L'Chaim!

About three years ago, I was living in Albuquerque and getting ready to make the transition back to Minneapolis. I had been an active board member of the Headwaters Foundation for Justice—a kick ass organization that funds cutting edge community organizing work in Minnesota and Wisconsin—before I left for New Mexico. So, in preparation for my return to Minnesota, I started kicking up my activity level with Headwaters again and flew home in March 2006 to participate in a strategic planning retreat.

On the night before the last day of the retreat, I had a dream. In my dream I was conversing with a rabbi in Hebrew. I was fairly certain that what I was speaking was in fact really Hebrew. Which is odd considering I know approximately two words in Hebrew that are not actually the names of High Holy Days or other Jewish festivals. Too much beyond shalom and l’chaim and you might as well be speaking Old Norse (which, incidentally, you can learn and earn a PhD in at the University of Minnesota…the only university in the nation to award a doctorate in that area).

The next morning, I was at the retreat, and the facilitators decided to close the day by asking folks to talk about something interesting that had happened the previous evening. So, when it got to me, I shared the story about my dream.

We closed out the circle and the meeting officially ended. No sooner had the last thank you been said than the four or five Jews in the room made a direct beeline for me. One woman, who I completely adore (Barb Weiner), told me a story about her Father, who, as he was in the hospital dying, spoke to his family in Hebrew…a language he had never learned. Another woman told a similar story…and they all agreed that I must have Jewish ancestry (which I do) and that I was probably making a connection with a former life or an ancestor.

At the time I had also been considering a conversion to Judaism. Judaic philosophy, specifically tikkun olam—or the directive to all Jews to heal the world of its wounds and ills—is something that resonates deeply with me. My Jewish Mother, mentor, and friend Beth Zemsky approached me that day and asked me if I was still considering conversion. For the last three years, I have been in perfect balance between my love of Jesus and his teachings and the understanding that of all the world’s religions…Judaism is the one that resonates most closely with my personal life philosophy.

So I have been going to Buddhist chanting (gongyo)…that seemed like a happy middle ground. I can keep Jesus and still incorporate a more social justice focused philosophy of being as evinced by Nichiren Buddhism.

Of course just as I get comfortable with where I am at with my faith...I have another damn dream.

This time, I found myself at a Shabbat celebration. The cantor was singing in Hebrew and the congregants were reciting the Shema. Again, I am absolutely convinced that, in my dream, the Shema that was being recited was, in fact, the Shema. The difference in this dream was that I was a Jew who didn’t understand Hebrew and could not recite the Shema.

Talk about being rejected.

The other Jews around me in my dream were smiling encouragingly. When I finally couldn’t take it and bolted for the temple door, folks eagerly encouraged me to come back. Everyone I met on the street was wearing a yarmulke…the men’s were black and the women’s where white (I have no idea the significance of this other than I believe in my dream I thought that the women wearing white yarmulkes were married—which is consistent with conservative Catholic women that wear white veils in church if they are married and black if they are widowed).

I believe in signs, portents, spirits and that God speaks directly to each person all the time. But, if he is trying to tell me something…I wish he would send me a note or something. Maybe a letter or a post card…but sending me dreams in Hebrew is just plain crazy making.

In the end, I am not sure how to take the dream or what the spirits and my subconscious are trying to tell me. Perhaps it was another past life flashback or maybe it was a foretelling of what is to come. If only there were a way to reconcile my love of Jesus, my love of Judaism, and my new found respect for Nichiren Buddhism without resorting to creating a new faith or becoming B’hai. I am denominationally schizophrenic enough—having grown up Lutheran, Baptist, and Catholic—adding an entire other faith path to the mix outside of the Judeo-Christian tradition is more than I can take. What a shtunk!

(P.S. I grew up with that picture of black Jesus on the wall of our house alongside the traditional picture of white Jesus. I used to feel badly because I thought black Jesus was hot...I would totally do him!)

I Hate Perez Hilton

I pretty much hate Perez Hilton. Well, hate may be a strong word, but I hate the entire concept of celebrity spokes people that are spokespeople for an entire community based on...well...their celebrity.

Yesterday, I was in the midst of my daily combination of cardio torture and CNN, when Miss California took the stage. It was like watching a toddler pulling a giant booger out of his nose. You watch in horror as the juicy, green, jiggling gelatinous mass makes its way from the kids nostril slowly into the child's mouth, where he slowly chews the mucus gum before swallowing. You know it is a hideous and disgusting habit, but you can't turn away even as your face tries to pull away from its bones and your stomach begins to roil. That is the exact look that CNN Newsroom anchor Tony Harris had on his face when, after a few minutes, he cut back to the newsroom saying, “I think that is quite enough of that.”

