Friendship

Friendships end.

That is a reality in life.

Some friendships end because of time and distance. Some end because of a conflict. Some folks just drift away from one another until the friendships, organically, dissolves. Other friendships are ended by conscious decision, while others simply fade away and bosom buddies, when next they meet, are near strangers.

In my life, I have rarely had a friendship end. That is, until the last couple of years.

One person, important to me, ended our friendship because of simply too much history. We saw each other through deaths, rehab, relationships, murders, work crises, HIV, and sexual assaults.

Another friendship was the victim of post-pardum depression. That loss was bitter and unexpected and an unfortunate side affect of a beautiful pregnancy. This was another person with whom I had shared much, in fact, we met when we were 13, and our friendship remained vibrant for almost 17 years.

The third friendship I lost because I didn't have the space to let this person into some of my life difficulties, and that created a situation where this individual felt that I had slammed the door in his face when he tried to reach out to me. I heartily disagree with this assessment, yet, that is the reason I was given, so it is the reason I accept.

And this last, is one that I conceptually, and fundamentally don't understand.

I decided to check in with a man that I believed was my friend regarding the state of our friendship. This person happens to be the partner of the third friend that chose to end our friendship. This is man that I, quite literally, love and respect and is, I believe, a model for how one can live ones life with honesty and integrity. So, when he told me that he didn't think we were friends because “we don't see each other and we don't share anything...at least recently”, I took what he said at face value.

But I don't understand it.

For me, friendship is,plainly put, a state of being when one person cares deeply for another, their well being, and, if called, shows up in a number of ways to support and build community with another person. Sometimes showing up means physically being present. Sometimes it means being an ear on the other end of a phone call. Sometimes it means responding to an email. And sometimes it means showing up spiritually, carrying a desire and prayer for peace and joy in an other's life, even when distance keeps you from showing that love and respect in person.

There are people in my life, that are not just friends, but family, that I have not seen in years. My best friend, and older brother, Jerry Jones, is someone that I haven't seen, physically, since January 2005. Time and economics haven't been on our side in terms of seeing one another. But, whenever I have picked up the phone, he has answered. We share a love for one another. And, if that is present, then there is friendship.

Over the years, I have added friends to my community that I hold dear. Having left Minneapolis, physically, I still carry with me the friendships of so many. Many of those folks were with me at a barbecue last week. I listened to their stories, and, though I am not with them on a regular basis, if any of them called and had a need, I would do what I could from where I am to fill it. That is friendship.

My truth is that should any of the four individuals in my life that have stepped away from the friendship that we have had, have a need, I would be there to fill it if I could. I have seen too much anger, abandonment, frustration, hurt, and pain in the world. I know how those things can intercept, interrupt, and intervene in love freely given. I have, indeed, let all of those things limit or eliminate my ability to be present for those for whom I care. I respect the choice of anyone to define the limits of their relationship with another, up to and including severing that relationship. But, that does not mean that I have to cauterize my feelings or no longer appreciate the friendship we have had and the memories we made together, whether they were last week or a decade ago.

Friendship should never be ephemeral, easily given, or readily taken away. It is too valuable. And in a time of great spiritual recession, those things of lasting value are that much more precious.

Minnesota Part Three: Scooby Doo Where Are You?

Saturday dawned with a glorious fury matched only by Bebe Benet in her Lion King wig. To say that it was a perfect day would diminish a temperature that felt as if you were immersed in a warm bath, cooled to the universal ideal behind the idea of the most gently caressing breeze. Mercurial gold slicked cat's eye green oak leaves, tossing stately broken shadows across uniform grass blades marching in military precise waves across the open field, as I arrived, late to my own damn barbecue in Powderhorn Park.

The third day of our trip was the time I had scheduled to see the bulk of the people I adore that live in Minneapolis. Since my Mother moved north to Duluth in early spring, I could no longer slip into the city and make excuses for not visiting the extended family. So, in a five and a half day trip to Minnesota, I had to squeeze in three cities roughly 500 round trip miles from each other. Thus, there was no way in hell that I was going to be able to spend quality one-on-one time with the people I love. As a matter of fact, only Susan and Rocki, Taylour, and Pookie and Wifey were able to get some sit down time...much of that having to do with luck and flexible schedules.

So, before heading to Minnesota I sent out an invitation to my friends asking them to join me for a four hour cook out in the best damn park in the world: Powderhorn. Powderhorn is a mecca in Minneapolis. As a child, I lived a block from the park. It figures in to many of my best childhood memories. As an adult, following college, almost organically, most of my close friends from undergrad moved into the neighborhood. In the late 90s, Powderhorn was undergoing a Renaissance that only marginally relied on gentrification. Long term residents began taking back control of the neighborhood from working poor folks that had turned to drugs and prostitution to make ends meet. A vibrant arts community began flourishing. Progressive folks and like minded queer women expanded their hold on the area. The neighborhood participated in a queer invasion of City Hall by elected one of three queer council members (of 13 total) to the City Council in the early 2000s. And, by a margin of less than 100 votes, narrowly missed putting a third Green party member on the Minneapolis City Council.

The park, roughly a mile in circumference, sits hidden in the middle of the neighborhood, with a natural lake sitting smack dab in the middle. This park, incidentally, is also home to the May Day Parade...a celebration of labor and the return of Spring that draws more than 50,000 people to the 'hood each May.

This particular June day, about 30 of my close friends showed up to cook and eat and eat and cook. Children abounded including Giselle and Isa, my two nieces...daughters of my fam Rodrigo and Nubia. The kids lovingly refer to me as Tia (Aunty) Brandon. Of course, Isa runs up and gives me a hug. From behind her back she pulls a delightfully colorful art piece and announces, “Tia Brandon...this is for David.”


I almost dropped her. She hadn't even MET David yet. And here he is, movin' in on the love and devotion reserved to Tia Brandon.

Actually, David spent most of the day playing with the girls, and they absolutely loved him and he them. It made me smile broadly to see it.

By 1pm, we had three grills going with kabobs, veggie burgers, corn on the cob, wieners, and Hmong sausages going. To date, I have never ever eaten anything in the sausage family that tastes like Hmong sausage. Find the nearest Hmong person you can...and beg them to make or direct you to where you can find these sausages. Trade one of your children for them if you have to. I promise. It's worth it.

At the fiesta were my unfailing group of friends: The Scoobies. The Scooby Gang aka Team Superflick aka The Ultramoviastic Squad is comprised of Peter, Debbie, Hayley, Dawn, Cathy, David, Kristina, myself and Jesus with adjunct members Ruben, Anna Mikelson, Erik Streed, Eric Hardisty and, now, David. We have also added two junior members, Lucia and Gabriel, with the newest and most junior member, Samuel, still in vitiro. Most of the group went to high school together (Kristina and I were the odd balls out), and all of us have known each other since at least high school...with the exception of David and Ruben (they married into the family). But, through rehab and funerals, birthdays and births, we have been there for each other for a long, long, time. I expect that I will be at the funerals of these people (or they at mine) depending on which of us kills the other first...probably over a game of Phase 10 gone horribly horribly wrong.

