An Open Letter to Officer Joe

Inspector William Matusiak
18th Precinct
306 W. 54th Street
New York, NY 10019

An Open Letter to the 18th Precint
Midtown North

Dear Inspector Matusiak:

A couple of months ago, I had the unfortunate opportunity to step inside of your precinct. It was unfortunate in that the situation that prompted the need to go to the police was difficult. For the second time in a month period, the same individual verbally attacked me in my home.

There was no danger of physical violence; indeed, if it ever came to that point, this particular man would be calling you for support, as the difference in our physicality is such that I could easily and heartily defend myself. Thank God my Mother raised me right.

I digress.

I am writing to you because the choice to walk the few short blocks to the precinct wasn’t an easy one. I am a person of color, and I am gay. Every aspect of my life, for my basic survival, has been influenced by a rule: steer clear of the police. While elementary school taught us the men and women in blue are there to help us, life taught me that more often than not the men and women in blue were enemies, people to avoid. As I grew older, I realized, of course, that for every Amadou Diallo incident, there were a thousand incidents of good cops doing the right thing, unfortunately, the bashings and beatings and Oscar Grant shootings are stories that make the news. And the stories happen frequently enough, and are substantiated often enough, that to err on the side of caution is to err towards a course of survival.

Let me be clear, I present to the world as a well educated, well groomed, individual. I have never been subject to harassment by the police. As a matter of fact, my one run in with the cops was leaving a bar and making the stupid decision to drive. I received a DUI, and I have to say that through the entire incident, from the arrest to the police house, the deputies on duty were not only kind but extremely supportive. Never before and never since have I had any violation on my record. My personal, direct experience with the police has been quite positive.

Yet not all of my indirect encounters have been quite so upbeat. I quite literally have been walking down the street, in between two black men that presented “thuggish,” and though these two men did not know each other, based on their appearance, they were called over and harassed by the police, while I was waved on.

My little brother, who is engaged with Hip Hop culture, was regularly targeted by the police as a teen for doing nothing more than looking a particular way and standing on our front porch.

So to choose to make a complaint, against a white man, as a person of color, and as a queer person in a domestic dispute (the man was my partner’s former partner), I was nigh on terrified to make a complaint that I had a legal and moral right to make.

Then I met Officer Joe.

In hindsight, I should have asked for Officer Joe’s last name and badge number. All I can tell you is that this particular evening, he was working at the front desk when we came in. I was with my current partner, and we approached the officer to ask him how to file a complaint. Officer Joe asked what happened, and I told him the story. Not only was he emphatic but also he directly asked my partner how the heck he could get away with having his current partner and ex-partner living together. He added a moment of levity to a difficult situation, and my assumption is that Officer Joe is straight, has received great training, and is comfortable in his skin. Officer Joe’s demeanor, engagement, and respect did more to change my perception of police than all of the posters hanging in the precinct that, frankly, come across as slightly condescending in their attempts to downplay the role of police violence.

Police violence against people of color and queer folks, particularly trans folks, is real and has a long history. Posters will not change the minds of those impacted by the actions of a few, rotten cops. The thoughtful, jovial, and forthright actions of individuals such as Officer Joe will.

I worked on a political campaign, once, for Deputy Chief of Police Lucy Gerold. Lucy was the first civilian Deputy Chief in Minneapolis. She then chose to go to the academy and now serves as the Third Precinct Captain. I once told Lucy that she was the first and only cop that I had ever met that I trusted. I now trust many more. I have confidence, at least, in the 18th Precinct. I appreciate the training that your officers have obviously received, and I apologize to you and your men and women for the fears I have had related to police, generated by the actions of a minority of officers, yet none the less projected onto folks that are just trying to do good work in our community.

I appreciate you all, and the work that you do. Please note, I will be posting this letter to my blog, www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com. My blog receives roughly 2,000 to 3,000 readers per month. I am happy to be able to offer a story of cops doing good in a time when most of the news about people in uniform isn’t the best.

Thank you.

Fading Hope or Reality Check?

So, I read today that in an Associate Press-Gfk Poll the general fountain of hope that Obama inspired has turned from a gusher to a sprinkler. His approval rating is still 55%, which is very good, but in many areas the euphoria has worn off and he has seen double digit drops in various confidence ratings in various areas. Though, in my most cases, a majority of Americans still believe that he is doing the right thing in the right way.

Basically, I want to go out and find those folks that truly believed that Obama was somehow going to magically with a wave of his Presidential dick make everything all better, and smack them in the face. Instead of electing a President, they thought they were electing a Fairy Godfather who could kiss the booboos of the Regan/Clinton/Bush years...the trickle down economics...the Bush trillion dollar tax cuts...the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq...the decline in American prestige...the global economic meltdown...the health care system...the education gap...the housing market...and the credit market...and make them all better. Whip out a bottle of neosporin and a great big old band-aid and in seven days it will heal right up.

B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T

Since stepping into the White House, Obama has done something that the last four presidents have not done. He has told the damn truth. He has said...look people...this shit is going to be tough...it is going to be rough...and if you all really want it to be fixed...you are going to have to dig deep into your pockets and your privilege and make it better. Those that have immense wealth that THEY DID NOT EARN...are going to have to pay a share relational to their income to help make things work again in this country (and P.S. no one and I mean no one does any level of labor that is equal in value to a million dollars a year...NO ONE). He said that to fix health care, we are going to have to do something radically different than has ever been done before. He said to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and to restore confidence in America, we are going to have to close Guantanamo, end torture, and start valuing civilian lives overseas. He said in order to get the economy back on track, we are going to have to get real hands on. A free market without oversight and without regulation is exactly what got us into the mess we are in...and so it is going to take money to fix a money problem and regulation to fix a regulation problem and not a wishin' and a prayin' and magic bean buyin'.

But time and time and time again it is a Republican and conservative lobby and coalition of regressive wealthy ignoranmi that are hell bent at protecting their own asses and fighting to regain political power at the cost of AMERICAN lives, AMERICAN health, AMERICAN prosperity, and on the backs of the working poor. Ain't not a damn thing changed on the right. So it is time for the left to step the fuck up and be unafraid to confront the bullshit head on.

It is time for the majority in Congress to use the damn nuclear options. Shut out the voices of Deep South Senators that openly engaged in acts of White Supremacy and yet have the nerve to accuse Judge Sotomayor of playing racial politics when all she did was speak the damn truth. It is time, right now, for Obama to be brave. He needs to pull a Lyndon B. Johnson and hold his party's ass to the flame. He needs to make it clear to any Blue Dog Democrat that breaks ranks that he will, without question, use his position and popularity on behalf of a primary challenger to replace their fucked up asses come the mid-term elections next year. It is TIME that those that believed there was an easy solution to decades of excess, waste, unchecked capitalism, and unregulated corporate greed and community rape to wake the fuck up and become part of the solution instead sucking on the rotted tit of media spawned regressive hype and fear mongering by the GOP and its minority conservative core in America.

Obama will fail if we haven't matured enough as a nation to realize that the people out of power want to get back into power no matter the cost even if the cost is YOUR health insurance, the life of YOUR child sent to the desert or the mountains to die, YOUR job because deregulation and the maiming of unions has led to massive outsourcing, and your home because a lack of oversight allowed mega banks to gobble up bad assets knowingly and use outright deception to make a quick buck on your back.