I couldn't agree more...except....EXCEPT...Perez Hilton's crazy ass was on CNN last night pushing again for Miss California to respond further regarding her comments regarding gay marriage. Listen up Perez...the woman is against gay marriage. She didn't get crowned Miss America. She almost lost her Miss California crown. She only continues to have importance because YOU-- a jumped up member of the paparazzi-- continue to give her importance. She is vacuous flesh bag that is entitled to her opinion, no matter how wrong it may be, but by continuing to bring her into the public spotlight you take valuable air time from shit that really matters. As a matter of fact, I would rather watch a video of the kid eating the booger on infinite loop on every channel on the planet than see Perez Hilton's face on ANY news source from CNN to TMZ ever again.

.
If you think I am resentful, you should have seen the look on Tony Harris' face.

Basically, this is why I am not pleased: once again a quasi intelligent human being with a talent (his happens to be semi-witty commentary on tinsel town glitterati) has somehow been catapulted into a position where he is the face of a movement. I have never seen Perez Hilton in a room wondering how to get young people to a lobby day or making sandwiches to pack for a cross country bus trip to the U.S. Social Forum. I have never seen him on the streets or in a room of organizers wondering how to best respond to the latest murder of a trans person. He has no credibility with the community yet, by virtue of sucking dick and a good publicist, he is all of a sudden supposed to represent our community? Who the hell vetted him? Cher?

(My apologies to Cher. I actually love you, and I would be proud to have you represent me in Congress.)

This actually smells like something Karl Rove cooked up. I am going to look into that.

And, really, if the media needed a celebrity spokesperson to bring issues of importance of the queer community into a public conversation...why oh why couldn't they have gone with Wanda Sykes. There is a woman who is actually funny, politically savvy, has a deep grasp of current events, and understands and TALKS about the intersection of race, poverty, and sexuality. Oh wait...I know why...she's black. And, she's a she. Curses...foiled by sexism and racism again! .

Tell you what...Perez Hilton can do the White House Correspondents dinner next year. Put his ass in front of people who actually know something about some shit...let him make a fool out of himself...and then banish him back to his blog and to judging the occasional beauty pageant. BUT, put one of those dog shock collars with a satellite tracer on him...so if he even THINKS about talking about queer politics...we can push a button and buzz his ass on the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro if need be.

Actually, Perez, I don't hate you. I just hate what you do. I hate that our system is set up so that those that are actually fighting the good fight and have a broad based analysis of how this nation and this world really works and have thought strategically about how to change it for the better (deep breath....continue please) are the ones that can't get the local cable access station to cover an event. But a pastel gay boy with no particular analysis of social change can manage to get a CNN anchor to grimace with disgust but still cover his unsavvy and unstrategic ramblings. You are not helping anyone, and you are providing credibility to the inanities of a dumb ass blond that never would have had a forum if not for you.

(P.S. I understand that Perez is Cuban...as a white Cuban aka a person of color with white skin privilege he has an even GREATER responsibility to use his celebrity responsibly and in the service of justice...instead of just milking his access and his ability to pass in order to self-aggrandize and make a buck)

See Charlie Vázquez as Spittles the Clown @ Dixon Place and Brandon Lacy Campos reads at Double Pride Panic! @ Nowhere Bar

For my readers in the New York area. I got this today from my new pal and fellow artist Charlie Vázquez. Charlie's bio is included in this press release...but know that he is a talented writer and ya'll need to check him out and support his work. Also, there is info on my Pride reading, which is part of Charlie's Panic! series.

PRESS RELEASE FOR “LIPS LIKE MY SUGAR WALLS”

GUEST CURATOR: Edwin Ramoran

LIPS LIKE MY SUGAR WALLS promises an evening of world premieres by emerging artists working in New York City. As a curatorial concept “Lips Like My Sugar Walls” acknowledges the primacy of our outer layers, lips, foreskin, culo, mandala, epidermis, and labia. They propel us. We use them in so many ways. We spit, suck, sing, slurp, squirt, lick, fuck, eat, blow, flirt, and kiss. What can a post-punk, Prince-influenced mash up look, feel, sound, taste, smell like? Does it hurt, love, fear, accept? This performance showcase brings together a raw, innovative mix of New York artists. All are contemporary artists who use interdisciplinary practices to produce performative works in video, poetry, photography, and song.