With only a small fire, started by Boa who threw still smouldering coals into the metal garbage can, to mar the day...it was with great sadness that I wished all the amazing friends/family that came out to say hello, a loving farewell.

David and I loaded the leftover Cheez-Its into the rental, and made our way two hours North by Northwest to Brainerd to visit family.

Now, my family history is a bit complicated. My Mother has been married four times, my Father has been married twice, I was raised by my first step-father until I was 13, and through him I came to have another step-Mother named Melanie, who had a daughter from a previous relationship. My birth father was remarried to my step-Mom Becky, from whom he is now divorced, and they had four children together, one of whom died as a child. Are you confused yet? Lost? No worries...I had to draw David a map.

From these various family mixings I have five biological siblings: Jason, Julius, Jasmine, Shannon and Kinchee (who died when he was an infant). I also have three additional siblings, two of whom that are related to my brother Jason by blood, Ella and Clinton, and one sibling that is not related by blood to either me or my brother but is the half sister of Ella and Clinton.

If some Baginses are Boffins and some Boffins are Boyles, who won Britain's Got Talent?

In the end, as I told David, it doesn't matter the blood status...I have eight siblings: Jason, Jasmine, Shannon, Julius, Clinton, Ella, Kinchee and Meta. I am the oldest of the bunch. I have “known” all of them since birth except for Meta, who I met the day before her 6th birthday, and I love each of them fiercely.

And, Melanie, who has never been legally a Mother to me, was most definitely a Mother to me...including the year that I lived with her in the 7th grade. Family is family...and only antiquated Euro-centric systems of family value blood quantum over emotional attachment, love, and support.

Our Saturday was filled with family, memories, and a whole mess of Mayflies that had hatched and carpeted the walls and tables of the lakeside restaurant where we had dinner that night. But no infestation of mayflies could dim the joy of spending a glorious day, surrounded by family and friends, and reveling in the love with which the world has blessed me.

Forget 40 Acres and a Mule...Write Me A Check!

(I am taking a short break from my multi-part Minnesota story to share with you my thoughts on today's vote by the Senate regarding slavery)

Today the United States Senate, on the eve of Juneteenth, passed a resolution apologizing to African-Americans and descendants of slaves for slavery and Jim Crow segregation. The resolution now moves to the House, where it is likely to pass.

I think I am going to pass on this apology too.

Juneteenth, the largely invisible holiday celebrated by few outside of the black community, is a celebration of the actual end of slavery. Slavery ended in the United States on 19 June 1865 when the last blacks held in bondage, in Galveston, Texas, received word that they were free. On that day no man could call another man property. Unfortunately, abject poverty, degradation, wage slavery, and violent subjugation were to continue, with state sanction and complicity, for another century. And anyone that has been pulled over for driving while black, been called a nigger, or been denied employment or housing because of their race, knows that while physical lynchings may be over, spiritual lynchings continue without regard to who may be sleeping in the White House.

Though this resolution, passed 143 years and 364 days after the actual end of slavery, is long overdue, the rider on the resolution clearly stating that it does not in any way support or condone or authorize reparation payments to the descendants of slaves invalidates the sentiment and marks the difference between an apology and an amends. I am not interested in apologies. An apology acknowledges action without the assumption of responsibility or obligation to repair what was broken. An amends is the assumption of responsibility for the results of ones actions and doing the work necessary to repair what was done.

The words of a body that once stood firm against human rights for black folks and continues to stand in the way of the liberation of queer folks is worth about as much as my total worth. Roughly -$46,000 or so…depending on the current amount of interest I owe on my student loans.

It is beyond time for apologies. In 1988, Congress voted to pay the 60,000 survivors of Japanese internment camps $20,000 each to help ameliorate their pain and suffering. That, my friends, is an amends.

I am no fool. There is a very real reason why the Japanese received remuneration for four horrible years in concentration camps while black folks received nothing for 400 years of free labor and horrific abuse. The 1980s saw a meteoric rise in Japanese international cache. Japan was an economic powerhouse and American business wanted to do it doggie style with Japanese businesses, and $1.2 billion dollars was a small price to pay for the return on their investments.

Most people of African descent have no idea from whence they were stolen. And, even if we did know, there is no African economic powerhouse that American businesses want to exploit. The natural resources of Africa are in the hands and control of Western business interests. The only reason to pay substantial reparations to U.S. descendants of slaves would be justice. The business of the U.S. government is business and investing in justice, though it pays great moral dividends, rarely creates capital gains.

So, I say, respectfully, keep your apology. It is meaningless. The wealth of this nation does not exist separate from the hundreds of years of free labor that created it. For some, this is an abstract concept, for me it is a reality. The family that owned mine was the Nickels family of Greenbrier County, West Virginia.

My family still lives in the town where we were slaves. My Father went to school and grew up with the descendants of the family that owned us. The economic privileges of that family, a century after my great-great grandfather was freed, were still apparent.

Our family records date back to 1709, for more than a century the Nickels and others before them earned wealth on my grandparent’s backs. No apology will free their spirits. No apology will remove the wealth from those that exploited them and put it in their hands or in the hands of their descendants.

In America, we value the ability to pass on wealth from one generation to the next. Parents pass as much wealth to their children as possible in order that their children will need to work less than, perhaps, they did. My ancestors did not have that option. Their wealth, the fruit of their hands, and their labor was compelled from them and their products taken from them to benefit those that did nothing to earn it except be born with white skin.

Keep your apology. I don’t want it. But I will take a check, and one for my brothers and sisters, parents, and grandparents, and every other descendant of slaves in this nation, children of those that built this nation. It is our due. You have been drawing from our spiritual and labor account for too long. I am marking your apology NSF: Insufficient funds. You will be charged a penalty.

Oh Suki Suki Grilled Shrimp Kabobs

Since posting my collard greens recipe many moons ago, I have had many more requests for recipes. So here is one that I made when David and I were in Bristol. Let me tell you...this won over David's Dad completely.

Brandon's Suki Suki Now Grilled Shrimp Kabobs

Ingredients

One pound fresh shrimp
Two red bell peppers
One package mushrooms
One red onion
Two large green peppers
Two cups soy sauce
Half cup honey
One table spoon crushed red pepper flakes
One teaspoon garlic powder
One orange
Six to Ten metal skewers

First you want to pour the honey into a microwave safe bowl. Add the soy sauce. Microwave the soy sauce and honey for 30 seconds on high. Pull out the mixture and stir thoroughly. Microwaving the honey makes it liquid and easy to mix. Add the crushed red pepper and garlic powder. Cut orange in half and squeeze both halves into the honey and soy sauce marinade. Stir again. Then add the shrimp to the mixture, cover, and let sit for four hours. You can marinate the shrimp for a shorter period of time, but the longer you let them soak the better they will taste.

