt Jemima Brunch," which was to be held at the Yotel. The second was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium," which was to be held at Vlada.

Please note that I am using past tense, and while I was not responsible for bringing down either of these events, I am extremely proud that I played a key part in raising such a motherfucking ruckus that both events posted apologies, said some noncommittal white people shit about not meaning to offend people, and changed the names of their events.

Let me give you some background before I really let ya'll have it about privilege white gay men in New York and their benign yet blatant racism.

(Cue flashback sequence here)

The first event came to my attention when I was perusing my invitations to various events. When I saw the invitation at first, with a photo of Aunt Jemima from the 50s (black woman in a head wrap)...I seriously didn't know what to think. I was at work, and I called a colleague over and asked if this was being ironic or should I be angry. I sincerely had a series of confused feelings. Then I proceeded to read the various wall posts related to the event. With each reading my temperature rose until I got to the bottom of the page where one of the four white gay male planners had posted a Youtube video clip of the ITALIAN-AMERICAN WOMAN IN BLACK FACE that originated the role of Aunt Jemima in Hollywood. There was no analysis. There was no irony. This was straight up racism, and the worst thing about it is that the hosts thought the shit was funny and were relating Aunt Jemima to childhood memories of pancakes and home cooking. Nevermind that by the time any of the hosts had ever tasted a drop of that nasty ass syrup the Negress in the Do-Rag had been exchanged for a vaguely British white woman walking and talking syrup bottle....the planners insisted that their naming of the event for Aunt Jemima was just a walk down memory lane.

If any of them had been in arms reach, I would be typing this from jail with a new boyfriend named Big Larry.

And the best part of the engagement with the organizers of the Aunt Jemima event was when one of the organizers posted a note saying that, and I quote, "I am from Canada and we don't have racism there." I almost shat daggers and threw one directly at his throat.

But, after I posted a respectful note on the wall of the brunch invite and also posted a note on my Facebook page, about 200 of my closest, bestest friends went ape shit on the page and within hours it was down.

And then, in a stroke of universal justice, Hurricane Irene hit and shut the whole damn thing down anyway. #BOOM

Now...my naive self thought that perhaps the Aunt Jemima Brunch was just one of those momentary blips of white gay male racism that bubble up from time to time. Generally, I feel, that there is usuall some good time/space in between when the stupidiy settles upon the brow of another benignly racist white gay man/men....but...in contradiction to that old bromide that lightening doesnt strike the same place twice....within a couple of weeks a bright WHITE bolt of stupid lightening struck again...and in the same neighborhood.

Not two or three nights past, a couple of friends of mine sounded the alarm and sent me messages about another party happening in my neighborhood. This time it was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium featuring Sum Hung Dancers and the Happy Endings Massage Parlor."

I can honestly say that I have never experienced so much racism in one invitation ever. EVER.

Now...I can honestly say that with the Aunt Jemima party, I was civil and never lost my temper. With the Mr. Wong's party I went King-Kong-Climb-A-Building-Ape-Shit. Yes I did. I called upon all the powers at my command...largely because I actually am acquainted with one of the promoters, and he lives in my neighborhood, and I happen to know that while he is not brown he is a member of another oppressed group...so my rage was amplified expontentially. And it was met, matched, and exceeded by the awesome powers of GAPIMNY (Gay Asian Pacific Island Men of New York). And, after flip tripping on the two benign white racists that were hosting the party, the name was changed post haste.

Ta da.

Now, let me say, I don't think and I do not attribute any overt malintent to any of the clueless human creatures that promoted these parties. I DO, however, attribute to them that they, at the very least, knew that these themes would be risque and raise some behind the hand giggles, like when all the white boys are together and someone makes an "off-color" nigger joke. But whatever the intent the impact on brown queer folks remains the same: it reconstructs, reconstitutes, and reifies the same systems of oppression in the straight world in our own white washed rainbow world.

And, lord have mercy, if I ever ever ever ever ever hear another white faggatron again say that they can't be racist because they are gay, I am going to stick my size 10 1/2 directly down their throat and then twist at the ankle. I. Am. Just. Saying.

Thank the Lord above that there are organizations such as the Audre Lorde Project that are out there reminding folks that brown queers exist and we aren't to be fucked with and Queers for Economic Justice that organizes broke, brown, and angry queer and trans folks. In fact, QEJ is going to throw a party to show these white gay benign racist how to party without the racism. Stay tuned in for QEJam: The Party without Oppression at Bartini coming to you soon in the next month or so.