The world premiere of Ivan Monforte’s short video "Tres Veces" reveals the artist and three other men in a racy interpretation of Paquita La Del Barrio’s ranchero song of revenge “Tres veces te engañé.” For the first time, Jayson Keeling collaborates on a slide show and text performance with the punk antics of Alison Ward and her rock group The Ruffian Arms. Bringing the immediacy of the edgy East Village scene, performance artists Karen Jaime and Charlie Vázquez, both dynamic writers and spoken word poets who recently performed for Hispanic PANIC! at the queer bar Nowhere, will deliver new works, including a rare performance by Vázquez as "Spittles the Clown", a fetish, sex worker. Designer Imposter (aka Ramdasha Bikceem), known on the queer club circuit for her fierce mix of dance music at parties like Pantyho’s, will perform new original songs. Rachel Mason and Mark Golamco, who have worked together since 2003, will play a set of their experimental, collaborative music with viola accompaniment.
Info and tix at: www.dixonplace.org

ARTIST BIO & STATEMENT
Charlie Vázquez (Spittles the Clown)

Charlie Vázquez is a radical Bronx-bred, Brooklyn-based writer of Cuban and Puerto Rican descent. His fiction and essays have been published in anthologies such as Queer and Catholic (Taylor & Francis 2007) and Best Gay Love Stories: NYC (Alyson 2006). His fiction, articles and interviews have also appeared in print and online publications such as The Advocate, Chelsea Clinton News, NYpress.com, Tanglefoot, Dreck, BigFib and Mensbook Journal. Charlie hosts a monthly reading series called PANIC! at Nowhere in the East Village, which focuses on queer fiction and poetry. He also reviews books for the online LGBT Latino culture magazine Ambiente. He’s a former contributor to the Village Voice’s Naked City blog, a retired experimental musician and photographer, and has worked as an assistant to avant-garde diva Diamanda Galás. http://www.firekingpress.com/

“Spittles the Clown began as a character in a novella I began writing shortly after 9/11 and self-published in 2007. On the page, Spittles began his career as a children’s clown. When his gay friend (Spittles is straight!) Mark tells him about the gay leather fetish underground, Spittles becomes a fixture at fetish and leather parties, where he makes a better living than he did as a children’s clown. In reality, I dressed up like Spittles and hosted a successful fetish party in Portland, OR, where I lived at the time. I would spank people for charity dollars, and other things your mom shouldn’t know. But truthfully, Spittles is a vessel of freeform humor and adult entertainment in an age of PC strictures. Despite his coarseness, there’s a nice guy deep down inside, one who wants people to lose their irrational fear of clowns, their fear of shamans. Spittles is a cosmic hustler. For this special Dixon Place event, I will inform the audience on his desperate genesis and rise to S/M sainthood, in a fifteen-minute spoken word performance.”

The PANIC! readings, hosted by Charlie Vázquez:

HISPANIC PANIC! @ NOWHERE
322 E 14th St (btwn 1st/2nd Aves), NYC
May 27th, 8PM sharp, 21+, FREE!
Featuring Larry La Fountain, Maegan Ortiz, Karen Jaime, Charles Rice-González and Cristina Izaguirre.

DOUBLE PRIDE PANIC! @ NOWHERE
322 E 14th St (btwn 1st/2nd Aves), NYC
June 24th, 8PM sharp, 21+ only, FREE!
Featuring Brandon Lacy Campos, Rosalind Lloyd, Ian Titus, Vincent Lofton, Claudia Narvaez-Meza and Taylor Siluwe.

My Brother Is My Keeper: A Soldier Speaks

My little brother Julius posted this as a response to my blog yesterday about PTSD and the tragedy at Camp Liberty. I love my brother. And this should be read by the entire damn world.

Hey Billy,

I'm glad you're getting the help you need to deal with your PTSD. It is indeed a known fact that PTSD doesn't just come from war. For example, a rape victim could have PTSD far worse than any soldier whose been to combat. it's just the God awful honest truth. So once again, i'm happy you're doing what you need to to help yourself.

..At first, I didn't want to admit it. when i came back from Afghanistan, I thought after a couple of months I'd be fine. I went to mental health and was told to come back. I have what they call 'survivors guilt', a form of PTSD. I did return for two sessions, but later quit. I was scared. Everyone else wasn't going, so i felt weak. I didn't wake up in cold sweats, or wake up screaming. It was more subtle than that. I didn't realize how bad I was until I went to Disneyland a month later. The fireworks started going off and I panicked. In a crowd full of happy tourists and families, I broke down and started crying. My friend grabbed me and ran me to the restroom. I'd never felt so embarrassed. I could hear the fireworks still going off. I could picture the rockets incoming. The bullets hitting all my friends except me. I felt helpless and weak.. I just wanted to die and join my brothers in arms that had fallen. I felt I didn't deserve life. Why should I get to live when so many great young men had died, some with families and unborn children they'd never see. I felt I cheated death, and I wanted to meet up with him and pay him what was owed.

I still have flashbacks every now and again. When I'm driving sometimes, I see myself on the roads of Afghanistan, keeping an eye out for IED's (Improvised Explosive Devices). I get ancy when I'm in big crowds. My finger gets itchy, I need to shoot. I yell when there's no need, I freak out when I feel something's not right. I try to get help, but I keep putting it off.