Chop your bell peppers, mushrooms and onions into roastable sizes. Then, create your skewers by adding a shrimp followed by one of each vegetable including the onion, followed by shrimp and repeat until skewer is full.

Roast the skewers over a charcoal grill until the shrimp turn bright orange. Salt. Serve. Enjoy.


I am telling you...these grilled skewers will make your loved one take off their panties and win the hearts of your inlaws.

Minnesota Part Two: Mosquito Attack!

Minnesota is L’Etoile du Nord, the land of 10,000 lakes, and a giant breeding ground for hawk sized mosquitos that pull kamikaze dive runs on exposed skin and suck you dry. God forbid you miss a spot during your daily bath of Off bug spray, because those vampiric bitches will find whatever spot you missed and siphon off enough effluvia to start their own blood bank. I have mosquito bites on my toe nails for Christ sakes.

Sorry…got distracted by a hottie wearing a black zippy with his chest amply visible from my third floor apartment window. Back to mosquitos.

Frack mosquitos! (Tiffany told me I curse too much in my blog posts, so I have decided to say frack today instead of the other f-word….blame Calamari for that one).

So, Friday night last week, David and I got back to Aaron Keith’s condo to prepare for the wedding of Denise and Mike. Around 5:00pm, my phone rang, and Little Chicken aka Tay Tay Begay aka Taylour Johnson was downstairs. Taylour drove five hours from Madison to Minneapolis to hang out with me for 24 hours before returning to Wisconsin. That’s love people. Take notes.

Shortly after Tay Tay’s arrival, David, Taylour, and I set out for the nuptials. With confidence, we set out on foot for St. Paul College…less than a mile walk from AK’s pad in downtown St. Paul. I thought that the choice of the college was an excellent one. It was perched on Cathedral Hill directly across from the gothic St. Paul’s Cathedral. The view from the hill top took in all of St. Paul, the state capitol, and the Mississippi River. In my mind, I was silently acknowledging the wedding location. After trekking upwards for about a mile, we finally wove our way around several interstate interchanges and found ourselves standing outside of St. Paul College.

The college was under construction, the parking lot empty, and caterers were setting up down the block for a wedding…for the next day.

After twenty minutes of milling around, I finally was able to summon the actual address of the wedding from Taylour’s iPhone. The event was at the St. Paul College Club….not St. Paul College.

An hour later, on foot, we reached the wedding…just as it ended.

DOH!

As we entered into the posh St. Paul COLLEGE Club and found the guests sipping wine and the wedding party taking pictures. We stood on the back porch, and my eyes immediately filled with tears. Denisse was absolutely stunning. Ms. Velez now Mrs. McHugh is a radiant human being. Her spirit shines brightly within her, and it is obvious that she is a woman of poise, intelligence, and integrity. I fell in love with her the moment I met her, and I felt as if I had found a sibling that had somehow gotten lost in my hodgepodge familial mix.

Her man is hot as hell, and I have already laid claims to him should he ever swing even remotely bisexual.

After a few moments Denisse looked up and saw us standing against the club’s back door. She smiled broadly and waved and mouthed “I love you.” I smiled and said, “I love you back…” and then the three of us, Taylour, David, and myself, went back inside to take advantage of the free beer and wine. As dinner began, and the toasts were made, I looked up to find Denisse beckoning to me. I moved through the crowd and hugged that adorable vision of perfection. Denisse and I met on the Latino Advisory Committee to the Mayor and City Council of Minneapolis. She is as brilliant as she is beautiful.

The rest of the night passed quickly. The highlight of which was getting to dance merengue with Denisse in her wedding gown, and oogling the hot Espanola working a bright orange dress with mango juicy breasts. After Denise and I danced, her mother leaned over and said, “You are an amazing dancer.” That night, I was inspired.

By half past ten, we were all exhausted. We hopped a cab and shot back downtown. The cost of the cab from where we were to where we were staying was about ten percent of what it would have cost to go the same distance in NYC. Damn I miss the Midwest.

Later that night, Tay and I decided to go out for a drink at the gay bar down the street. Now, when I moved to Oakland, the Innuendo was the new hip gay bar. I even did a lube wrestling fundraiser for my former softball team there.

Times had changed.

We walked into a full on bear bar. And not the hot daddy kind of bears. Oh no…these were the ginormous bear eating bears voguing and quaffing buckets of Long Islands.

We left quickly.

Our second day in Minnesota was amazing (except for the hour and a half walk to the wedding). Seeing Denise and Mike happily married was enough to make me start planning my own wedding. And, seeing my Little Chicken, who drove all the way from Madtown to see me, was a super awesome treat. Family and friends are amazing…especially when they are hot.

Minnesota Part One: Isn't It Romantic?

So a lot of life has happened since last I wrote. Iran had an election, and, in keeping with recent U.S. tradition, we still don’t know which candidate is president. The New York State Senate is still in a deadlock with a locked chamber and a bunch of lunk heads screaming at each other on NPR. Obama caved on the Defense of Marriage Act but signed an executive order extending benefits to the domestic partners of federal employees, and Chastity Bono is a big old tranny named Chaz (I called that one ages ago).

As The World Turns…

Last week, David and I began a whirlwind tour through the great state of Minnesota. Speaking of not knowing election outcomes, Al Franken has not yet been declared the winner of my home state’s Senate seat, but Norm Coleman has been ordered to pay roughly $100,000 in Franken’s court fees since Coleman lost several appeals already. Teeeheee.

David and I hit the tarmac running…shortly after arriving, we found ourselves surrounded by bright sunshine and a rental car. We cruised down 35E to St. Paul, with a quick stop for some Taco Hell. And by Hell I mean that once that grade D beef hit my lower intestines, the gates to Hell opened in my anus and let forth a stench like the Devil’s breath after rimmin’ a dirty hole with a yeast infection. It was just that nasty.

We got to downtown St. Paul, and we met up with my old friend Aaron Keith. A big old delicious hunk of a mocha man with vocal chords that could melt butter. AK was a dear heart and volunteered to loan us his condo while we were in town. He went off to stay with his boyfriend Jerry (we’ll talk about her in a minute), and he gave us the keys to the condo. It was spectacular. After a quick shower and change, David and I headed off to have dinner.

We shot down 35W and headed to Powderhorn Park. The best damn neighborhood in Minneapolis. There, tucked onto a street just across from the park, is the Purple House…home of Susan and Rocki and Luca and Flo and Kelly Brazil. At any given time, I have known Susan and Rocki to have anywhere from two to six roommates in addition to their daughter Luca, cat Patzo, and a couple different canine inhabitants. Also a gecko…we can’t forget the gecko. We were met on the sidewalk by a jump ropin’ Luca Peluca head. I scooped her up and gave her a bear hug. She jumped down and darted into the house…and out came Mrs. Raffo-Simoes…who gave me one of those love hugs that reaches right inside of you and makes everything absolutely ok. I introduced her to David, and it was love at first site between him and her. That made me happier than a clam in the ocean with plenty-o-plankton to eat.