Wake the hell up America. Obama is NOT our hope. WE are our HOPE, and if we HOPE to not slide back down the Regan-Clinton-Bush I and II road...then it is high time that we step up, let Obama know we are here and ready to do the work, make the sacrifice, and BACK HIM THE HELL UP, so he can get our nation and its people...meaning ALL OF ITS PEOPLE FROM THE HOMELESS TO THE KARDASHIANS back on its feet.

Faith without works and hope without courage are empty words and empty minds fill able by those willing to lay you down to build their own foundation.

Rippin' Gender and Writin' Sex: An Interview with Rosalind Lloyd

At the end of June, I was honored to be one of a fantastic line up of readers at Charlie Vazquez's Double Pride Panic reading series at Nowhere Bar in the East Village. One of the reader's that completely blew my mind (and whose story made me harder than a porn star on viagra) was writer Rosalind Lloyd.

After Facebook stalking Rosalind, I asked her if she would agree to an interview about her writing, and she graciously agreed. Let me tell you folks that this interview is going to blow your mind. Rosalind's work not only engages gender, race, and sexuality...but also makes them have sex with each other and give birth to new ways of being and celebrating multiple layers of identity. She does all of this in a context of joyful, hot, sensuality that proudly embraces humanity as inherently sexual beings. In an age that is beginning to make the 1950s look like a giant swinger play party, Rosalind's writing and subject matter is a just the dildo to our collective orifices that we need to jolt us back to an awareness of ourselves that includes a fierce sexuality without shame or condemnation.

Lord I done made my own self hot just thinking about this woman's writing.

Here's the amazing interview with Rosalind. And, please go to Amazon or to her website and buy her work.

When I met you, you read from a hot and steamy story about a tranny that I would love to meet in a dark alley. Why choose a transgender protagonist? How does the gender and sexuality of your character mirror your own?

I LOVE that Patti Smith quote – “As far as I'm concerned, being any gender is a drag.” I’ve always been fascinated by gender identity – particularly within the “community.” I feel we’ve not really freely explored the fluidity of gender because in ways we feel on a base level it conjures up stereotypes, plus, it so easily coincides with sexual identity. It’s still sort of a taboo area – fucking around with gender – refusing to go beyond, to dig deeper than drag queens, drag kings and transgenderism. Many of us are so linear in our thinking because as gay folks, we’ve been persecuted for so long. But delving into our gender and sexual queerness just gives us even more layers and more diversity and that’s a beautiful thing. I knew this person about 15 years ago, a beautiful boi. She would only hang out with gay men and she looked just like one of them – tall, tight hair cut, and rocking the hottest designer fashions for men – I mean gorgeous. She never paid women any attention – she just wasn’t interested. And so the whispers started that she was actually interested in and actually having sex with gay men – although this was never really verified. Naturally a lot of dykes who knew her were sort of disgusted by this and questioned her sexuality – but I found her totally fascinating.

The main character in the piece I read, Troi, – does her gender and sexuality mirror my own? In her queerness – yes – because she is totally left of center. Troi is a dom and I’m not necessarily - but there is a fluidity with respect to her sexuality that can’t be denied and I wanted that reflected in the piece. In fact, I would go as far as saying that Troi might not even be a hot tranny as you’ve described him. If you remember, there is a scene where Troi is discreetly cruising the young brothers at that club – the ones with their jeans hanging low, all that rough swagger. She could have been peeping them on the low. Although she hooks up with this incredibly sexy young lady, why not look at the more ambiguous target (the young brothers) as a possibility? This would actually make Troi queergendered. But I didn’t want to push it that far.


In person, you present as very femme, yet, the character in your story is the epitome of masculinity. How does your perceived gender and the way you write gender intersect?

There is a huge intersection there. If a feminine woman straps on – does that make her any less a woman? If a dominant woman wants to be penetrated, does that make her any less a dom? Same question for men, regardless of their sexual and gender identity. I’m a strong believer that gender – just like sexuality - is fluid. Writing about dildos is not necessarily an overwhelmingly receptive topic for many lesbians because anything male identified, anything with a masculine identity, any phallic symbols are highly problematic not only because it’s male, but for some, it also challenges our sexual identity as women. I felt it was necessary to challenge that notion in my writing. Looking at this another way – I know this “straight” married couple. Very hot. She’s a beautiful, high fem and her husband is this tall, strapping, manly-man. One Valentine’s Day, she dressed up in a corset and strap on and he was totally into his wife making love to him like this. To me, that’s hot. What’s unfortunate is that there are segments of society that might have a problem with people expressing themselves in this way. Some might want to push this type of desire in little boxes – in closets. That’s a shame.

Often times, women with a powerful and overt sexuality are both objectified and reviled. How does your work address stereotypes of women and sexuality?

Well, I don’t feel like I’m addressing gender stereotypes in the heteronormative sense. But in a queer sense, I feel that female gender shifting – gender questioning, aggressive women, butch/dominant women are never revered. Yes, hot fems continue to be more socially and politically acceptable as popular culture finds feminine girl-on-girl action sexy and accessible while feeling threatened by strong, masculine, dominant women whether straight or otherwise. The same goes for bisexual women in a smaller sense because they straddle a certain divide – not really being accepted anywhere completely. Women who can openly declare their bisexuality gets major props from me. It’s well known that lesbians don’t find them attractive targets (and some men think they find bi-girls attractive until that 3-some doesn’t go in their favor). Anyway, to be emboldened by your ‘queerness’ is sexy to me. Women wonder why many bi or bi curious women lie about their sexuality? Because some lesbians feel overly threatened by the maleness of their competition and their male sexuality and identity. Same goes for gender questioning/gender transitioning women. Many lesbians I know say they would never date a gender diverse person. There’s that visceral response to maleness. When transgendered Thomas Beattie (who gave birth to his second child just last month) was mentioned - the press wasn’t above making its share of insensitive comments relating to his gender and sexuality. There is SO much power in this man giving birth – in the 21st century – the actual power in his femaleness AND his maleness - it made America take an honest look at how complex gender really is and how gender and sexuality intersects no matter how much conservatism wants to sanitize it. Gender, anatomy, sexuality – all delicious ingredients that makes us who we are and how we identify. We should learn to fully embrace that freedom without restrictions.

You ain't white...and in Amerikkka that means your racial identity is front and center whether or not that is where you want it. How does your racial identity come out in your writing?

In my piece Cop-Out, racial identity is obvious due to the hip hop element, Troi’s dark fudge skin, using terms like red-bone, etc. But actually in many of my other works, although the subject is usually an attractive black woman, I intentionally write the story from a 1st person perspective where the reader - of any race – of any gender/sexual identity can actually place herself/himself as the protagonist. When I first came out, most of what I saw in the erotica section were works involving non-people of color. I remember what that felt like and I wanted to make sure that I, a woman of color, was reflected so that a sister growing up in middle-of the-country-America could pick up an anthology and find a little of herself in it. Also – I wanted it to be okay for a white girl, or an Asian girl, a Latina, a native American, a mixed race or a gender-questioning person to pick up an anthology with a story I’ve written in it and say to themselves, yes, this black woman is hot, she’s beautiful, she’s desirable – and its perfectly fine to feel this way about her.