Anyway, I just wanted to say, I appreciate you brother. Sometimes I get soo angry, because I feel no one cares. The world keeps spinning. But in war, time stops. You're ripped out of society and tossed in a life or death situation. Contact with the outside world is limited. All you can do is sit and count the days. Pray America still hopes for your safety. You say prayers, hoping everyone appreciates what you do. The 1-2 meals a day, 3 if you're lucky. The hiking up the mountains with 80-120 lbs. worth of gear. Not showering for weeks even months at a time. Sweating under the Middle Eastern sun. Watching your friends die and wondering when you'll be next. Bullets flying in the middle of the night. Looking out for Taliban trying to sneak into your base. Rockets and mortars hitting where you live. Taliban toying with you with harassing gun fire. trying to draw you out so their snipers can pick you off. Wishing, that you can make it back for 1 day to be with the one you love. The soldiers on the front lines experience this and I have not forgot. The taliban grow stronger and gain ground. It's hard for me to focus on my current course of life. If I let my guard down, my enemy will become stronger and better than me.

Take it easy Billy. I'll ttyl.

Love,
Julius

Breaking News: PTSD Tragedy in Iraq

I have written in the past about my personal struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I never fought in a war, lived in a town that was being shelled by Israel, or sat in a cafe when a suicide bomber blew out the front door. I grew up from a very young age (roughly 3 or 4) until age 13 with a very verbally and mentally abusive home environment. Though the circumstances that created the mental illness in me called PTSD are wildly different than the causes of PTSD in refugees and soldiers returning from war...the result is much the same: anxiety, depression, programmed reactions, hyperactive fight or flight instincts, and a host of secondary mental illness (that can include addiction and any number of other mental health coping mechanisms). .

Like many people who suffer from PTSD, I was initially misdiagnosed, put on the wrong pills, and continued suffering from, what was then, an undiagnosed affliction. Thankfully, five years ago, I was diagnosed correctly, given the right medicine (don't be surprised when one of my kids has the middle name Zoloft), and found a life where PTSD plays a very very very minor roll.

I wish the same could be said for the poor, tragic man that opened fire in a Camp Liberty stress clinic today and killed five of his comrades in arms.

While at the gym today, I was watching CNN, and I heard the breaking news that a solider had killed five and wounded several others. The soldier was most likely seeking help from the stress clinic. Unfortunately, help did not arrive in time. These are the stories of war that we hear too little about...the impact on the soldiers...the way that the hearts and minds of thousands and thousands are ripped apart by what they are forced to see, feel, and do.

Tomorrow, there will be people who are calling for this soldier's head. There will be some few that will advocate that he receive help. Others will simply boil it down to him pulling a trigger and the rest is filler.

I have a sister I love with all my heart and a brother who makes me so very proud.
This sister has served three tours of duty in Iraq, and this brother has served a tour of duty in Afghanistan. My little brother, who is just 21 years old, has seen and done things in this life that I can not imagine. For a time, every blog entry on his Myspace page was dedicated to a friend that had been killed in the war. My sister, who enlisted before the war started in order to pay for college, is a brilliant and beautiful woman who once wrote to me telling me about a bomb exploding near where she was sleeping. She was, at the time, also about 21.

When the story broke on CNN today, I didn't see a nameless/faceless soldier. I saw Shannon. I saw Julius. I saw my cousin Vincent. I saw my ex-boyfriend and friend Rada. I saw people that I know and love and who, except for by the grace of God, were not the solider that opened fire today. But they could have been. How easily they could have been.

Right now, I am torn between tears and ridiculous anger. George Bush and Dick Cheney are war criminals. They fabricated a cause for war and have sent hundreds of thousands into battle. They have the blood of tens of thousands on their hands. They have the weight of hundreds of thousands of wounded and damaged bodies and souls and minds on their hands. And though the justice of the land seems to be unable to reach either of them, the justice of God is waiting, and I can only pray that he shows them some of the mercy that they refused to show the people of Iraq and Afghanistan and the young men and women that they sent face their deaths, fears, and nightmares.

It is Bush's fault that this young man walked into a clinic today and pulled the trigger. The solider who opened fire should be taken into care not custody. He should be give the time, space, and quiet to heal and to face the crushing guilt that will come down on him when the full realization of what he has done hits him. He has created a jail cell around his heart and mind as a way to survive what he has already survived. He does not deserve a jail cell around his body.

It should be Dick Cheney and George W. Bush that face courts martial, and George W. Bush, the man who surpervised the most executions of any governor in modern history (and perhaps in the history of the United States) should reap what he has sown. God can be merciful, today, I can not.

My heart and sympathy goes out to the families of those slain today. The blood of your children was shed today, and it never needed to happen. It is time that this nation wake up and understand that mental illness is REAL; it is as real as a broken arm or cancer or any other physical ailment. It is time that we pass health care reform that forces parity between mental illness and phyiscal illness. It is time that we END THIS SENSELESS war. How many more soliders, civilians, militants, HUMAN BEINGS have to die before it ends? How much blood must the beast have before it is sated? How much blood has to be spilled before we, the people of the United States, demand an end. The blood is on our hands as well, and it will take a generation to wash it away.