Susan made up a lesbo-licious batch of goodness…some roots and berries and the like. Rocki came home, and I about did a high kick….and we all sat and visited and caught up. Just being near Susan and Rocki changes my whole outlook on life…I can be the saddest most forlorn creature…a spittin’ image of Gollum and those two, without coddling or condescending, turn me right back into a jolly furry footed hobbit. And I got the hairy toes to prove it.
We left Susan and Rocki’s well fed and wishing Susan well as she was leaving on the MS 150 bike ride from Minneapolis to Duluth the next afternoon. After some sidewalk chalk time with Luca and a surprise visit from Nicole and Alejandra, we headed back to St. Paul.

Aaron Keith is an amazing jazz singer, and it just so happened that he had a gig directly across the street from the condo. Now, by the time we arrived, David and I were about to fall over from exhaustion. Jet lag between the East Coast and the Midwest is a bitch

The bar where AK was performing looked like a cross between a Hooters and an old Prohibition speak easy. I was waiting for Dillinger and a go go dancer to walk in at any moment. Instead we walked in to find Aaron Keith croonin’ and Jerry, his boyfriend, channelin’ his inner Negro.

About seven or eight years ago, I was dating a guy named Rich. On Valentine’s Day, Rich and I went to see Aaron Keith perform at Jazzmine’s in downtown Minneapolis. At the time, AK sang “Isn’t It Romantic,” to us. I have been hooked ever since. I love that song, and I love his arrangement of the song. Moments after walking in, AK said to the audience that he had a friend in from New York City (doing his best Pace Picante Sauce voice)…and then broke into the song. At the end he looked out and said that I must have an old soul to love that song. Later that night, while having dinner at Mickey’s Diner, I was singing another old song from the juke box, and an elder woman came over and asked me how I knew the words to that song…saying, “That song is from when I was a girl.” I may have been born in the 70’s but my soul was manufactured around 1935.

But back to Aaron Keith…or more specifically…his boyfriend Jerry. Jerry was a trip. The man is one of those white guys that loves black men and, after a couple of drinks, turns as black on the outside as they feel on the inside. Jerry tried to get really ghetto on me, and I had to ignite my inner negro and shut him down. Which I did. Rather quickly. You may feel black on the inside. And lord knows you have had enough black inside of you…but I am black…step biyotch. Jerry was fun. A little over the top (which is about the only thing about him that is a top)…but he was fun. And…I can see why AK tears that booty up.

After returning to the apartment and discovering that somehow in the preceding hour our key had ceased to function, we returned to the bar, got AK, and got our asses into the apartment and into sweet oblivion. I am exhausted just remembering it, and that was just day one of our Minnesota super tour. Rah rah for Ski-u-Mah!

Vacation!

Hello my lovely readers. I am heading out on vacation for a few days. I may post a blog or two if I have the time (or the gumption)...but never fear...I shall return with more stories for your consumption.

Love,
Brandon

Fuck Sarah Palin!

Sarah Palin can suck my dick.

Actually, she can’t. The Vampire Witch of the Utter North would most likely drain the blood out of it and all my ancestors to boot.

I saw her on TV this evening, and she had the giant cojones to actually say that she is disappointed in Barack Obama and how “little” he has accomplished in “so many” months in office. I’ve made a list of items that I would like her to take away from this blog post should it happen to get accidentally mailed directly to her house.

1) Bitch please! Bush had eight years to fuck up the U.S. and most of the world along with it, and Obama is supposed to right all those wrongs plus the historic wrongs in the U.S. in six months? Come down out of the tundra, the cold weather has obviously frozen what’s left of your brain.

2) You’ve presided over a massive downturn in Alaska’s economy and pretty much were the Seal of Doom over the candidacy of John McCain. One would think that much evil would satisfy Satan’s Mother…but I tip my hat to you Mrs. Lucifer…your son has nothing on you.

3) In case you haven’t noticed…the only reason you are famous is that the entire world was laughing at you…including Tina Fey.

4) Your TEENAGE daughter was getting porked by a hot ass stud in your own house, and she obviously inherited your idiocy as she forgot to use a condom. Why are you still speaking in public? You should be hiding in shame somewhere.

5) WE ALL BELIEVE BRISTOL’S BOYFRIEND (Levi Johnston).

Sarah Palin irks the living hell out of me. I mean, she is the first candidate to get her ass handed to her in a massive landslide victory and somehow miss the fact that she lost. She comes from an inconsequential state (if it weren’t for its natural resources and proximity to Asia, the U.S. would probably have let the Inuit keep it or sold it to back to the Russians for a bottle of vodka and a lap dance). The woman failed out of about half a dozen colleges before someone took pity on her and gave her a diploma for making an effort. But, right here in America, it goes to show you that if you have a great set of tits and are white, you can shoot for the stars or keep shooting off your mouth way after it’s been categorically proven that there are slime molds with higher IQ’s than you.

I take back that comment about the tits. I know many brilliant white women with amazing breasts that are monkey stomped into the ground by sexism. This just goes to prove my point that Sarah Palin has made blood sacrifices to the Infernal Powers in order to get ahead. She probably has to peel off her face at night and bathe in the blood of bunnies and lambs to maintain her Hell powers.

In conclusion, I would like to say….Sarah Palin can suck it.

So can Bristol’s ex-boyfriend. Literally. WOOT WOOT!

National Transgender Day of Action

Endorse Trans Day of Action 2009!

On June 26, 2009, Trans and Gender Non Conforming People of Color and allies will take to the streets of NYC once again and demand justice to let the world know, that on the 40th anniversary of Stonewall, the rebellion is not over and we will continue fighting for justice, raising our voices until we are heard. We call on all activist and organizers for justice, both local and organizations around the country and world to endorse this call to action and to build contingents to march in solidarity together. Below and attached are the points of unity which hold together the purpose of this march.

To endorse TDOA 2009, send an email to endorsetdoa@alp.org


For more info contact - info4tdoa@alp.org or Mya at 718-596-0342 x 23.


SAVE THE DATE – Trans Day of Action – June 26, 2009 – Starting Rally 3PM





**************************************

The 5th Annual NYC Trans Day of Action for Social and Economic Justice

POINTS OF UNITY

Initiated by TransJustice of the Audre Lorde Project, a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Two-Spirit, Trans and Gender Non-Conforming People of Color Center for Community Organizing.