Word to your anti-racist Mama.

Ganymede #6 Released Featuring Poetry by Brandon Lacy Campos and Charlie Vazquez

GANYMEDE #6 issue now out
6x9² perfect bound paperback book, 272 pages

--DAVID SEDARIS on loving his man
--British gay author DENTON WELCH (1915-1948), enjoying a big cult following
in the UK, returns to America thanks to Ganymede: SIX sample stories over
three issues!
--The Dirt on the Duchess: From Charles Higham's new memoir, learn what
Chinese vaginal technique the Duchess of Windsor used to cure her man's
impotence. Who needs the throne of England when your wife makes you cum?
--EDMUND WHITE¹s new memoir ³City Boy² and other book and film reviews
--MY DIVA: six gay authors on the great divas they love
--a rare homo-erotic mystery story by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
--14 gay poets, 5 gay story writers, gay photographers and artists

POETRY by Edward Field, Walter Holland, Steven Cordova, Gregg Shapiro, R.
Nemo Hill, Stephen S. Mills, Brandon Lacy Campos, Jeff Mann, Lee Houck, Eric
Norris, Bryan Borland, Christopher S. Soden, Sergio Ortiz, Mark Milazzo
FICTION by Denton Welch, Charlie Vásquez, Cyrus Cassells, Wayne Hoffman,
Eric Karl Anderson, Andrew J. Peters
ART PORTFOLIO: Today¹s Painters of the Male Form
PHOTO PORTFOLIOS: Yannis Angel, Kent Mercurio, Jannis Tsipoulanis, Eric
Phillips, Lars Stephan

Details and readable sample pages:
http://www.ganymedenyc.com/

Purchase (print or download):
http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1308479
If you order print or download before Dec. 31, Lulu offers 20% off by using
this code in checkout: HOHOHO

Contributors can receive a free electronic version of the compete issue
provided their email service can handle very large attachments of 10+ mb
(gmail and Road Runner can; most others cannot)

Ganymede #5

There is a hot new queer literary journal that has been getting the best reviews and has published some of the top names in art and literature from the gay world.

I have the honor of having a poem that has been accepted for issue #6. My poetry was also published, recently, in Ganymede Poetry Anthology One.

Below is a release for Ganymede Issue #5, now available. Watch for issue #6 in January.


GANYMEDE #5 ISSUE RELEASED
Our biggest ever--a whopping 344 pages!
Gay men¹s lit/art print quarterly published quarterly in New York
as a paperback book.

Table of contents and readable sample pages:
http://www.ganymedenyc.com/
Purchase (print or download) at
http://www.ganymedenyc.com

--EDMUND WHITE on writing gay
--OSCAR WILDE's delicious 1889 dialogue on art, ³The Decay of Lying²
--GLENWAY WESCOTT's rare 1928 story of a little boy going to a ball in drag
--BERGDORF BOYS by Scott Hess: first of four parts serializing a complete
novel, both witty and dark, about gay party boys in New York
--TEN gay poets in 36 pages--the finest survey of gay poetry in print today
--EIGHT cutting-edge gay visual artists from around the world
--SUSAN GLASPELL's 1917 story ³A Jury of Her Peers,² now a discovered text
in feminist lit
--INDIE EYE returns with tips on obscure movies to rent, including the first
gay Bollywood flick!
--The Paris of Our Dreams: the 19th-century transformation of Paris
coincided with the birth of photography, and the rise of archival
photographers who snapped parts of the city either rising or falling. Our
portfolio shows these precious images.

"When I pulled Ganymede #5 out of its box, I held a spine nearly an inch
thick, healthy for an annual but unheard-of for a quarterly. And when I
reached the end of its 344 pages, my head was spinning. Nothing remotely
like Ganymede has been seen in the gay community in my lifetime. After
crucial essays by Edmund White and Oscar Wilde, each section, presented with
style and snap, leads you deep into gay male experiences of genuine interest
and pungency. Ganymede has already been praised for its textual importance
and visual splendor, but with this issue, it rises to real historic
grandeur. No literate gay man can afford to miss it."
--Erik Mitchell in AssociatedContent.com

"Ganymede is gaining momentum and is definitely a journal to watch."
--CHROMA, Britain's top gay lit/art journal

The Nair Incident

So, the other day, while David was off working in North Hampton, I decided to have a vanity moment. Since moving to New York, I have been working out, on average, about five to six times a week. For the first two months here, I only missed one day at the gym. Now, every fagala knows that if you shave your chest hair, you are able to see your musculature better. So, as a reward to myself, I decided to grab a bottle of Nair for Men and give myself a look see at what the body was tellin'.