Your writing is fierce and joyful in its realness. When you write, what is your main goal, what do you want a reader to walk away with when they read a Rosalind Lloyd piece?

To be open. To free yourself from the restrictions of gender and sexuality. To explore yourself and your desires and not to be blinded or intimidated by stereotypes and the boxes people sometimes like to push themselves and others in. Let’s enjoy that aspect of our lives to the fullest.

Where can folks that want to check out your work or you and your work find you?

First I would like to note that I should be searched under Rosalind Christine Lloyd. There is another Rosalind Lloyd out there is cyberspace and – we ain’t the same person….LOL!

There’s my blog: Scribevibe – www.rosalindchristinelloyd.blogspot.com
I’m also on Facebook and Twitter so please “friend” and “follow” me. “Cop-out,” the piece I did at the reading is in three anthologies and I just got word it is coming out again, in a fourth release in Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino and published by Cleis Press coming out in 2010 – but you can find it in Best Lesbian Erotica and Best Lesbian Bondage. My Blog will have more info on it. Lately, my work in anthologies has been centered around spanking. In August, I have a piece called “Soror Sister,” in Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories, published also by Cleis and edited by Rachel Kramer Bussell. But you can also go to Amazon and search under Rosalind Christine Lloyd for some of my earlier work.

Well spank me Ms. Lloyd cuz you are a fierce woman, and it was a pleasure to hear you read and to meet you. Thank you so much for your work and for agreeing to this interview.

Rosalind Christine Lloyd is a contemporary fiction and erotica writer (and occasional poet) whose work has appeared in over fifteen anthologies including the Best Lesbian Erotica and Best American Erotica series. She has worked with some of the most prominent names in women’s erotic-lit like Tristan Taormino and Rachel Kramer Bussel. Her latest piece was published last year in Spanked: Red Cheek Erotica and another slated for release late this summer in Bottom’s Up, both edited by Kramer Bussel. Rosalind has two novels in progress, one of which she hopes to publish as an e-book. She’s also compiling a collection of her published short fiction and has one completed screenplay. She lives downtown with her queer version of a nuclear family.

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.

A Little Bit About Me

My gal pal Divine Grace sent me one of these ridiculous questionairres via Facebook. Her answers were, well, hilarious. I figures since 1) it's nice sometimes to share a bit about myself with my readers that isn't angry or overly deep, and 2) I am exhausted after playing gay softball from 8am until about 12pm and then working out for an additional two hours, and 3) since I just made and ate a kick ass dinner, and 4) I am lazy as hell, I thought I would repost the survey I answered right here.

By the way...Divine has an amazing blog that is so so wrong yet oh so damn right. Click on her picture, and it will, like the song, take you there.

So here it is, the survey Miss Divine sent my way. Thanks Sugar...you owe me 20 minutes of my life that was sucked into a great Survey Hell Vortex.


1. What time did you get up this morning? 7:32am

2. How do you like your steak? If it isn't still mooing it's overcooked.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (I vomited 15 times during the movie)

4. What is your favorite TV show? Is that the box with the moving pictures that tells me stories?

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? In the land where Rivers are made of cosmopolitans and lakes are filled with fried chicken and collard greens.

6. What did you have for breakfast? A banana...big...thick....long...

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Hmmmmmmmm I love NOOOOODLES. Thai, Vietnamese, but not Chinese...too short.

8. What foods do you dislike? Dirt.

9. Favorite Place to Eat? (I almost peed myself at Divine's response to this one)...preferrable at the kitchen table.

10. Favorite dressing? Creamy Italian...or a Creamy Puerto Rican.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive? I don't think riding the subway counts as driving.

12. What are your favorite clothes? If it doesn't have a hole in the crotch and soy sauce stains on it...I'm good.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance? Uranus or any anus for that matter.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full? I prefer to take my fluids intravenuously.

15. Where would you want to retire? By the time I am old enough to retire...the retirement age will have been raised to "dead."

16. Favorite time of day? Dawn/Dusk...it's when the vampires know to wake up and go to bed.

17. Where were you born? Duluth, Minnesota...I can pretty much promise I was the only mixed race, black, white, puerto rican, and native american born there in 1977....or since.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch? Anything where the guys have round butts and small tight shorts.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back? President Obama

20. Person you expect to tag you back first? Michael Jackson

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this? Chastity...I mean Chaz...Bono

22. Bird watcher? Only after I've had too much absinthe.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person? I only wake up at Noon and Midnight.

24. Do you have any pets? David.

25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share? I qualified for projecticle vomting for the 2012 summer games.

26. What did you want to be when you were little? A Vampire

27. What is your best childhood memory?Have you seen my childhood?

28. Are you a cat or dog person? Dogs....whether on two legs, four legs, or doggie style.

29. Are you married? I ain't got no ring yet...at least not one above my penis.

30. Always wear your seat belt? Man...I grew up watching those crash test dummy commercials. Heck yeah.

31. Been in a car accident? A fender bender.

32. Any pet peeves? PEOPLE WHO SMACK THEIR FOOD SHOULD BE GUTTED AND FORCED TO EAT THEIR OWN INTESTINES.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings? Anything I can fit on top of it made of once living flesh.

34. Favorite Flower? Sunflower. What. I'm gay.

35. Favorite ice cream? Vanilla with chocolate covered almonds. Same way I like my men.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Burger Queen

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test? Never. Of course, I didn't take it til I was 23.

38. From whom did you get your last email? Lynne Serpe candidate for NY City Council from Astoria

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Christopher Street Adult DVD

40. Do anything spontaneous lately? I just farted.

41. Like your job? Love it.

42. Broccoli? Love it.

43. What was your favorite vacation? College.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with? Nasia

45. What are you listening to right now? I farted.

46. What is your favorite color? Cash Money Green.

47. How many tattoos do you have? Uno...for now.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz? A few.

49. What time did you finish this quiz? Unfortunately, it hasn't ended yet.

50. Coffee Drinker? I brew my own...it comes out if you squeeze my left nipple.

Health Care is a Human Right: FUCK RON PAUL!

I was thumbing through Yahoo's news today, as I am wont to do, when I came across some bullshit. Ron Paul, erstwhile Presidential candidate, and Libertarian tardo declared, with a straight face, and a net worth of between $2 million and $7 million dollars that health care is not a human right.

As a matter of fact, read his pure tardations for yourself or click here to listen to him spout his idiocy in an interview:

As far as the Texas Congressman is concerned, health care is not a right. "I don't have a right to medical care," he emphatically states. In his view, the constitution only guarantees citizens "life, liberty and (the right to) keep the fruits of my labor."

The Texas Congressman, of course, is Ron Paul. He is the type of bassackwards anal wart in power that makes my blood boil. But, thankfully, it is not only common sense, and my belief in the innate value of human life, that states that health care is a human right...so does the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the guiding document of the United Nations, of which, nominally, the U.S. is a member. The Declaration states: that every human being has the right to health, including health care.