June 26, 2009



call on Trans and Gender Non-Conforming (TGNC) communities and our allies from many movements to join us for the 5th Annual Trans Day of Action (TDOA) for Social and Economic Justice. As TGNC People of Color (POC) we recognize the importance of working together alongside other movements to build the world we want to see. Much has changed since last year’s TDOA, the election of a new US President has brought hope to many of our communities, however we still live in a time when people of color, immigrants, youth, elders, rural communities, people living with disabilities and poor people are disproportionately underserved, face higher levels of discrimination, heightened surveillance and experience increased violence at the hands of the state. In fact, due to the growing financial crisis conditions have worsened. As a result, it is even more critical that we unite and work together towards ending the transphobia, racism, classism, sexism, ageism, ableism, homophobia and xenophobia within our movements for justice. We call for an end to the continued single issue platform of gay marriage over TGNC justice by our movements. Let’s come together to let the world know that TGNC justice will not be undermined and together we will not be silenced! These are the points of unity, which hold together the purpose of this march:

• We demand that all people receiving public assistance (welfare) including TGNC People of Color, be treated with respect and dignity. We are in solidarity with all people living on public assistance. TGNC POC face transphobic harassment and discrimination when applying for and seeking to access public assistance/welfare. For over three years TGNC communities in NYC have called on the Human Resources Administration (HRA), the NYC agency responsible for public assistance, to address these systemic problems. After initially ignoring requests for a meeting, due to community pressure raised by TDOA, last year HRA agreed to meet. As a result, this past year TransJustice and a committee of organizations and community members including the Sylvia Rivera Law Project, Housing Works, Queers for Economic Justice, and others have worked with HRA to develop a new HRA procedure to prevent transphobic discrimination including TGNC cultural competency training. To date we are currently awaiting HRA’s final approval of the procedure and anticipate a response by Trans Day of Action.

• We demand an end to the profiling, discrimination, harassment, brutality and murders that occur at the hands of the Police. Communities of color continue to face rampant police harassment and brutality. Last month two lesbians of color were brutally beaten by police officers in front of a club in Brooklyn, NY. In 2006 a Transgender woman of color was assaulted and harassed by an employee at a McDonald’s, when the police arrived they arrested and abused her. We are in solidarity with all people impacted by police violence including supporters of Iman Morales, the family of Sean Bell and the Jersey 4. Like other oppressed communities, TGNC people are targeted, profiled and brutalized by the police daily. We demand an end to the brutality and harassment and call for Justice for all people impacted by police violence. We call for an independent prosecutor for all cases of police violence (www.peoplesjustice.org). To improve TGNC people’s safety in interactions with the police we demand that Commissioner Ray Kelly implement changes in NYPD policies and adopt the “Proposed Policy for the Treatment of Transgender People in NYPD Custody” and the associated changes to the NYPD patrol guide, submitted to the NYPD in April 2009. (www.ipetitions.com/petition/NYPDTransPolicy/)

• We demand an end to the violence and harassment faced by women and LGBTSTGNC communities in the NYC public transportation system (MTA). Women and LGBTSTGNC communities face rampant violence and harassment in the NYC public transportation system. In 2005, a woman was sexually assaulted in a subway station in full view of a train conductor and a station agent. In 2006, a transgender woman was harassed by an MTA worker using anti-transgender slurs - bystanders joined in the harassment. We call on the MTA to be accountable and work proactively to end the violence and harassment that occurs in their transit system and to comply with Local Law 3 which prohibits gender identity/expression discrimination. (nyersforsafetransit.wordpress.com & newyorklawschool.typepad.com/leonardlink/2008/02/brooklyn-court.html)

• We demand the full legalization of all immigrants. In the last year, violence towards immigrants has increased. We oppose all forms of enforcement, which target people trying to survive a deepening global economic crisis, and are in solidarity with migrant rights organizations around the world. We oppose any immigration reform proposal that includes a registration process, more militarization at the border and further criminalization of undocumented people. TGNC people deserve the right to access competent and respectful immigration services. We demand that the consulates of all countries respect and honor our identities and issue passports and other documentation that accurately reflects who we are.

• We are in solidarity with all prisoners, especially the many TGNC people behind the walls who are often invisible to our movements. We call attention to the under-reported accounts of severe violence and rape that our community faces at the hands of correction officers and other prisoners. We demand an end to the torture and discrimination TGNC prisoners face. We demand that all TGNC prisoners receive competent and respectful healthcare. We oppose the continued growth of the prison industrial complex that targets our communities, yet we recognize that TGNC people need access to services and facilities that lessen our vulnerability to violence within the present jails and prisons. We call attention to the criminal injustice system that increasingly puts POC, immigrants, TGNC and poor people behind bars - further criminalizing our communities and our lives.

• We demand that TGNC people have access to respectful and safe living spaces. Many TGNC people face discrimination from landlords and housing administrators displacing us from our homes due to gender identity or expression. A disproportionate number of TGNC people have been or are currently homeless and face discrimination when trying to access shelters and other assisted living programs. NYC law and the Department of Homeless Services (DHS) state that people will be placed in shelters according to gender identity and that discrimination based on gender identity will not be tolerated. We demand that all DHS shelter administrators continue to provide adequate Trans sensitivity trainings for all personnel and enforce clear non-discrimination policies that respect all homeless people.

• We demand that TGNC people have equal access to employment and education opportunities. We are outraged by increasing unemployment facing all communities, particularly TGNC POC. TGNC people continue to face blatant discrimination and harassment from employers due to systemic transphobia. Few TGNC people have access to opportunities for learning in a safe school environment. We demand that employers and educational institutions implement non-discrimination policies and comply with Local Law 3.

• We demand that all people, including TGNC people, have access to essential health and human services. We are in a period of ongoing budget cuts to critical services such as HIV/AIDS, youth, LGBT, etc. We call on Governor Paterson and Mayor Bloomberg to stop the budget cuts to essential health and human services and restore funding. The Piers have been a safe space for our community, particularly LGBTSTGNC youth of color for years. In solidarity with FIERCE, we demand the establishment of a 24hour LGBT youth center at the Piers. (www.fiercenyc.org)

• We demand that children and youth under jurisdiction of the Administration of Children Services (ACS) and Private Foster Care Agencies, have the right to freedom of gender expression/identity. In 2002 it was established that NYC’s foster care system cannot discriminate against TGNC children and youth nor force them to only wear clothing associated with birth gender. ACS and private foster care agencies must be accountable for the health of people under their care including TGNC people. After organized community pressure ACS established an anti-discrimination policy for TGNC people. We demand that ACS fully implement this policy.

• We oppose all the public and hidden wars of the U.S. the continued occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq, and the expansion of U.S. militarization. We are appalled by the ongoing attacks on the people of Palestine through the denial of equal rights inside Israel, division through the wall, economic isolation, blockades of supplies and imports, escalating militarization throughout the occupied territories, and the continued refusal of Palestinian refugees’ right of return. We support organizations intensifying efforts through boycott, divestment, and sanction strategies. We oppose escalating military activities everywhere. We demand the immediate removal of all U.S. troops from all countries under occupation and demand an end of use of U.S. dollars to cultivate and sponsor wars against people in the U.S. and abroad.

• We demand justice for the many TGNC people who have been beaten, assaulted, raped, and murdered. These incidents continue to be silenced, misclassified or blamed on TNGC people. The police and media continue to criminalize us even when we try to defend ourselves. An increase in hate crime laws will not solve the problem but will give increased power to the state to put more people in jail. Instead we call for a unified effort for all of us to address the root causes of why these incidents happen. As a society that seeks social justice we seek to find ways of preventing attacks on TGNC people by building strong and knowledgeable communities and using transformative justice to hold people accountable.