Now, I did this while David was away because he is partial to my chest hair. I don't mind it, but at times it gets in the way when I want to have an ooh ahh session with myself.

So, into the bathroom I went, bottle of Nair in hand (thanks Rite Aid!), and I applied the contents to my chest. I stood around in the bathroom, flexing in the mirror, waiting the requisite amount of time, opening the window so as not to pass out from the harsh chemical smell. After about a minute, I started having a tingling sensation around my nipples. After two minutes the sensation had increased to a soft burn. I held on and told myself I am a man. I could stand the pain for the three to five minutes recommended on the bottle. By the end of three minutes, my nipples were on fire.

At that point, I jumped into the shower and called on the name of Jesus.

After rinsing the hellfire from my chest, I noticed two things. One...only a small patch of hair had been removed on my chest...and two both of nipples had swollen up and looked like Macy Day Parade floats. If my nips were pierced, I would have tied strings to them and rented them out for Thanksgiving.

I gently pulled on a t-shirt and chalked the whole experience up as a life lesson in why DowJones and its chemical offspring are evil. My nipples were sensitive and swollen, but I thought...hey...they are still attached...so it's all good.

That is until I woke up this morning and found that my areolae had been replaced by two scabs.

Right now my already ample nipples look like I have two giant melted Hershey's kisses covering the tops like yarmulkes. Shalom!

After showering today and shaving off the rest of my chest hair, so as to match the one conspicuous bald spot just below my right pec, I came into the studio with the towel wrapped around me, under the armpits, covering my breasticles, like a real lady.

I told David that I had to show him something, and he wasn't allowed to laugh. I removed the towel. David's lips clamped down in a WWF death grip, and I was afraid the effort of not guffawing was going to make him blow out a testicle.

Be warned Nair for Men. Ye have made an enemy for life!

Rookies versus Saints: Parking Ramp Softball

Yesterday morning, before the cock crowed, and before my morning wood had time to fall…I was already up, showered, slathered up in Icy Hot, and on a train heading down to Hudson Park to play some gay softball.

I followed the directions from the softball league’s website, which led me first to the Spring Street stop off of the C/E. Let me tell you, the far western edge of Manhattan, at the northern border of the West Village and the Southern limit of Chelsea on a Saturday morning is as dead as Walter Kronkite. God rest his soul.

Walking a block off the West Side highway and it being quiet enough to hear the voices in my head scream at one another was damned spooky.

Now, I have to begin this by saying thank you to Rookie Joe who had the foresight (I almost typed foreskin) to warn the Nookies on our team (aka me and Vinnie)…that the fields we would be playing on this week…were on the piers…meaning actually sitting above the river…and indoors.

Huh?

Sure enough, as I turned down Houston, I caught sight of what looked like a giant parking garage that had Pier 40 emblazoned across the top. I asked the bored looking female guard in the security station where I might find a gaggle of softball players, and you could see the visible strain and summoning of energy it took for her to thumb over her shoulder deeper into the parking garage.

I thought she might be high, which, considering she was on security detail, would have been very irresponsible of her.

But, sure enough, when I looked down what I had thought was a parking ramp but turned out to be a broad pedestrian tunnel, I saw that the parking ramp was hollow in the middle and contained a massive chemical green Astroturf multi-use field. One of those rubberized numbers, with the fake grass growing up out of the Dupont dirt that had all kinds of lines crisscrossing it so that it could be any number of sporting surfaces. Like me, it was very very versatile.

Only a tiny bit tardy, I showed up (before the coach I might add), and immediately fell in love with Rynnie…Scott’s adorable niece visiting her uncle. Rynnie was a softball player, a cutie patootie, a fierce Southern Baptist that had a wicked giggle and loved her big old gay uncle. How could one not fall in love with her instantly?

Immediately, folks asked me where oh where was Vinnie. To which I said…am I my neighbors keeper?

The bitches said yes.