Pardon me if I go ahead and get behind a guiding document acknowledged as the basis for global human rights doctrine and signed on to by every legitimate nation on the planet Earth versus the words of a hyper individualist college educated and medical school trained white man from the South, which basically signs him up for every form of social and political privilege and advantage available to a human being. He doesn't have to worry about little issues like human rights because his entire exists demands recognition of his right to determine what is or is not reality or just. I repeat: FUCK U.S CONGRESSMAN RON PAUL OF TEXAS. YOU FUCKING OVER PRIVILEGED JACKTARD ROTTED INVERTED SCROTUM HAIR.

Some of you may have noticed that my blogs, lately, have become a tad bit more angry than usual. I believe there is a direct relationship between an ending patience with certain people in my daily life, which, relationally, uses up any excess patience I have for assholes that have the power to vote yea or nay on my ability to life a full and healthy life. And, frankly, I don't give a damn if it costs 28 quadraseptabastanktrazillionplex dollars to ensure that every single person in this country has the same access to quality health care as the 535 members of the United States Congress that enjoy the BEST POSSIBLE HEALTH CARE PLAN ON THE PLANET EARTH. If a Senator sneezes they can pretty much get the Chief of Surgery to hold a tissue and said God Bless you, without paying a single co-pay, if it tickles their fancy or gets them hard. Hell they can get the surgeon general to be their personal fluffer if Viagra doesn't work.

Ron Paul, it must be hard to stand on top of a mountain of spaghetti, sucking down meatballs, all the while looking down from the mountaintop to the starving masses and declare, proudly, that they don't have a right to eat. You know what happens in that situation Mr. Paul? The motherfucking masses eat the damn mountain from underneath you and then eat your grizzly boney old ass as an after dinner snack.

Health care is a human right. It is a fundamental goddamn human right, and it is not only a shame but unconscionable that the richest nation in the history of the planet should have the WORST health care and the WORST infant mortality rate and the WORST life expectancy of any industrialized nation...hell of most nations. PERIOD.

Hope

Look. I ain't Barack Obama. I got no audacity of hope or a hope chest or the Hope Diamond (though I did see the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian...shhhhhinnnnyyyyy!). But tonight, I do have a slim sliver slight shaving shimmer of hope (yay alliterations!). David's ex...the Roommate of Darkness...declared openly that he is moving out on July 31st and that is his final answer (he IS the weakest link. goodbye).

As someone thoroughly trained in the scientific method (observation. empirical, and measurable), I am a fool to actually allow any itsy bitsy shadow of optimistic outlook to stain my cold, calculating hard science heart.

Pssssht.

I am a big old Renaissance softy that reads esoteric literature, speaks and reads several languages, believes in ghosts, fairies, and goblins, and jumps at any opportunity to believe that human beings are inherently good and ultimately redeemable. I spend a lot of time being disappointed. But golly gee I wear a smile while I pick up the pieces of my shattered expectations.

And poor David. He has been waiting almost two years to move on to the next part of his life. And, I have been waiting right along with him for most of that time. I am scared as hell to really embark on a fully open relationship, which I told my love had to wait until Lady GaDrama was no longer sleeping on the couch, and so the spectre of that life challenge is lickin' its lips and rearin' its Voldemort lookin' head at me. But, you know, I have seen enough perky asses from my window this evening to be willing to walk hand in hand with David down the path that ends with my penis firmly ensconsed in several of the aforementioned observed's booginas. How's that for a scientific method for ya.

Our beloved president, St. Barack Hussein "I Got a Fatty Dick" Obama commanded us all to hope, and let me not be the shmuck that fails to serve and obey the commandments of our Lord and Chief Executive. But, past precedent (sorry Mr. President) has taught me that crazy people that thrive on misery should not be trusted until one sees their bony behind walk out the door for the last time. So, I shall say I am cautiously hopefulmistic.

And you can bet a bitch is funna be chanting some nam-myoho-renge-kyo and prayin' to Jesus, Allah, Shakyamuni, Yaweh, and Scooby Fucking Doo to help this actually come to pass.

Amen.

Pinot Grigio

If I could, I would have my left breast surgically altered so that it spouted ice cold Pinot Grigio when I squeezed my nipple. If I could get away with it...I would get Pinot Grigio flavored Zoloft...name my child Pinot Grigio Lacy Berube...and write a love song called You Rubbed My Pinot Grigio The Right Way.

I LOVE me some Pinot Grigio.

A couple of weeks ago, a new wine shop opened up two blocks from my house (street blocks...not avenue blocks...FUCK avenue blocks...long ass bitches...you need a goddamn Sherpa and a star map in order to navigate two avenue blocks). I love this shop because 1) it is light and airy and filled with glistening bottles of wine, and 2) it's cheap as hell. Every time I go there I leave with a magnum cum laude degree in Pinot Grigo Science for only $12. Hot damn.

Though I do have to say that whenever I walk in and the little Asian girl is working...she sees me and starts to giggle. I want to tell her...this ain't Memoirs of a Geisha bitch. Stop gigglin' at me behind your fan.

But that would be racist and wrong.

Plus, she has a good reason for laughing. One day, in a galaxy just down the street, I was picking up a bottle of vino for my girl Denisse's graduation party. New York, unlike the rest of America, doesn't give a fuck about hygiene, so there are dogs in every nook, cranny, and orifice up in this piece. So this day, there happens to be a scary lookin' werewolf German shepherd up in the store. The dog had his back to me as I walked up to the counter. Now, perhaps the dog was old and deaf or a special needs dog...but he didn't hear me walkin' up until I was about a half a foot away, and then the damn thing jumped, spun around and started pullin' a Kujo...which made me jump and scream like a little biyotch. Everyone up in that piece got a good giggle out of that.

Bitches.

Yet not even rabid Old Yeller Rabie infested Hell Dog German Shepherds can keep me from my sweet sweet pinot grigio. Which, incidentally, means "A Grape So Good That You Will Drink It and Call Jesus' Name" in Italian. It's true. Ask the Pope.

So here is to my soul mate...Pinot Grigio...you don't have a penis...but I still love you.

Tilapia a la Prima Anitra

So, today my cousin, Miss Anitra Brown, emailed me to ask me if I had any recipes for tilapia...and if I posted my recipes any place. I was SUPER flattered that she would come to me for some recipes...as I am just an amateur cook up in the kitchen. So, I sent her a tilapia recipe...it was actually my ocean perch recipe, but it is just as good with tilapia.

Check it out:


Hey Cuz:

I sometimes post my recipes to my blog, but I haven't pooled them all into one place. I thought about starting a second recipe blog...maybe I will do that.

This is how I love to cook me some tilapia.

Tilapia a la Parilla (Grilled Tilapia) con Grilled Asparagus

Tilapia Fillets
3 cloves garlic minced
1 to 3 teaspoons butter
1/4 cup diced scallions
Crushed red pepper flakes
1 lemon cut into halves
Tin foil
Salt
Pepper
3 to 4 fresh basil leaves minced

Get your grill going real nice like...if it is a charcoal grill (which is the best)...get your coals nice and toasty. If you are using a gas grill, turn the heat to medium.