We commemorate Amanda Milan, Sakia Gunn, Ruby Ordeñana, Gwen Araujo, Erika Keels, Victoria Arellano, Lawrence King, Saneesha Stewart, Duanna Johnson, Angie Zapata, Teish Cannon, Taysia Elzy and the many others we have lost, who struggled and lived fearlessly, being true to who they were. They keep the fire of struggle burning within all of us.

On June 26, 2009, TGNC POC and allies will take to the streets of NYC once again and demand justice to let the world know, that on the 40th anniversary of Stonewall, the rebellion is not over and we will continue fighting for justice, raising our voices until we are heard. We call on all activist and organizers for justice, both local and organizations around the country to endorse this call to action and to build contingents to march in solidarity together. To endorse TDOA 2009, send an email to endorsetdoa@alp.org, for more info contact - info4tdoa@alp.org or Mya at 718-596-0342 x 23.

Low Down Dirty Shame

If beating oneself up were an Olympic sport…I would be the undisputed gold medal winner of all time. Not even the greatest guilt mongers amongst the world’s Catholics and Jews would be able to hold a candle to me when I really get into a shame/guilt spiral. I may call the OIC and see if we can work something out for a special Guilt Marathon or a Shame Relay.

Saturday night, David and I went to a party at our friend Brian’s pad. We had had a bit of a loopy day, as David didn’t sleep well…which is not a good thing…and a full moon was fast approaching. By that evening, we had managed to put the lunacy to rest, and we headed down to Chelsea.

It was Brian’s 32nd birthday party, and it was a smash. And then I got smashed. It was fun at first…there was a super hot Asian guy there…that I just knew David would love, so I totally started flirting with him…and then brought him over to meet David. Seems as if they hit it off. David and I were in a queer space, both of us were flirting wildly and sharing that with one another, and we had a great time.

Unfortunately, I don’t always know when to end the party and go home.

As the fiesta wound down, Brian made a suggestion that we head to Mr. Blacks. It was 2am, and David was beat, but I was tipsy and wanted to go out. David gave his blessing, and off I went.

I remember entering the club. I remember meeting the Argentines, and then I remember waking up in the Argentines fantastic apartment off Madison Avenue. I was still drunk, and it was 9am.

I jumped up and sprinted out lookin’ for the train home. Two trains and a half an hour later, I made it in the house. David was still in bed. I told him about the remainder of my night, and then I crashed out.

I woke up to find my man off on a bike ride, and I felt the shame mantle settle in.

If our positions were reversed and David had not come home all night, there would have been bloodshed. David, though, being David was disappointed but there was no drama. I suspected that he realized that I would do enough beating o myself up for the both of us. And I have…for 48 hours, been smashing myself around.

David is the best damn thing that has ever happened to me in this world. And the fact that I caused him obvious disappointment and hurt was a little bit more than I could handle. In the past, I would have laughed it off, swept it under the rug, or gotten defensive. This time, I found myself whirling down into a shame spiral that was pretty much out of control.

I have a very bad habit of waiting until things in my life are going extremely well and then figuring out a way to fuck it up. I started a kick ass new job last week. We are going to see my family in Minnesota this week. And, in general, I am the most happy I have ever been. Figures I would do something really stupid in an attempt to self-sabotage.

David told me yesterday, and again today, that we need to give ourselves the space to be human and make mistakes. I have always been fine when the mistakes end up impacting my life and leaving the people I love untouched. It’s when I do things that impact the people I care for in a way that I never intended that I find myself without the tools to combat the feelings that well up. Also, making a mistake and then throwing a pity party for oneself is not necessarily the path towards personal growth.

I have made drastic and significant changes in my life. In many ways I am allowing myself to feel and experience what I would run away from in the past. Today was the first time in a spell that made me want to run away and hide. But you can’t hide from yourself. You may fool yourself now and again. You may hide the truth from yourself…but you can’t sustain any of that for long…and running away from it means only that you give it power to grow and warp until facing it becomes a Herculean effort instead of the simple task of looking in the mirror and saying, “I forgive you.”

Hot Daddy III: The Power is Ours!

I have been asked, recently, about how things are progressing with Hot Daddy. Let me tell you.

When we last left Hot Daddy, I'd just discovered his name: Benem. Since then, David and I have run into him a number of times at the gym...generally as we are leaving and his is coming, or when we are coming and he has just came (literally...we usually see him as he is leaving the steam room...his towel held out in front of him...hiding ummm...ample evidence...and I mean AMPLE evidence of what he has just been up to). Indeed, I have even run into him by myself, and I have chosen not to return to the steamroom playland with him.

It is driving him nuts.

Now...I have been known to be jealous. I am working on that. Benem is generally extremely respectful. He is also very hands on. The other week, David and I had made a trip to see Butterfly Kisses (Marcello at the Astor Place Barbershop), and our hair was lookin' fly as hell. Benem took much notice, and put one hand on David's waist and cupped the back of David's head. It was both a natural touch but also very personal. I almost went postal. He also makes sure to let me know when he is around...the same day of the Great Haircut Caper...he had also passed behind me while I was on a cardio machine and touched my back and waved.

I don't think he is used to having anyone...let alone two people...not fall immediately for his charms...broad chiseled chest...tight ass...and tree stump dick.

When we see him, he makes sure to let us know if he was at the gym, and we weren't. As a matter of fact, just the other day he mentioned that his partner was in town from Ft. Lauderdale, and he wanted to introduce David and I to him. It was at this point that we discovered that Benem doesn't actually live in NYC. I thought the man tanned all the damn time. Turns out he lives in Florida and is a flight attendant.

The fact that he wanted to introduce us to his partner, totally threw me for a loop. The mystery of Benem deepened. Does he want to do some sort of Wife Swap thing? Is he lookin' for a giant Octupus man orgy...eight limps flying and flailing and spanking? Does he want to show off what is sure to be another beefy hotty or ripped pixie like my own love?

All we know for sure was that, once again, he made sure to engage us in long conversation in a way that I have never seen him do with anyone else in the gym...and...once again...this was while we were standing in the locker room...he was naked save a whistle and an artfully held towel.

The man wants us or wants one of us. I reported on his ass grab of me. He also walked behind David one day and stuck out his tongue like he was rimming my man. When we are on the exercise floor, the man positions himself so that he is always within our line of sight...even carrying free weights to an area of the gym that makes it obvious that he is making sure that he can see us. And this is not guess work...once he told us that he would be watching us from a distance on the floor as he would be working on different body areas that day...and another time...he made sure to tell us that he would see us down there...and that day...he was everywhere we went...with a smile or cruising David.

It is confusing, exciting, sometimes angering because of my jealousy, but also fun. What happens next, no one knows, but he did make sure to tell us when he would be back in town. As David put it...we have the power in this situation. When I realized David was right...I felt a shift in internal attitude that I hope I can maintain.