(Here is a link to an article posted on yahoo regarding today's events in Baghdad)

Wisdom According to RuPaul: All Life is Drag

My masuclinity is in no way infringed upon or diminished by my feminity. Who I am as a man is determined by how I move through the world, the results and intentions of my actions, and the way I make misakes, learn from those mistakes, and continue growing. It has nothing to do with the fact that I have a dick and balls swinging from my crotch. From time to time and day to day my external appearance will shift, change, regress, progress, and morph based on a whole host of internal and external factors. The me you see is my drag persona of the day. Yesterday, I was in softball drag...swinging a bat, pitchin' a ball, and bonding with the lady boys. Tomorrow I could be in a suit, pitching a public policy stance to a Senate staff member, and the day after may find me in high drag with a Lady Bunny wig, four inches of eye lashes, and 32" of titties all shoved into a strappy sparkly number that I picked up from Daffys. All of those would be, if I chose, me. And, frankly, all those have been me.

Today, I was reading an article in Metro Source NY about RuPaul and RuPaul's drag race. What I thought was going to be a fluff article in a free queer rag turned out to be a frank, honest, and hilarious discussion about drag and its POWER in our community. Too often, as RuPaul points out,

...drag in general has been a scapegoat for people to say, 'See! There it is! That's why gay people can't get ahead. Look at these drag queens, they don't represent us,' Ru says. "Bitch, we ain't trying to represent you. We're just doing our thing. You're the only one concerned with us representing you..."

The article continues with a quotation from my friend and Drag Race winner Bebe Benet, "Drag comes with a lot of stereotypes. But the fact is we we're just men. We're men trying to express ourselves."

Let me be really clear to the heteronormative assimiliationist dick heads (and I really do mean dick heads as it is most often biological MEN that are saying the things to which Bebe and Ru are responding)...WITHOUT DRAG QUEENS YOUR ASSMILIATIONIST-I-JUST-WANNA-BE-LIKE-STRAIGHT-FOLKS-AND-MILK-THIS-CAPITALIST-SYSTEM-AND-OPPRESS-MY NEIGHBORS ASSES would still find yourselves being hauled out of dark, grimy dank bars by the cops and having billy clubs shoved, without lube, in your married-suburban-behinds. It was NOT white men at Stonewall that led the riots. It was not power lesbians in Armani business suits...it was black and Puerto Rican Drag Queens and trans folks, people like Sylvia Rivera, who put their lives on the line and revolted. It was boys in dresses and girls in pants and ties that took to the streets on that hot night on June 28, 1969 and threw high heeled shoes through the glass window keeping us from our freedom and liberation. You owe your right to take those RSVP cruises and dance in drug orgy circuit parties to the same people that you try to hide, shame, sweep under the rug, and ignore...except...of course...when you want a night of fun, talent, and entertainment.

Trans folks and drag queens/kings should be at the front of every Pride Parade, chair of every queer organization, and on the front page of every damn queer publication from now until we can lay down our high heels, unroll our curlers, and roller skate into Freedomland!

RuPaul summed up the role of drag in our community very well, when she said, "Drag has always reminded the culture to not take itself so seriously and that you are not your car, you are not your hair color or your religion or the friends tht you hang around...You are a spiritual being having a human experience. Don't get it twisted."

I don't have it twisted Miss Ru. I know that this body and this world is shaped by the spirit within and not what I own or even the biology I was given. Thank you to RuPaul and to Bebe Zahara Benet for reminding us of who we really are. Thank you to the drag queens that took me in when I was a baby queer escaping from classes to find community in a dimly lit night club in Asheville, NC. God rest you Jazzmine James for loving me and making me laugh and smile...I bet you have one hell of a warddrobe in Heaven and can finally do drag that includes being able to change your race on demand (that was one white girl that wanted to be a black girl in the worst way). And thank you to Sylvia (say hey to Jazz for me) and to the rest of the trans folks and drag queens that, 40 years ago, threw their shoes, took to the streets, and started a revolution that ignited an entire globe. From Australia to the Arctic Circle every queer on this planet owes ya'll...and owes you big.

Rookies vrs. Renegade

Another week has gone by, which means more softball shennanigans. For the previous two weeks, we played at Red Hook fields in Brooklyn...just past the Ikea. This week, we were at new fields on Randall's Island. For those of you kiddies that have not lived or spent oodles of time in New York, there are several islands in between Manhattan and the outer boroughs.Most folks know of Roosevelt Island...but...much to my suprise...there are three or four other islands out there.