Lay your tilapia on a sheet of tin foil. Sprinkle on top of the fillets your salt and pepper, lay on each piece of fish a pat of butter. Sprinkle on top of the tilapia the scallions, red pepper flakes and basil leaves. Then, squeeze your lemon all over the fish.

Place another piece of tinfoil on top of the tilapia and seal the edges by curling them up.

Place the fish in the foil on the grill and cover.

Cook on the grill for about 5-8 minutes, then open the foil, flip the fish, reseal the foil, and then grill for another 5-8 minutes until the fish is done, is flaky, but don't overcook it or it will dry out.

Grilled Asparagus Recipe

This great served with roast corn on the grill or asparagus.

If you get some of those wooden skewers, you can line up your aspargus side by side...about six to eight pieces, then, near the tip of the asparagus, insert one stick through all six to eight pieces and then insert another stick through the asparagus down near the bottom. Brush some olive oil in a thin layer over the asparagus, and lay them bad boys on the grill. Let 'em cook for a good 5-10 minutes...and then eat 'em up.


You can do the same thing with the tilapia in the oven, if you don't feel like grilling. But the charcoal is fabulous. Also, poke a few holes with a fork into the top and bottom of the foil...not too many...but enough to let the grill taste get up in there.

Love,
Bill Jr.

Rookies versus Demons

I finally figured out how to pitch a damn softball. Which, is hilarious, since I am one of the pitchers for my beloved team, the Rookies. Before yesterday, I thought I had it down. I had this habit of starting off a game throwing more balls than strikes. My old team used to call me, lovingly, one in five...meaning one strike for every five balls. Not a good average. Usually, around the second inning, I work it out so that I throw enough strikes that the opposing team can't risk not swinging. But, it was more luck and prayer than actually knowing what the hell I was doing (plus umpires that felt sorry for me out there...all alone...walkin' folks like they were in a parade).

Well, yesterday I discovered that if you actually hold on to the damn ball, firmly, and then release it...instead of letting it roll off your finger tips, the ball tends to go where the hell you want it to go.

I am a genius.

Yesterday, we played the Demons. The Demons (at least in attitude) lived up to their name. The first game was not a shining moment for our team. First of all, I was too terrified to pitch against the damn team. I chickened out right before we began, which put Scott on the pitcher's mound and me at 2nd base.

I had never played any base...let alone 2nd base...(outside of the bedroom) in my entire life. The first game was hilarious as both the umpire in the in-field and Mason, playing shortstop, coached me between almost every pitch. Mason, who I just adore, would tell me where I should throw the ball when it came to me. And come to me it did...a couple of times I did what I was supposed to do...a couple of times I sure as hell didn't. At one point, Dan made a minor error in calling time, and Mason, aka Miss Softball Rules 2009, let him know that he hadn't done it quite right..at which time the very loving “Blue” out next to me exclaimed...”See...it's a learning experience for everyone.”

Lord have mercy.

During the first game, we were the home team, which meant that we were entitled to the last at bat. By the time the 7th inning came around, it was 15-0. The Demons were shovin' their pitchforks in our collective culos.

At one point, I was on first, and Mason was the 1st base coach. He gave me the usual coaching around when to run and when to stay put and when to put my booty up in it and get on to 2nd base. Whoever was batting after me smacked the ball, and I sprinted to 2nd base...only to have the ball go foul...and I waltzed back...at which point Mason declared, "That's ok honey...they all wanted to see your ass when you run anyway."

Mason knows just what to say to make a gay's day. (David snapped a couple of shots of me bent over on base...and I can say with some pride that the lunges and squats are working their magic).

At the end of the 1st game, it was my last at bat, and I saw the pitcher beckon to the outfielders to move in closer. That, of course, pissed me off, and I whacked the ball away out into left field.

That'll show 'em.

And then, I believe it was Joe...though I can't quite remember... came to bat, whacked the ball good, and we ended the game 15-2. Someone from our team exclaimed...”Ha! So much for a shut out.”

And the Demons were pissed.

I mean come on people...you were beating our booginas into poontang dust, and you are going to get all uppity because we finally managed to score in the last inning of the game. It's only GAY softball people.

Oh yeah, that's right, more than half of their team was straight.

Well, at least we were playing gay softball. We have our token straight, Antony, but, you know, he's sensitive, so that doesn't really count.

The second game was much better. First of all, I was pitching...which was better for the infield since Mason, Dan, the Umpire, and the Lord Jesus Christ didn't have to spend half their time coaching me and the other half praying I would be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.

My first couple innings pitching sucked, then I had the revelation of which I wrote earlier, and from that point on, I believe I walked one or two people for the last six innings of the game. How about that!

My most shining moments came in the second or third inning of the second game when two line drives were hit directly to me. I snatched both of them up and managed to get them to 1st base without overthrowing it or takin' out any wildlife. My team, as always, was loving...and Reggie was catching and kept smiling even when I was throwing balls directly at the damn batters.

But, even more impressive than my bachata-ing while pitching, was the fact that we were giving just as damn good as the Demons. They were the 1st place team, and for almost the entire game we were never more than one or two points behind them. Going into our last at bat, we were three runs down and, thanks to some crazy shennanigans by Dan aka Speed Racer and Mason aka Mama's Boy...we scored two runs. The Demons looked mighty mighty pissed.

I repeat...it's only gay softball.

The day had some amazing plays, particularly by our returning Rookie Tom Ward...who kept running with Mason basically waving a stop sign in his face....just missed being tagged out...and politely hopped onto home plate. He scored...and I had to use the defibrillator on Mason.

Did I mention that I also caused several team members a minor heart palpitation when my third base coach waved me in...and I kept right on running...almost right into the catcher...who was holding the damn ball. I made it back to third, but I think I permanently damaged one of Scott's aorta.

In the end, we lost the second game 8-7, but we had a good time...and with only 10 people actually showing up to play....a bitch was real tired by the time we left.

Much love to Rich aka Pom-Pom McCooties and David aka Tight Booty Berube for cheering us on...and much love to the boys for the ride back into the city.

PS Steve Bowman also made some power plays...and once revealed his mean face over the Demons anti-social autistic antics...I love Steve.

An Open Letter to the GOP

Dear Grand Old Party:

You suck.

I don't mean in that gloryhole, backalley, 1970s pre-condom porn kind of sucking. I am talking about that drippy cheesy uncut leporitic yeast infected dick head kind of way.

Let me explain.

You are a party run by complete tit jobs that can't keep it in their pants or their ass in the country. Let's start with Governor Sanford. What the fuck? Let's see...if my Mom in her glorious job at Target at the Miller Hill Mall in Duluth, Minnesota, were to up and skip town, not tell anyone (including her bosses...in Sanford's case the people of the state of South Carolina) where she were going, they would bounce her ass from that job so fast she would leave skid marks on the surface of Lake Superior. Yet, jacktard adulterous over privileged white ass Governor Sanford chokes out a well acted out "I'm sorry," admits to having had NUMEROUS affairs, and then goes right on being governor.

White privilege is amazing. Republican White Privilege is fucking astounding.