More on Hot Daddy to cum.

Hamhocks and Witches

Last night I ate a bowl full of hamhocks and blackeyed peas before bed. In addition to having gas from hell...I had a very interesting dream.

The dream began with me as a child...I had spontaneously sprouted magnificent wings, and, a la X-Men, I shaved them off using a giant file to hide my shame and to please my parents. As I grew, I learned to love my wings, and I refused to remove them. I was chased through the night by police that were seeking to force me to cut them off or kill me. They didn't know who I was, and I managed to soar and then dive between two houses in my neighborhood. Quickly landing in my back yard, and ducking into the house.

Later that night I had to attend a black tie fundraiser with my parents. I had grown into quite the strapping young adult. I had bowed to pressure and shaved the wings off one last time. I was to appear in a fashion show that evening, as I also had a budding career as a model.

I got to the black tie event and it turned out that I was actually in a charity fashion show. As I arrived, I felt a familiar itching on my back, and my wings returned bunched under my Armani suit coat. I was distraught.

David was there, and he was directing the show. He quickly removed my jacket, and my white shirt, and with a pair of scissors constructed for me a white outfit that hugged my chest and my package, displaying the best of both. He then cut up a black belt, grommeted it, and then made a nut cup out of each, which he then cinched around my waist and pulled snug up to my crotch. The outfit was fierce. I slipped on black motorcycle boots, and unfurled my wings. All the other models had wings as well, though theirs were fake. David reassured me that I blended in. I walked the runway, and realize that my wings were a mighty gift, and I vowed never to be parted from them again.

When my Mother saw them she grew angry. She was a powerful witch, and I was afraid she was going to attack, so I flew from the end of the stage and out of the theater to thunderous applause.

For a while I escaped, and I lived happily. I was at a party with some friends, when, all of a sudden, a deep gouge appeared on my hand and began bleeding profusely. There was no apparent source of the gouge, and, a moment later, a strip of flesh was peeled from my heel.

I was under attack.

I grabbed a container of Morton's salt and drew a circle around myself. I knew the Witch was attack, and I knew she couldn't reach me through the salt circle. Unfortuantely, the other folks at the party thought I was drunk, and they kept walking into the kitchen and through the salt circle. Each time they did, I sustained an attack and desperately sealed the circle. I shouted at the idiots to keep out of my circle, but they mocked me and kept moving through to get their drinks.

The dream shifted then, and I was hiding out in a beautiful spacious house in Brooklyn. The home was owned by my friend Lynne Serpe. The sun was shining, and a beautiful yard could be seen through the back bedroom. It was fall, and a half bare sycamore tree stood, it's bark grey-green and smooth, just outside of the window.

It was a place that I wanted to live, but I told Lynne I could only do so if we moved it to Manhattan. Common sense...even in a dream.

Suddenly, the room was flooded with a circle of my women friends...all good witches. Another attack was coming from my Mother, the Witch, and they knew it. They laid matts on the floor so that the salt circle would be less easily disturbed. They covered the entire floor in these matts. I then created a large circle around myself of salt that remained inviolate. The circle was closed not a moment too soon as a faint scratch appeared on my arm just as it was sealed. Mom was at it again.

We knew that the evil Witch had to also be sitting in front of a circle that represented the circle in which I sat. But in order to battle her, we had to know where she was positioned outside of the circle.

Another witch, one of my girls, then took the salt and inscribed a symbol outside of the circle...after that she took an egg in her hands and tossed it towards me and the circle in which I sat. The egg arched through the air and landed across from me, outside of the circle. When it hit the matt it begin to sizzle as if it were frying. We'd found the bitch.

A phantom outline of her appeared, her face twisted in anger. She began chanting a new spell trying to break through my circle...I could feel an enormous pressure building, and I knew that she would soon break through...and then...my ass would be grass.

A bright light welled up inside of me and I held up a single hand, with my wings outstretched, I began chanting loudly...By the Power of Light, By the Power of God! By the Power of Light, By the Power of God! I pushed back agains the pressure and my hand began to glow with a golden light that was outlined in red. I shouted a third time...BY THE POWER OF LIGHT, BY THE POWER OF GOD. The pressure gave way suddenly, and I knew I had to bitch slap the hell out of the witch and teach her to mind her business. I gave her three hard smacks.

And then David woke me up yellin' “WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME.”

P.S. David is the hottie in the tootsie roll outfit next to the scary heifer in the picture above. Teeeheeee.

One Liner of the Week Award: Mason Scherzer

Today happens to be the birthday of my Rookies teammate Joe. Joe is a delightful chap with a razor sharp wit, and he has been known to smack a ball so hard that it may be considered ball torture. I like that.

The Rookies' email list was filled with delightful birthday wishes for Lady Joseph today, but the best, hands down was from Wonder Mason of red thong fame. He said:

"Happy birthday ye olde thang! What was it like when ya'll figured out how to harness fire? I don't want that oral history to die out..."

And that, trannysauruses, is the One Liner of the Week.

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.

Everyday Heroes: Koren Hoard

Now and again I will be writing an entry about a person that should be praised publicly but will probably never be...the heroes and angels that walk among us.)

I recently wrote an article for a new queer Latin@ magazine called Zona Rosa. The topic of the article was “heroes.” That publication will have a section in each issue dedicated to the heroes of queer Latin@s. In my article, I redefined the term “hero”, stripping it of the often militaristic, capitalistic, or political elite requirement of hero-making.

In my life I have had many heroes. Some are still with me, others have passed on, and there are a few that I have not seen in years, but they are never far from my heart, mind, or spirit.

Once such person is Koren Hoard.

I remember meeting Koren a decade ago. Once upon a time there was a queer youth movement in this country that challenged gender, embraced while ripping apart stereotypes around sexual orientation, and wove a fierce joy and open sexualness and sexuality into a movement that redefined “gay” and the issues that were pertinent to our communities. Koren was one of the soul carriers of that group of young people.

On the surface, when I first met Koren, I though he was one of the most beautiful women I had ever met. I was quickly taught a valuable lesson in assuming gender, and Koren was the first non-operative transman I met. I used to tell him that he had the most beautiful breasts of any man I had ever seen. Everything about Koren is beautiful, from his smile to the gentle way he moves through the world. There is a quiet and fierce strength about the man that is uplifting. He never sought the spotlight, and the one real indulgence that he took was making sure that each night he wove into his hair brightly colored extensions that matched whatever fierce outfit he put together the next day. And I am talkin' fierce...he is the only person I know that can pull off an electric blue and magenta outfit and also rock the hair to match.

When I met Koren, he was working at the National Youth Advocacy Coalition. He did his work with integrity and that integrity was present in his friendship. I love Koren because with a word and smile, no matter how ugly your day is, was, or might be, it seems a little lighter and more bearable.