It was then that I checked my phone and discovered that Vinnie hadn’t woken up until around 8:30 am (the games started at 9)…he said something about an unfortunate wax accident involving the dining room table, some candles, and lots and lots of Grey Goose.

Vinnie should have brought the candles to light a fire under our asses cuz we could not wake up for that first game.

We were playing the Saints, and, bless their hearts, they are the last place team in our division. They have solid fundamentals, but they just don’t have much power. Well…Saturday morning they were the motherfucking Electric Company and shocked our asses by pulling out a win in the first game.

Alas, they had no idea that once the sun truly passed over the Prime Meridian that all their earlier victories would come to naught. Once the sunlight cleared the horizon…the Rookies were on that ball like Reggie on…well…balls.

First of all, Noah had returned from exile in New Jacked Up Unemployment Rate City aka Detroit. And you know Miss Noah may wear a corset, but instead of the vapors she channels her antebellum feminine oppression into her bat. Combining that with Tom Ward, who was once again acting like Derek Jeter was a bitch compared to his batting, and with some 50 and loving it acrobatics by Joe…we were feisty and swinging our low hangers way out into the field.

In one inning we scored 10 runs. I almost peed on myself with joy. As a matter of fact, I did. But I blamed it on Noah’s dog Ludo. Them’s the breaks when one person can talk and the other one can only bark and look guilty.

In the end, we had a blast. Rookie-in-Absentia Eddie Buggie was with us, cheering us on, and base coaching. And everyone acquitted himself mighty well. Great games Rookies. Heyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Don't Let Me Kill A Homo At the Gym

Lord help me, but I am about to go ape shit on a homosexual.

Let me tell you a little story about a Fagatron on whom I am about to go Optimus Prime. There is this midget queer at my gym that I have seen on several occasions. I have seen him on those several occasions because he basically is at the point of stalking David.

Now, I do not mind when a gay pays some attention to my man. David is hot, and if you are ever so blessed as to see him naked, you will also worship at the Berube Booty Shrine. So I don’t begrudge a homo now and again takin’ a peek at David’s goodies. As a matter of fact, if the guy is hot enough and polite enough and asked nicely, I would probably give him permission to play with ye hot booty…as long as I get to watch.

But, now and again, comes along a motherfucker that loses their goddamn mind. And today was NOT the day to get stupid around me.

This little bizatch, who has a remarkably beautiful body, is obviously used to being able to claim what he wants, when he wants, regardless of who is around or their relationship situation. I had chalked it up to bad manners that he would do shit like hop on a machine directly next to David. And, though I wanted to beat him with a free weight today when he decided to position himself right behind David to do some ab exercises, all the while dipping and ducking his head in the mirror in order to catch David’s eye, I restrained myself.

But when this poop butt bitch motherfucker spins around and literally looks at me and then makes it a point to stare up in David’s ass as he climbed into the shower, the little Caucasian meat sack crossed the line from ill-mannered flirt to disrespectful fucknut.

I am pretty mild mannered. I occasionally get angry, but you really have to do something stupid to make my body vibrate. Today, if someone had walked past me with a seismograph that little needle would have ripped a hole in the paper.

I was seething in the shower. I got out, walked to the locker, and the little jacktard anal drip is standing in the mirror preening. David walks up, Little Doggie Style swings his eyes back to David’s ass, and I had a minor explosion. In good Minnesota passive aggressive manner, I announced loudly, to the entire locker room, that I was tired of disrespectful faggots that see a man, know he is with someone else, and decide to act like a motherfuckin blue nosed baboon, turn their ass bright red, and start dripping man menses on the floor. While little dude is fit, I could step on the little trick and grind his ass into the ground if I must. And, if he steps out of line again, I must.

Addressing my jealousy in a situation where there is innocent and respectful flirtation happening is one thing. But when you cross the line into the Land of Blatant and Intentional Disrespect, I got a passport stamp that says Whoop His Ass on it.

Try me and see if I’m playing.

When You "Walk Like An Egpytian" I "Can Can" See Your Camel Toe

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Bristol, Connecticut to visit David's family. The first night, we had a dilemma. David's niece, Emily, had a major dance recital. His nephew, Mitchell, had a little league game at the same time. Before leaving, I suggested that we attend whichever event the parents were unable to attend. When we arrived in Bristol we discovered that my future sister-in-law had issued an executive order, and Mitchell found himself in full on little league gear attending his sisters dance recital.