Today we happened to be playing on Randall's Island...which...is largely covered by sports fields, a soccer arena, Cirque du Soleil, and a giant mental hospital. Fun!It's nice to know that if anyone on the team has a break with reality during a game on Randall's Island, help is just a bus stop away.

...David and I managed to get slightly lost on the way to the fields today. The fields were tucked away on one end of the island between a tributary to the East River and under the Triboro bridge (more or less). But, thanks to quick action by the team, Josh found David and I walking under a bridge and drove us to the field.

So, to summarize our games today...we got lightly spanked the first game. The second game we got our asses cut off, deep fried, sprinkled in powdered sugar, and handed back to us with a nice honey glaze.
Here's what happened.

So, to begin with, I pitched 14 innings today. I am proud to say that not only did I walk only 3 people (should have been a couple more...but the Renegades were swinging at some crappy stuff...but I thank them for their generosity). I also managed to strike out the pitcher from the other team. I often target the pitcher from the opposing team, as I feel that I should have a rivalry with that person. If this were 1765, I would have walked up to him, slapped him with my glove, and then had a duel with sabers. But, since running the opposin' teams pitcher through the heart is illegal in the state of New York, I was satisfied with when I struck him out. Of course, I walked the next batter up at bat...but we are going to focus on the positive.

I also managed to whack the ball well one time, which earned us two runs...and...at one point...I was supposed to run from 2nd to 3rd...got halfway to 3rd...turned around and ran back to 2nd...only to see Dan comin' into 2nd...at which point I ran back to 3rd...which totally freaked out the 3rd baseman from the Renegades, who was so discombobulated that he tossed the ball to 2nd...Dan was safe, I made it to 3rd, and I ultimately scored. Talk about dumb ass luck.

Of course, Her Softball Majesty, Mason Regina, First of her Name, pulled the play of the day when he caught the ball while falling down...and ended up on his rear (which we all saw later on as he was changing his pants...and...from the rest of us to you...NICE BUTTOCKS!).

Vinny did some great outfield magic, and, of course Noahngelina and "Dan not David" also pulled some magic out of their hats for us. I won't mention out loud the fact that in the first inning of the second game the Renegades went through their line up two and a half times before we got our first at bat...as if I mentioned that in my blog Reggie threatened to do unnatural things to me.

The real highlight of the day came when Mr. Big Daddy Hot Crotch came marching up the road behind our field. Our entire dugout got whiplash checking the man out. He was well over six foot, had broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard, a bubble butt, and he walked like he had a big thick juicy veiny 11" penis. I heard the anal lips of half the team smacking and clapping through their shorts.

David was the only softball spouse with us today, but he was faithful again...making sure the Icy Hot and snacks were at the ready. And he is responsible for the fabulous pictures on this blog.
I will end this posting by saying that Mason told me that I did a good job today, which is like the Pope telling you that you are a good Catholic. Thanks Mason ;-). Until next week!

Obama and Gay Marriage or Shut the Hell Up and Let the Man Run the Country

So, I have seen numerous articles lately yellin' and screamin' and lambastin' Obama for not speaking out on the subject of gay marriage. Though President Obama has made his support for civil rights clear, and though he has made mention in the past that he supports civil unions, and though every indicator shows that if the Democrats in Congress got their thumbs out of their asses and passed a repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act he would sign it, still, certain, largely privileged white middle class gays, seem to think that Obama should stop his work on the economy, health care, two wars, and poverty in order to take up arms on the gay marriage front. Get a damn life people.

Obama is doing EXACTLY the right thing by NOT raising the queer marriage issue back into the national spotlight. The Republicans used, quite effectively, the spectre of gays getting married as a successful wedge issue for...well, almost fifteen years. Clinton, bowing to pressure from the right, signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law instantly catapulting the marriage issue onto the national stage. Marriage, in general, is a state's rights issue. Obama, who, I will remind everyone, was a constitutional law professor, is being extremely savvy right now. Since he has taken office three states, and a fourth one soon, have instituted the right to marry for same sex couples. Our constitution has a little itty bitty clause in Section Four part II called the Full Faith and Credit Clause, which reads:

Full faith and credit ought to be given in each state to the public acts, records, and judicial proceedings, of every other state; and the legislature shall, by general laws, prescribe the manner in which such acts, records, and proceedings, shall be proved, and the effect which judgments, obtained in one state, shall have in another.

That means if you get married in Vermont then Minnesota must recognize that legal union. Since the U.S. Constitution requires full faith and credit, and since the U.S. constitution supercedes state constitutions, it doesn't matter if Minnesota has a constitutional amendment banning same sex unions (it doesn't actually)...once a nice quiet lesbian couple in New Hampshire decides to move to Utah...and is denied recognition of their marriage...they appeal..until they get to the highest courtin the land, and .a ruling by the Supreme Court will quickly annihilate those pesky state constitutional bans on same sex marriage. Sort of like Lawrence versus Texas. Remember that one people? With a quick little vote of the Supreme Court, anti-sodomy laws were invalidated across the country (and, ps, it was this court...with this composition...that struck down the anti-sodomy laws...all indicators are that Obama will be selecting three new justices sometime in the next few years...shift of balance of power...duh).