When I lived in North Carolina and worked at the NC Lambda Youth Network, I would often come home and find Koren, who lived in DC, sitting on my front porch or cleaning my roommate River's bedroom (and for that and that alone Koren deserves sainthood...River was a pig, rolled in a hog, dipped in a sewer, buried in a full septic tank). I love River.

I also loved when Koren came to visit. He would move about our house and smile. And when he asked how you were...you knew he cared and was listening.

Over the years, as I have gone through my own journey and trials...Koren would hear or read about it...and it would never fail...in would come an email or a phone call. Koren offered hugs, financial support if I needed it, or just a willingess to be there. This was after having not seen him in months and sometimes years. I know that I have never given to him the peace of mind and love that he has given me, but I would, quite seriously, do whatever I could and try to do things I knew I couldn't in order to support him and make sure he is always surrounded by peace and love and the support he needs.

I don't talk to Koren often enough. I can't remember the last time I saw him. But my love for him has grown exponentially. He is a gift to the justice movement. He is a gift to all who have had the fortune to know him, and he is a gift in my life. I love you Koren. Thank you.

Ginuwine, Joe, Chico de Barge: Free Concert On July 26 in New York

Hey folks! My girl Shante "Paradigm" Smalls of B.Q.E. fame brought to my attention that there will be a free concert on July 26th from 3pm to 7pm on Central Park's Summer Stage featuring Chico de Barge, Joe, and Ginuwine.

I will so be there.

For more information on the series, which is presented by WBLS 35th Anniversary and Globe Star Media, click here.

Eminem Eats Ass

I saw it with my own eyes. An angel with the ass of Sascha Baron Cohen decended from heaven in the midst of the MTV music awards and landed directly in Eminem's face. After a moment of hestitation...in front of millions of viewers from around the world...Eminmen buried his face in that God's gift and shoved his tongue so far in Borat's bootie that he could taste the grit from Uzbekistan in the back of Sascha's throat.

Then...realizing that he had popped major (or minor as the case was) wood in front of his homeboys...and that Dr. Dre had gotten a visible stiffy too...Eminmen...fighting that great beast Internalized Homophobia, quickly whipped it out, jerked off, shot on Borat's back, zipped up, signaled to his body guards and split. From the initial unzip to the zip up took roughly 14 seconds.

Later that evening, in an interview with TMZ, Eminmen claimed that the entire incident was due to a wardrobe malfunction with his zipper, that he was straight as hell, and that he was very angry at Sascha Baron Cohen. He indicated they would be meeting at a private, members only club called Steamworks to have a conversation about the incident and iron things out.

Details to follow.

Fuck Eminem.

I don't give a flying fuck that he happened to get sober with the help of Elton John. Sir Elton's only interest was in getting to hold onto Eminems tight little body while he came down from his latest hit. Eminem is a homophobic biyatch who has been no friend to the queer community. I don't care if the stunt was planned. I still want to punch Eminmen in the face. The fact that it was planned means that he thinks it's ok to promote homophobia and heterosexism as a joke.

I repeat. Fuck Eminem.

I am so tired of homophobic hip hop (and reggae) artists from Kingston, Jaimaca to Jaimaca, Queens throwing shade, advocating, violence against queer folks, and then...when they realize that the music business is chock full of faggotry...make some half-assed public recant and expect us all to go back to loving their asses. Eat my ass.

It is time that we turn to supporting queer hip hop artists that are holding it down on their own. Folks like my friends Invincible and Torri Fixx. Artists that spit hype shit, make their own beats, write their own lyrics, and all without having to denigrate women, queer folks or themselves in order to make music or a dollar. How about this...nothing makes you less than a man to be afraid of other men and the feelings you have. Running away from yourself or anyone else out of undeserved fear is an act of cowardice and has no place in a principled person. Now what.

I will be bold enough to say that Eminem has had more dick in his ass than Perez Hilton. And we all know Perez is a piggy poppered up power bottom that has "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" tattoed above his brown winker and a lower intestine with a permafrost layer of rotted jizz.

Damn...I grossed myself out with that last one.

I say...God bless Sascha Baron Cohen. Mazel Tov. You are my guardian angel.

Update: My friend Thomas Leavitt told me about another kick ass queer hip hop artist by the name of Juba Kalamka...support Juba as well!

I Love My Penis

I love my penis.

It is absolutely true. I love my penis. Nothing in my life, other than perhaps writing and my friends and my original Nintendo and my anus, has brought me more pleasure than that danglin' flesh tube swinging between my legs. Nothing in my life has brought me more drama than my penis, but you take the flaccid ugly with the hard love.

Penises, to the undiscerning, are often thought to lack the symmetrical beauty of the vagina. I have often heard the penis described as “ugly.” While I have seen more than one unfortunately malformed penis...ones that have curved so far to the left or right, up or down, that they should have had one of those bright orange signs with the squiggly road on it to warn me before the owner dropped his pants...the truth is...I find most dicks to be beautiful.

Fat ones, kinda fat ones, big ones, average sized ones, veiny, smooth, big head, small head, baseball bats to maglites...I love 'em, I love 'em, I love 'em.

Now, to be fair, I believe way too much importance is attached to the penis. True, it is a magnificent source of pleasure, and, it looks mighty fine packed into the pouch of a jock strap or a hot pair of boxer briefs where you can just make out the cock outline...but...in the end...it is a piece of meat.

Unfortunately, in this world of ours the fact that I have a penis can, and often does, mean I will get more of just about everything than a woman (even adjusting for race and faggotry), with a perfectly lovely vagina, and a PhD will ever have. I will make more money in my life than most women...because of my penis I will, in many circumstances, garner more attention than the penis-less of the world (except some of my so damn hot trans men friends that have penises that are sometimes kept at home). I will have better access to housing, health care, and basic human respect because of my penis.

And thank God I was given an amply sized penis cuz that is just...well...icing on the dick cake of life.

I love my penis, but I don't love what is necessary to maintain the privilege of having a penis. I don't enjoy watching women beaten, unpaid, paid too little, not paid enough, underpaid, over worked, pimped out, beaten down, overlooked, beaten, raped, ignored, sold, and killed as ways to maintain the power and privilege of the penis. I don't like seeing the fear in the eyes of the 75% of women that have or will suffer some form of sexual violence in their life. As a survivor of rape, I understand just how scary the penis can be.

The penis is a beautiful thing. But it's beauty is not found in the power that it gives me. It's beauty is about the opportunity it gives me to connect with myself and with my fellow man (men....as many men as possible). It is a beautiful tool that allows me to use the privilege that I have been accorded, wrongfully, to open doors, windows, and smash glass ceilings hand in hand with my sisters (biological and otherwise) in this grand world of ours. And not to leave my intersexed family out...I use my dick privilege to help redefine gender so that it is deep, wide, long, hard, soft, round, smooth, and veiny enough for all of its incarnations and manifestations.

I love my penis. But I love a world where love, opportunity, peace, and safety are freely and justly given and not reserved to those that get to pee standing up.