Along with every parent in the Greater New London area.

The dance recital was at a local Catholic high school. Upon entering the school, we were greeted by a crucifix with our lord and savior Jesus Christ, his arms outstretched, and a look on his face pleading passersby to let him down off that damn piece of wood already.

We entered the auditorium to find it packed with easily 500 parents, grandparents, and siblings of the dancers. Upon perusing the brochure, I found that the recital was actually split into four acts. Each act contained roughly two million performances. I tried to run for the exit, but there was a line of geriatrics waving gaudy bouqets determined to get to their seats before the Second Coming. I debated for a minute whether or not I should body check an old lady with a walker and hearings aids and make a break for it, but my Mama raised me right, plus, I wanted to make a good impression David's parents.

The recital was worse than I could have ever imagined.

Seriously, if Dick Cheney had appeared in a ball of flame smelling of Preparation H, KY, and poppers and offered to sodomize me with a pineapple dipped in sulfuric acid but get a free pass out of the recital hall or watch the show...I would have considered taking his offer.

The show began with adorable little girls in spangles and sparkles bobbing off tune to various “childrens” version of adult songs...such as a remake of Iko Iko that made me want to have my flag boy set the stage on fire.

At one point, a soloist took the stage. She was a buxom chick named Erica. When she walked on stage, half the high school aged men in the audience (and some of their fathers) popped obvious wood and started screaming her name. She had a ballet solo. I would not be overly harsh in saying that Corky from TV's Life Goes On would have been a more compelling dancer.

There was a moment of levity when a troupe of middle school girls took the stage. David's sister-in-law's sister leaned over and told us that one of the young things on stage was Mitchell's ex-girlfriend. They had dated for a week. She broke Mitchell's heart. At the end of her performance, Mitchell gave her a standing ovation. Straight men. Who can understand 'em?

Of course, it was suburban Connecticut, so there had to be some cultural appropriation. It took the form of a dozen adorable girls in mini-skirt kimonos doing a fan dance. My great-aunt was a real live geisha...I was offended on her behalf. But..the girls were cute and the dance was one of the best. But it was wrong and they should be ashamed.

The most hilarious, and the most ridiculous, moment of the evening came when a group of high school dancers, including Erica of Corky fame, took the stage and did the can can. I have never seen that much camel toe proudly displayed in my entire life. I mean, it looked like a herd of tourists on a ride through the Sahara desert up there. I swear I saw one of the girls' vagina grow a hump and spit.

In the end, the best performance was by Emily and her middle school gal pals. They were dressed as a bunch of escapees from I Dream Of Jeannie....and did a dance performance to “Walk Like An Egpytian.” I love the Bangles, and I used to watch the video of that song as a young lad simply for the moment when the shirtless football player walked like an Egyptian across the screen and into my pants.

After Emily's first performance (she was scheduled for two), we grabbed David's parents and beat a hasty retreat before the cackles from our row incited a riot from the parents that saw future Dancing with the Stars contestants on stage.

The minute I got into open space, safe from the bedazzled parents and their children in bedazzled spandex, I laughed so hard that my mangina spit.

Bristol, CT is WAY cooler than Bristol Palin.

P.S. There was one boy performer amongst the women folk...he was obviously a baby homo.

The Road to Bristol Part Two: Word to Yo Memere

So this weekend, I met David's parents, brother, sister-in-law, and niece and nephew. Talk about shittin' bricks on the train ride to Bristol. I knew a few things about my man's fam:

1))His parents were from Northern Maine, which might as well be from a galaxy far far away...as they speak French as a first language (but a dialect of French that sounds like Klingon), and they spoke English with a Vulcan accent;
2)David's Mom was an avid Scrabble player but eschewed Facebook because it was too personal;
3)David's Dad was a hard workin' factory man that was a bit rough around the edges
4)David and his brother, once upon a time, didn't get along the best but had smoothed things out;
5)David's sister-in-law was addicted to on-line sweepstakes and had won a flat screen TV recently;
6)His niece loved her big gay uncle and was a dancer;
7)His nephew loved his big gay uncle and was a ball player

All of those things proved to be true.