Next, let's talk about Rush Limbaugh's Oxycontin addicted ass. This monkey bitch motherfucker gets up on the airwaves, spouting neo-Nazi regressive rhetoric, basically hates everyone that isn't fat, white, male, straight and more Conservative than Queen Victoria, and you all tremble in your soulless boots whenever he passes gas. Take this as a loving suggestion, when I say to you, GOP, that it's time to let your balls drop into your nut sac and let Rush know that if he SITS on his microphone instead of vomiting into it, he may find more satisfaction in this life.

Who should we talk about next? Let's see...Mitch McConnell can basically kiss my rosy black ass...I bet if you check his closet, you will find a white suit or two with a nice white pointy hood that goes remarkably well with the rest of the ensemble. Trent Lott showed his true colors when wishing Dixiecrat Strom Thurmond a happy 181st birthday, and Strom Thurmond (God help his soul, cuz you know he is in a place hotter than his black maid's coochie), was advocating for the segregation, subjugation, separation, and denigration of black folks all the while fucking his maid and paying for the upkeep of his mixed race daughter. Hmmmm integrity is a word that the GOP should look up in the dictionary. Then eat the page it was written...it's the only damn way any of you will get integrity into your systems.

And, of course, the coup de grace, George W. Bush. I will say that at least George H.W. Bush, asshole of a conservative that he was, at least had a well articulated philsopohy behind his regressive madness. His inept C minus son that snorted and drank his way through college and then pissed his way through his Presidency managed to single handedly wreck more havoc on the United States than any other president in the entire country's history. The Civil War did less damage to the fabric of U.S. society and created fewer long term causalities than George W. Bush's eight years in office mauling the country and sucking it spiritually, emotionally, and financially dry has done or will do. Somebody call the Nuremberg Trials back into session. Break out the rope. You missed one.

In this country, there are good and well meaning Republicans. But, as long as those Republicans continue to trade their financial security for their ethical beliefs...they are as culpable for the actions of the most idiotic and regressive of their party as if they were mouth shitting into a microphone or gutting social services or taking bribes themselves.

So, GOP, take a page from Sarah Palin's play book...know that your idiocy has led you to a place of consummate ineffectualness...resign...quit...cut and run...get the fuck out. You are so through.

Love,
Brandon

Patience is a Virtue I Never Got

I have decided to write a series of blogs on life's various virtues. I figured I would begin with the virtue of which I have none: Patience.

Other than having immense control over when I ejaculate, I have little other patience in my life. I am a firm believer that instant gratification should be faster than instant. There are times when waiting for a web page to load on my computer that I am possessed by an insane rage and desire to punch my fist through the screen, should it take longer than I believe is appropriate. (I once upon a time had a 2400 baud dial up modem...it is a wonder that I made it through high school without poppin' a vein in my skull).

It is more likely, in any given situation, that Perez Hilton and Will.i.am would give each other blow jobs than I am to be overly patient.

Actually...let me clarify...Perez would totally blow Will.i.am, and, in the right circumstances, I can be patient.

Take, for example, my current living situation. Yesterday, the "roommate" declared that he isn't moving out. When I made it clear that I was resentful and angry that not only was he breaking his word but also that since he hadn't paid full rent in, perhaps, years...I was particularly upset that I was being forced to pay to subsidize the living situation of a man that I loathe. I spoke calmly and clearly. I made it clear that there was a direct connection between my feelings of disgust for the man and the fact that he is not only comfortably but eagerly and consciously taking advantage of both David and I, lying to the state to get welfare benefits, and a destructive force in our home and in our lives (did I mention that he snuck and registered the dog that he and David got TOGETHER with the state...under his name...did I also mention that David has paid for the dogs food, care, and vet bills...oh yeah...except the $300+ vet bill from last month...which I paid).

But I am patient. You see...in this situation...one where an individual is most blatantly and clearly committing an injustice, is blissfully ok with his behavior, and is unwilling to see how it is fundamentally wrong...it can only turn out one way. And my sweet love David, in order to help remind us of this fact, did something wonderful yesterday. David put up, all over the house, great little cards that I got from my best friend RJ. Each card has a picture of a lotus blossom and the words "Nam-myoho-renge-kyo," on it. That means, "I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect as expressed through sound." Today, the roommate came in and asked me what the cards where and what they meant. I was MORE than happy to translate for him.

You see I believe in karma. Science believes in karma. There is a scientific law that says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction (Newton's Third Law). It is the rule that guides everything in our universe. In terms of human actions: what one puts out one gets back.

I am sure that this situation is one where I am fulfilling a cosmic debt that I owe. But, acting with integrity and (key word) patience, I know that everything will work out not only right but also justly in the end. I feel sorry and pity for the man that knowingly and willingly, without regard for anyone else, commits unjust acts against others while claiming to desire friendship. I have a deep sadness that my partner is being torn apart by this other persons behavior and by the fact that for perhaps the first time, he will be unable to remain friends with someone he once loved...especially after 10 years with that person. But I know, in the end, it will be as the good book says..."Ye shall reap what ye sow."

And he has sown a shit storm in a land mine covered in Agent Orange and napalm. Pay back is a bitch. I have the patience to wait for that.

One Liner of the Week Award: Vikki Reich

By 9am this morning, a film of sweat had already broken out on my forehead. It ain't right that it should be this damn hot this damn early.

So, I posted a Facebook status making reference to the sweat box in which I find myself.

And that's when it happened, Miss Vikki Reich (www.twitter.com/uppoppedafox)let loose with the One Liner of the Week when she said, "Air conditioning is one of the few factors that motivate me to go to work."

Congratulations Vikki on your One Liner of the Week Award. You join a long line of smart asses and cut ups that have been so honored. I salute you. *curtsey*

Michael Jackson Would Have Stapled His Eyeball to Get Out of The Staples Center

In my own twisted fantasy world...Beyonce Knowles would have started off the Michael Jackson memorial. She would have taken the stage in a low cut, yet tasteful, black Vera Wang number. With tears glistening in her eyes, just on the edge of falling, she would have looked down at Michael's casket and sang:

"To the left, to the left, Michael Jackson's body is in the box to the left."

I know. There is something terribly warped about my mind. I think my Mother smoked and drank while she was pregnant, and I know my Daddy's sperm were drunk and high when they accidentally bumped into my Mother's ova and conceived me.

That was the cheesiest fucking memorial service that I have ever seen in my entire life.

Now, I will say...the opening number of "Soon and Very Soon," was very tasteful. It was a beautiful rendition of a song that I grew up singing at Calvary Baptist Church in Duluth, Minnesota. But the intervening grand standing and sermonizing about made me teleport to the Staples Center, dressed as Linda Blair from the Exorcist, and, as Mariah Carey squawked her way through her duet, shouted, "YOUR MOTHER SUCKS COCKS IN HELL," and then projectile vomited directly into her open mouth.

And don't get me started on Brooke Shields crazy ass. First of all, I was like..."What the hell is Maria Shriver doing speaking at Michael Jackson's funeral?" Then I thought...damn...Lisa Marie has had work done to make her look like Maria Shriver. And finally, after reading my friend Ebony's facebook page, I realized it was Brooke Shields lookin' like Lisa Marie lookin' like Maria Shriver...and I was over it.