Of course, raising the issue of same sex marriage to the federal level again will rally the Republican base, create an INSTANT wedge issue between certain elements of people of color communities and the Democratic Party (which, of course, will split Obama's base), and it will raise again the spectre of a U.S. Constitutional ban on same sex marriage. It has been made clear that such a ban will never pass, but siphoning off precious political capital right now to fight off a re-energized Republican base and a split Democrat base on this issue will make it nigh on impossible for Obama to push the Republicans out of the way on the health care reforms we need, social security, social safety network issues, immigration and the border, and a whole host of other social justice issues that DESERVE and WARRANT immediate attention.

Obama knows that it is only a matter of time before a critical mass of U.S. states have approved queer marriage, and that, by such approval, will trigger a series of judicial events that will result in the extension of marriage rights to all queer folks in every state. At that point, the Defense of Marriage Act, if it has not been repealed, will be low hanging fruit and easily plucked off. How the hell would members of Congress justify “protecting” federal marriage rights when the Supreme Court has closed the case on the states rights side of the issue.

I am so damn frustrated with these half baked queer pundits that can't see past the ends of their own wedding rings to see the big picture. Obama is NOT standing in the way of queer marriage. He is keeping his party in check around the issue by NOT creating a situation where he has to worry about legislators turning their attention away from the issues that we NEED to address. It would be foolish, stupid, and untimely for Obama to stop what he is doing to focus on marriage when the fantastic efforts of local and state organizers are doing the work, swiftly, and with much success.

The road isn't easy towards justice, and, unfortuantely, in the system under which we labor there are times when STRATEGY dictates form (which it ALWAYS should). Folks that are running around pissed off because Obama hasn't hosted a mass queer wedding in the Rose Garden are demanding form without any strategy or strategic thought behind it.

Let's be clear: Obama is not perfect, but he is working on the bigger picture...which, right now, means getting the almost 10% of people in this country that are unemployed back to work. That means ending two wars that are draining tens of billions of dollars a month out of our economy and killing innocent soliders and innocent Iraqis and Afghanis. That means changing our health care system so that it makes sense and the 40 million uninsured in this nation have access to health care. THOSE are the issues that Obama should be focused on. THOSE are the issues that he is focused on. And the largely white gay men that are attempting to UNSTRATEGICALLY force his hand are going to do nothing but lay the groundwork for a base splitting circus that will, in the long term, hurt the queer movement and result in a retardation of the amazing work around marriage equality that has already been done.

Back off.

Brandon's Twisted Nursery Rhymes: Sotted Scotty

I am most likely going straight to Hell for writing this one. But, here it is folks...my newest Twisted Nursery Rhyme...learn your lessons from Sotted Scotty.

Sotted Scotty

Scotty was a toddler drunk
he drank vodka from his sippy cup
he kept a jar of olives
inside his huggies
he made a dry martini
which was quite yummy
he learned to stumble
before he learned to walk
slurred speech
was how he learned to talk
he got a shaker set
for his first birthday
he drove his bigwheel
into an oak tree
drinking and trike-ing
had been his habit
in a sotted rage
he killed his stuffed rabbit

Scotty was the life of every party
he made bathtub gin
in his training potty
distilled brandy
in his toy chest
his sandbox rum was the best
a reknowned sommelier by the age of three
he could compose a wine list
before he could read
he was a good Irish lad
all agreed
that when it came to the drink
he was a drunk indeed

By the age of four Scotty was a mess
he could mix a high ball
but couldn't dress
himself or even tie his shoes
what was a toddler drunk to do
he started his morning with a raging hangover
by Noon he didn't know his own Mother
by Five he was passed out on the floor
by Midnight he was demanding more
whiskey, schnapps
it didn't matter
a buzz was all he was after
rubbing alcohol would do in a pinch
cough syrup if he couldn't get it
he had three beers for an appetizer
chased it with a fuzzy navel
he could drink anyone under the table
which is where they found him
one terrible day
Poor Scotty had drank until he passed away
his little face was puckered and red
there was an empty Wild Turkey bottle under his head
he used a beer label as a blankie
had his thumb in his mouth
he was just a baby
but the drink will kill you
no matter your age
so learn a lesson from Scotty
and put the scotch away.

Brandon and David's Eyewitness News Report: Man Taken Down on 52nd Street

HOLY SHIT!

This morning, David and I were enjoying our morning coffee, eating our oatmeal, making faces at the dog...when David (who is a gay Mrs. Kravitz) was doing his morning peek-a-boo out of the studio window. We have windows that face down 10th Avenue and down 52nd Street...so we can get a clear view of any of the crazy that happens down below.