All of those things were the tip of the iceberg of these fantastic people.

and I arrived at the train station in Waterbury, where we were greeted by his parents. I am completely conversant in Parent, Old Parent, Grandparent, and Venerable Elder. His parents, especially his Mom, turned out to be WAY hipper than I had imagined. I was able to speak Parent most of the time with the occassional foray into Old Parent on certain occassions. At one point, I asked his Mother for a new garbage bag, as I had taken out the trash. She handed me a bag that smelled like a cross between crotch powder and Summer's Eve. Imagine my surprise when Nancy said that she hated the smell of the bags since they reminded her of the scent of feminine napkins.

I just about shat enough bricks to build them a new addition to their house.

I mentioned in a previous post, after dinner that evening, Don (aka Dad) turned red in the face and said how happy he was that I came to visit. I found out later that he told David that he liked me and that I was way better than the last one. Score one for Brandon...awwww yeah (please note...David was with the last one for a decade...I don't know if that says a lot about me or about the ex...probably both).

The first night, we went to watch David's niece Emily in a dance recital.That is where I met David's very straight brother who introduced himself by walking up to me in my seat and straight guy punching me in the arm. I seriously looked up like I was going to have to fight a white man in rural Connecticut. I was sure that this was it...the Good Lord had called my name, and I was going to punch this big man and get strung up on the stage. Luckily, he just laughed, I realized he must belong to David somehow, and I thanked the lord that no one would have to call my Mom and tell her that I had been the main dish at a good old fashioned lynching.

We also sat next to David's sister-in-laws two sisters, who, were frickin' hilarious. We got along so well that the sister-in-law's SISTER invited us over for a BBQ the next time we head to Connecticut. Sharon, the sister-in-law was a sweet but proper suburban Mom; her sisters were wasted on Bristol, CT.

dance recital was sooo...ummm...Drop Dead Gorgeous-esque that it will have its own blog...with pictures. Suffice it to say that shortly before the end of Act II (of four acts total) we buzzed out...after watching David's niece's dance troupe do a routine to Walk Like An Egyptian dressed in faux-Arabian I Dream of Jeannie gear. 'Nuff said...for now...

Saturday evening the family gathered, and we had a cook-out. I played frisbee with David, his brother, and nephew. I refrained from stealin' the spotlot from the 11 year old boy when he confidentally told his Grandparents that Einstein had invited the bi-focals (Benjamin Franklin invented them about 120 or so years before Einstein was a German Jew zygote in his Mader's uterus). I watched, happily, as the entire family beamed and smiled and heaped praise on the two youngest members of the Berube clan. In a word, it felt like home.


On Saturday, David, his Mom, and I went from a hike in Sessions Woods...where we saw all kinds of nature, including the Minnesota State Flower bloomin' as nice as you'd like right there in the middle of Connecticut. I think it was a sign from God.

I was also pleased to find out that when David popped over to visit his brother and his brother's family on Monday, I was missed (I was napping) and Emily made a point to tell David that I was cool.

In the end, I found a wonderful family, full of laughter and joy and love. It was a great gift to spend the weekend with them. I cooked dinner for the family on Sunday night, and I, in the words of Paula Dean, “Knocked their socks clean off and into the washing machine.”

It was a good weekend.

P.S. I did beat Nancy and David at back-to-back games of Scrabble. HOLLLA!

Ganymede Issue #4 Released

Hey folks...a selection of my poetry has been chosen to appear in Ganymede #6,the issue scheduled to be released in January 2010. Support this amazing queer literary journal by buying a copy.

GANYMEDE #4 issue (June 2009, 240 pages) now available
Readable sample pages:
http://www.ganymedenyc.com/
Purchase (print or download) at
http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1308479

Issue #4 Highlights:
--a rare reprint of OSCAR WILDE's most perfect prose story, LORD ARTHUR
SAVILE'S CRIME, the only fiction on par with his play "Earnest." If you were
turned off by the dank, phony moralism of "Dorian Gray," this little-known
work is the antidote. It fits perfectly with Wilde as insouciant wit and was
a strong influence on H.H. Munro (Saki), Wilde's heir in fiction. First in a
series of Wilde rarities.
--Filming porn with Matthew Rush, an on-the-scenes report of life among gay
hos
--major portfolio on gay painter GEORGE TOOKER, whose luminous magic realism
languished for decades in the shadow of his one-time lover Paul Cadmus...now
a hit traveling museum show, the first in 30 years, is bringing him back,
and Ganymede will help!
--BRUCE NUGENT, the last surviving member of the Harlem Renaissance and the
first African American to publish explicitly gay lit--30 years before James
Baldwin. We present three witty chapters from his 1933 novel about gay
twenties Harlem. An historic find and a great read!
--POETRY SLAM: Seven gay poets make their debuts in one special section!
--SEVEN striking portfolios of cutting-edge gay photographers from around
the world