Now I love Michael Jackson more than your average bear. I paid him and his influence on my childhood (have you seen it?) in a post in this very blog. But Lord Have Mercy...the over the top dramatics by people that were less concerned about sending Michael off right and more concerned with the fact that at least 3 billion people would see their crazy asses during the side show extravaganza was enough to send me into a fit of inappropriate Facebook status posts.

(The best of which was "Brandon Lacy is Talkin' to the Man in the Coffin...I'm asking what happened to his Face! No message could have been any clearer...if you get plastic surgery and look like an alien you done made a crazy change!")

Wrong? Perhaps. Funny. You bet your plastic surgeon's stock of silicon it was.

And don't get me started on that whack ass rendition of "We Are the World." First of all, save for Michael Jackson, most of the rest of the artists that sang the damn song are still alive, half of them were there, and they couldn't get even one of their asses up on stage to sing the song? Shit. Lionel Richie was ON stage, and he didn't chime in until somewhere in the chorus. It was the most bootleg version of that song I have ever heard. That little Korean girl on YouTube that sings Michael Jackson songs and memorizes them phonetically would have done a better job than Bubbles the Chimp's retarded cousins that got up there and hacked it apart.

But I will admit I did cry at the end.

When his brother got up there and let the entire globe have it for havin' the nerve to talk shit about how strange and wierd Michael was while, at the same time, making the man live under so much scrutiny until he got so fed up that he moved to the Middle East and started wearing a burqa, I clapped. When little Paris Michael got up there and said she loved her Daddy and missed him, I was a big old crying mess in the kitchen.

And, for the record, I believe that little girl is actually biologically his. I got a niece that is mixed and has the same skin color. Plus, I heard she is the only one that can sing and dance. I bet she came out the womb with a sparkle glove and a zipper jacket. She didn't cry when they slapped her on the ass, she said, "Heeee heeee...OW!"

Michael is on his way to his dirt nap. The man is probably in Heaven right now thinking he should have possessed his own corpse, crawled up out the coffin, done the Thriller dance, flipped Latoya the bird, and moonwalked the fuck up out of the Staples Center.

Rest in peace Michael. These fools done turned your funeral into the biggest PR bonanza in the history of the Earth.

Beyonce Ain't Got Nuttin' On Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo

Today I heard a music most most beautiful.

Forgive me if I wax on the poetic side and get a bit dime store novelish, but damn...I had an experience today that totally blew my mind.

So, for the last three months I have been practicing Nichiren Buddhism. As I, an obvious neophyte, understand it...Nichiren Buddhism is a school of Buddhist thought that has peace and justice as core values, teaches that enlightenment can be reached in a single lifetime, that all people are welcome regardless of who they are or from whence they come, and that the essence of the law is encapsulated in the title of the Lotus Sutra, the last sutra espoused by Shakyamunia aka “The Buddha,” which is Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo means “I dedicate myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect as expressed through sound.”

And what a helluva sound it is.

Today, David and I went to gongyo (prayer service), which begins with a fast-as-lightning recitation of a portion of the Lotus Sutra. I had the words spelled out for me phonetically, and though I tried my damnedest to keep up I felt like a white boy from Connecticut dropped in the middle of a Puerto Rican family fight. It was not cute. The service continues with a constant chanting of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo...which I have down just fine. Hell, I've had that down since the first time I saw Tina Turner's biography “What's Love Got to Do with It.” I am still clapping from the scene when she beats the hell out of Ike with that boot.

My name is Tina Turner. I have 35 cents, if you give me a room, I swear I will pay you back.

Sorry...I had a Negro moment.

Anyway, so today, David and I were chanting, and the room was filled with the polyglot poly-hued Rainbow Coalition youth to elder congregation that is the Sokka Gokkai International. Black folks, white folks, Asian folks, Latin@s, queers, and Jews...I have never been to a more diverse, in all senses of the word, room.

About 10 minutes into the chanting, with a very loud and very enthusiastic Japanese girl sitting next to me...basically shouting instead of chanting (love ain't had nothing to do with that mess)...when the most intense thing happened.

The chanting, quite literally, stopped sounding like a group of folks on meth trying to shout Japanese phonetically at the top of their lungs, to an amazing and God-touched choir. In dead seriousness, I grew up in the church...and I grew up with a church choir that makes Kirk Franklin and the Family sound like Ma Jones and the Little Rascals. I have written before that I experience God through music and that my most divine experiences have come during musical experiences, and today...my prayers...my chanting...mixing with the chanting of the other folks in the room took on, truly, a symphonic choral sound.

I am not lying or exaggerating when I say there was a tremendous harmony, baritones, tenors, sopranos, altos, all mixing together...weaving together...without a director, without practice, and without prompting. I have never experienced that before during gongyo, but to experience it today was breathtaking.

The beautiful thing about Buddhism, particularly Nichiren Buddhism, is that it is a religion without a dogma that welcomes all faith paths. In order to be a Nichiren Buddhist and a member of Sokka Gokkai, I don't have to give up my love of Jesus. The fact that through worshiping the Divine in this way and the Divine as it manifests in all creatures takes nothing away from my belief in the mercy, grace, and love of Christ is a true blessing.

And the fact that I came to this understanding, through the gift of music...the only way that I have ever experienced the immediate presence of the Creator, tells me that I have found the right place and a spiritual home.

I Would Lift It If I Could

I love my partner more deeply and more profoundly than I ever anticipated. In truth, though my love is flawed as are all works of human beings, I have pushed myself above and beyond my own preconceived boundaries in order to match the love and care, respect and kindness, patience and understanding that he has shown me.

Right now, I can see him struggling. A moment ago, I was standing in his Mother's kitchen, I could see his back, framed by the window above the sink, and I was struck with how simply I am in love with him. I love the way his back, in a goldenrod tank top, narrowed to his tiny waist. I love the soft hair that fades down the back of his head until disappearing in a smooth line on his neck. I love his elf-like ears and the set of his spine. And on top of all that I can see on his shoulders the weight of his previous relationship.

As David and I have made our way towards a sustaining and healthy relationship, we have had to deal with the realities of life. Life dictated that he and I moved in together a bit earlier than we had anticipated. Due to the termination of my employment with the Center for Media Justice, David and I made the decision that I should move to New York at the end of March instead of June. The difficulty with that is David's ex partner.

I have written about this individual before. I have talked about the ways his pain has impacted our relationship. I have written about my anger and frustration, my compassion, and the end of my patience. He is the single most divisive and hurtful aspect of our relationship, which is a bit unfortunate. He is a hurting individual that is using his personal pain to heap guilt onto my partner and hateful feelings on to me. And David, caught between loving me and the residual feelings of obligations that he has towards his ex, finds himself lodged between a recent past that was fulfilling and hurtful and a future that, as far as we can tell, promises much of what he has hoped his life would be.

I have some experience with carrying the burdens of the past around. The past is a heavy anchor that drags along the seabed no matter how strongly the winds of fortune are blowing your way. The world can be sending you gale force love and luck, and, yet, a past anchor, caught on the sea floor, will slow, though not halt, your progression forward.

Recently, we had reached an agreement with our roommate that he would move on with his life at the end of July. He would vacate our space, and we would truly move on to the next phase of our relationship. A couple of days ago, he attempted to declare that he wasn't going anywhere. We took appropriate first steps to assure him that he would be.

Of course the response was far from adult, matched previous behavior, and descended into an old pattern of vilification of me and guilt tripping of David.

Nothing about this situation has been simple. Little has been pleasant. And it has been my personal challenge not to lose sight of this man's humanity. I haven't always been successful, but I have never been malicious, I have never been inflexible, and I have never been unreasonable.

But the time has come for justice to happen. If David and I are to have a peaceful place in which to move forward, we need a peaceful place in which to do it.

I have done what I can do in the situation. I have swallowed what I can swallow, and I have tolerated what I can tolerate. Last week, I almost reached a point of relapse, which, for me, signaled I had reached my mental and spiritual capacity to continue in the current living situation.

And, ultimately, I know the true closure of this piece of David's life is David's to do.

But when you love someone, you want to lift anything you can lift, carry anything you can carry, and bear anything you can bear. David has articulated to me that he craves peace, that he wants peace, love, and joy. Yet, the singal greatest source (other than my occasional craziness) of his consternation comes from a source outside of us. And, because of the key player in the madness, it is all set to get uglier before it will get better.

In many ways, David and I are very similar. But, in some significant ways, we are different. When I am hurting or struggling or in pain, I reach out. I turn to my friends and my family. I post all my business on my blog. I talk about what's going on and what I am feeling. I am a true extrovert.

My love is not.

And for someone such as myself that has a constant craving to know everything that is going on...letting him have his space to center, process, and strategize is tough.

I want to fix this for him. I want to make this better. I want to make it smooth and seamless. But, God has granted me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. I cannot change the reality of our living situation. I cannot change the behavior of his ex partner. I cannot betray what I know is right and just and allow myself to be treated inhumanely and with rabid animosity without addressing it. I cannot stop loving David. I cannot confront his ex for him. I cannot set boundaries between David and his ex. I cannot force his ex to respect the agreements he has made.

But I have the wisdom to know that none of this is permanent, that David loves me, that I love David and that karma is a bitch. For a long time I have backed down, walked away, or been walked over because I was either too young, too scared, or too lacking in self confidence to stand up for myself. Those days are gone. And though I can't stand up for David. I can stand beside him, lending him strength of love and spirit to do what it is that he decides is right for him, and for us, to do.

Everyday Heroes: Pookie

In 2003, I was standing outside of my four-plex on 15th Avenue South, right on Powderhorn Park, in Minneapolis. It was the first Sunday in May, which in my neighborhood meant one thing: MAY DAY PARADE!

The May Day Parade in Minneapolis is no joke. What started as a small gathering of local hippie types has turned into the largest neighborhood festival in the Twin Cities. Fifty thousand individuals gather to watch a spectacular event that celebrates labor rights and the return of Spring. Life size and larger than life puppets, created by In the Heart of the Beast Mask and Puppet Theater, wander through the South Side and entered the park directly across the street from my former residence.

On this particular May Day, Lindsay Selvig, a former friend and colleague of mine waltzed over and introduced me to her girlfriend: Andrea Nordick. Little did I know that Andrea aka Pookie would become one of my best friends. Lindsay and Andrea broke up shortly after I met Andrea (from hence she shall be referred to as Pookie). The summer after their break up, Pookie and I became reacquainted as volunteers for a summer youth leadership social justice program of the Unitarian Church. Pookie, my pal Gunnar, and I were adult allies that provided mentorship to the program run by my junior high school (now former) chum Quiana Perkins (is it a coincidence that my two former friends Lindsay and Quiana are now bosom buddies...me thinks not). Anyway, that summer I discovered that Lindsay's portrayal of Pookie was actually a project of Lindsay's nutso crazytown behavior on Pookie. To be real, my love Pookie has her own struggles...but in a crazy contest between Lindsay and Pookie...Lindsay would end up in a dark padded cell, in a dirty straight jacket, licking the backs of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches while Pookie would get off with some light therapy.

Not long after that summer, I received an email from Pookie about a job opening at the Girl Scout Council of Greater Minneapolis. At the time, I was stil working with Lindsay at YouthLink, Minnesota's largest service agency for homeless youth. I applied for the gig at the Girl Scouts, and a few months later I was switching offices from downtown Minneapolis to Sabathani Community Center.

Pookie and I started having lunch a few times a week at Quang's (best Vietnamese EVER), and that lunch time relationship morphed into a powerful friendship. There is nothing that Meatballs over rubbery rice noodles and bun (pronounced BOON) with beef and fried tofu can't handle.

Since the fall of 2004, Pookie and I have supported each other through many a hard time. We have laughed together, cried together, and she even hid cereal from me. Pookie is now a brilliant lawyer, continues to be a brilliant friend, and, though she is a major worry wart and an OCD clean freak (beware of FRANKY)...I love her tons and tons and tons and tons and tons.

She is one of my everyday heroes.

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.

All is Well

Sometimes life sends you test situations, like the one in which I find myself now. The test is not a knowledge test. There isn't a correct answer. If you get it right, you don't get preferred entrance into Harvard. The test is how you comport yourself as you try to come to an understanding and solution to the task or situation at hand, and the prize is a better and deeper understanding of yourself, the things you need to learn, and the ways you have or have not grown.

I was always very good at taking tests. I had some pretty amazing scores on the ACT and the SAT. Sometimes, I wish I could replace these life tests with one of those. I thought they were stressful, but Lord in Heaven they were Cheeze Whiz on a cracker...nasty...but definitely swallowable on a dare.

The cool thing about life tests is that you don't have to take them alone. Over the years, as I have written and blogged, folks have written to me thanking me, yelling at me, or laughing at or with me. But one thing that has always come across is that folks, whether they agree or disagree with my point of view, have expressed that they had perhaps gone through similar experiences, never would have written publicly about them, and were grateful that I had done so.

In addition to wanting folks I care about to know what is going on in Crazyland aka My Head, I also want to share snapshots of my life story in the hopes that it will connect with either the funny bone or a serious moment that someone else has had or is having. One lesson I have learned good and well is that no matter how alone you feel, no matter how isolated you feel, you are never alone. Your Guiding Power is always with you, and though that is less comfort for some than it is for others, unless you are locked in a cage on a mountain in Tibet, you probably are surrounded by people that care about you, care what happens to you, and are there to support you and send you the love and light you need to pass the test at hand.

I know I have those people, and their love is bright and shining and glorious, and I appreciate all of them. From old friends with whom I am practicing an active spiritual path to a new friend that sent a text asking if he could stop by with some rice and beans, I have been blessed with numerous angels in my life.

Some of ya'll have touched base wanting to know if I am ok. I am actually doing just fine. I got my man. I got my health. I just got a paycheck. I got my God. I got clothes and food. And, as of today, I got my health insurance, which means I got a therapist that don't know about me yet.

All is well.

P.S. I almost had to kill me a homosexual at the gym today, though. So, all may not be well with him in the near future. Lord have mercy. Check back for that blog later tonight.