ESSAYS: Down Under with Matthew Rush...Ian Duncan: From Gay Teen to Porn
Mogul
POETRY: The Blood He Released by Jee Leong Koh...The Distance Between Coasts
by James Newborg...At the Feet of Your Stare by Matthew Stradling...The
Crust of Someone Else by Jon Rentler...Sung through Spittle by Dug
McDowell...A Storm in Our Kiss by Zhuang Yisa...Log On, Log Off by Matt
Cogswell
FICTION: Almost No Memory by Ryan Doyle May...Pablo, There and There by Adam
Jeffries Schwartz...As Is, I by B.R. Lyon...Last & Lost: Gay Son of the
Harlem Renaissance: Three stories by Bruce Nugent...Lord Arthur Savile¹s
Crime by Oscar Wilde
ART PORTFOLIO: George Tooker
PHOTO PORTFOLIOS: Fabio Panichi...Andrea Francesco Berni...Daniel
Schultz...René Becker...Pablo Moran...Costel Magopat...Davide Poggi

One Liner of the Week Award: Random Hell's Kitchen Girl

So, David and I were walkin' down the street a couple of days ago...on our way home from the gym...and these two young fashion girls (bio girls not femme boys) walked passed us deep in an intense conversation. One girl with a scooped up swirl do says to the other...with deep seriousness:

"I mean...there is a LIMIT to Gayness!" Her friend nodded enthusiastically.

I almost peed right there on 9th Avenue.

And that, my little chicken butts, is the One Liner of the Week Award.

Rookies versus Dish

So today marked the first game in the Big Apple Softball League. Where the girls are guys and the guys are ladies and they all have tramp tendencies. Except me...I am a straight up slut.

But I digress...so today's adventure begin at 6:30 this morning when I was sure that the alarm going off was some sort of karmic retribution for sins I must have committed in a past life...like killing Jesus or shooting Abraham Lincoln. Nothing short of murdering a religious icon or civil rights leader could possibly justify me having to wake up before the sparrows on a Sunday morning.

David was a gem. He made breakfast, packed snacks, made sure we had bandanas to wipe the sweat from my brow, and filled a water jug covered in silverbacks for our journey to Red Hook Park in Brooklyn. Now only in America could an Ikea co-opt a pier and set up their own ferry service across the East River to shop. The ferry goes from the Upper West Side in Manhattan to Brooklyn. It takes about a half an hour...making the trip quick and painless. It also doesn't run at 7am on Sunday morning.

So David and I took a train to a bus to Ikea...and then had to walk across a giant park of baseball fields until we reached a much more humble softball field, where my game was already in session. I thought, for a moment, we were going to have to hire a camel, a pack mule, and a porter to finish our trip. Instead, turns out, I just needed a port-a-potty. I know peeing in public is a liveability crime and should not be done. But peeing in my pants is a crime against humanity, and that is worse.

The first game was fun. I was an extra hitter, and I managed to smack the ball. I think I even had an RBI. The Lord was with us, and we trounced the Dish thoroughly...something like a katrillion to four. David and Rich...the softball wives...were seated on the benches cheering us on...and the team was in good spirits.

Then we took a break between games

When we came back for game two versus the Dish, we were a little bit like Aretha Franklin....fabulous...but we let ourselves go a little. To start off with...I was now pitching. Ooops. A combination of nerves, rising temperatures, and, well, good old fashion shitty luck and not having pitched in two years brought back the days of yore when I was as surprised as the batter if I pitched a strike. After walking about two dozen people (or four)...I begged Reggie to take me out. He obliged. My team, all the while, was very supportive. That was very awesome actually.

In the meantime...back at Dish Headquarters...the Dish coach must have been handing out spinach and steroids cuz the bitches came back with a vengeance. All of a sudden, every ball they hit smacked the ferry driver three blocks over.

And then Mason got really upset. He was playing third base, and one of those steroid enhance spinach eatin' gaysians stepped up to the plate and hit a line drive directly at him. Mason spun around circles, burst into flames, and now in a red thong snatched the ball out of the sky with a look on his face that said, "Now what. Bitches."

I love her.

Later in the game, I did have one shining moment. One of the Mega-Hitters decided that cuz I couldn't pitch...and cuz coach put me out in right field...that I couldn't catch either. If I see her at the bar I am going to punch that one in his pate. So he smacks one away out to right field...and I caught the spirit...and the ball. Redemption is a sweet sweet liqour.

And karma is a cold dose of water.

My next at bat...I bounced the ball into center field. My old coach Titi told us that once we hit that ball you run to first base like you was a slave in the Old South heading towards freedom. What he didn't tell us was that in the New York league they don't tie down the damn bases, so not only am I out, but I hit first base, trip on it, and end up flying through the air like one of those crazy ducks in Duck Hunt. I hit the ground, roll, end up with a scratched knee, leg, and about half the grit from the field in my boxers.

I am butch as hell.

In the end the Dish won by something like a googleplex to six, but our team was way prettier.

God Bless Pop Culture

So, tonight, I was a fool and I drank two large iced coffees before heading to gongyo. Let me tell you, after being juiced up on an extra huge dose of caffeine my chanting at this evening's prayer service sounded like the Chipmunks Christmas Album played at warp speed. I was rocking back and forth as if I had been struck with Sudden Onset Autism, and I was afraid that I might spontaneously combust.

As you can probably imagine, since I am writing this at 1:15am, that going to bed at my regular bedtime was not an option.

So, I decided to indulge a little addiction I have called Scrabble on Facebook. David and I have been locked in a non-stop loop of games for almost a year. This evening, I decided to post a Scrabble ad for a random game. I always include in the posting that gay guys are a plus. Otherwise you get middle aged soccer moms posing as 20 something former sorority girls that want you to type dirty to them while you play suggestive words. I ain't having it.

So, along comes Tung, a recent high school graduate from somewhere in the hinterlands of Canada (he could be from Toronto for all I remember but anywhere north of Minnesota is one big giant nowhere).

As we are playing, our little Tung initiates a chat that goes like this:

Tung: "So you are gay."

Me: "Sho nuff."

Tung: "That's so COOL."

Me: "Yep. I am gay. I am pretty happy I turned out this way."

Tung: "I wish I knew gay people"

Me: "You probably do."

Tung: "Not to be like rude or what not. But I always wanted to know how gays act in a relationship compared to a man and a woman."

Me: "Not rude at all. It doesn't really work like that. I am a man. My partner is a man. Neither of us is the 'woman.'

Tung: "Really. Ha ha. I am expanding my vocabulary playing Scrabble and I am learning something about gays."


I could not make this stuff up if I tried. God bless pop culture. Ten or even five years ago, I highly doubt the reaction of a 18 or 19 year old person who had never met a gay person (that they knew about) in real life would think that being gay is cool and wish that they knew gay people. Perhaps little Tung is gay and wants to come out. Or perhaps he is just a product of his time. Either way...it was strangely refreshing and definitely made me giggle out loud.

Right. Rev. Bishop Robinson's Invocation

Hey folks I received this as an email and decided to repost it here


As many of you know, the Right Rev. Gene Robinson, the openly Gay Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire , gave the opening prayer at yesterday's Lincoln Memorial event. It was the first event in the inaugural festivities this year. HBO, which had paid for exclusive rights to the event chose not to broadcast Bishop Robinson's prayer. So if you watched there you wouldn't have caught it or even known that it occurred. NPR didn't air it either. There's no record of it in images placed on the sites of Getty Images, New York Times and the Washington Post.

It's a complete erasure of his ever having delivered the prayer.

Such is the continuing policy of silence and erasure we have to live with from people who should know better. We are used to this. If you know your queer history this has happened again and again. In fact this little list-serve is really about recovering the truth in our history and celebrating it.

So we're going to celebrate it by providing here the full text of Bishop Robinson's prayer. I suggest you forward this around so that everyone has a chance to enjoy it.

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Opening Inaugural Event

Lincoln Memorial, Washington , DC

January 18, 2009

Delivered by the Right Reverend V. Gene Robinson:

"Welcome to Washington ! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God's blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…

Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic "answers" we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be "fixed" anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States .

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln 's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States .

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

AMEN."