Well this morning, David declares that a man has a gun. All of a sudden cops show up from everywhere. They jump out of marked cars and unmarked cars (although I don't believe there was an unmarked undercover taxi cab this time...cuz yes...they have those in NYC...sneaky bastards). The man is about three quarters of the way down the block towards 11th avenue...all of a sudden...dude turns and runs towards the river. The cops take off after him. Not two minutes later, the guy (looked like a black guy in a black hoodie) is walking down the middle of 52nd Street waving back and forth across his body what looks like two large lead pipes. He is swinging them heavily but relatively slowly back and forth. Cops are in front of him with guns out and they are backing away from him. Cops are running up behind him hitting his arms and jumping back. Another cop car swings up and a cop bum rushes the guy, a second later there are 20+ cops piling on top of the man and weighing him to the ground.

I have no idea what led up to the man going nuts and the summoning of police, but right now, 52nd Street is blocked off from 10th to 11th, there are at least 20 police officers on the street, and they had a heck of a time getting dude up off the pavement.

Never a dull fucking day in New York City.

A bright orange ambulance pulled up after about 10 minutes, they strapped the guy down and hauled him away.

This is Brandon and David...eyewitness report...signing off.

Break the Bank(s)

I am not a lawyer. I know many lawyers, but I don't believe that you can become a lawyer by osmosis. Having said that, I am going to go ahead and give my opinion on what I call--The Bullshit Banking System of the United States of America.

I heard on CNN today Sheila Bair, FDIC chairperson, in testimony before Congress say, "A bank that is too large to fail, is a bank that is too large to exist." When the head of the agency that is responsible for making sure that your money does not up and vanish if a bank should fall apart is saying clearly that our banking system has become too bloated and too dependent on monstrous amoebas that seen to grow without end, I think perhaps someone should pay attention.

On July 2, 1890 the United States Congress passed the Sherman Anti-Trust Act. The Sherman Act was the first federal law regulating and outlawing most cartels and monopolies (though I was surprised to find out that monopolies are legal as long as the single corporation that has a monopoly came about the monopoly through above board business practices and superior products, etc). The rationale behind the law was two fold: to protect the consumer from unfair pricing AND to keep the various industry and financial systems from collapsing.

Oops.

Again, I am no lawyer. But, perhaps, if a company has grown so large (ahem Lehmann Brothers..ahem ahem AIG) that when they teeter on the brink of collapse (or collapse) the entire financial system is derailed and we are plunged into an instant recession..well...that may just be a trust issue. While neither Lehmann or AIG could be described as a "monopoly" in terms of owning a lion share of any particular industry...they did own enough of the economy that their failure has created no end of chaos, instability, and damage.

The most interesting part of the act, at least to me, is that the act puts the responsibility for keeping this sort of mayhem from happening on the shoulders of government attorneys and district courts. So, while the corporations themselves deserve a giant ass beating, in the end, the fault for not addressing the existence of these behemoths, their bloated and inflated bottom lines, and their avarice lies squarely with the federal government. Now, while Bush sure as hell accelerated the fat cat fattiness...the deregulation and enhancement of the corporate state truly started with Reagan's crazy ass. This, ladies and gentlemen is what Reaganomics gets you: an unemployment rate hovering near 10% and the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression.

Tell me again how that man is some sort of American hero and deserves anything but ridicule and having his name blackened out of our history, our popular consciousness, and off National Airport. I would like to strike and revise part of my previous comment your honor...he should not have his name erased from history...it should be remembered and vilified.

I will end my cross examination of Reagan with those comments.

The Obama administration inherited a holy mess that took 30 years to create and is going to take decades to undo. But, clearly, we need to use the tools at our disposal. The U.S. government needs to use the various anti-trust acts to break apart any financial institution that, if it should collapse, would worsen our existing crisis or create a new one. There needs to be drastic action a la the breaking apart of the Bells. And there needs to be strict legislation enacted that regulates the size of financial institutions, how they can or can not expand, and where and how they can absorb non-related business and/or take on risky assets while trying to make a quick buck.

Right about now the U.S. government aka the people...own a big old chunk of a number of the largest financial institutions in the nation. We need to use our right as a major shareholder to force the issue. It is time for Obama to make himself chairman of the board of whoever the hell resists downsizing for the good of all of us...and rip apart the companies until they are at a size and scope that is manageable and is unable to threaten the livelihoods of millions of peoples in order to meet its quest for the ever broadening bottom line that benefits 1% of the U.S. population.

Where current law comes up short around the federal governments ability to break apart these bankasauruses, Congress needs to put its 1,070 feet (435 congress members and 100 senators) up their own butts and pass the laws necessary to give Obama the tools he needs to make sure that corporate greed never again outpaces common sense or the ability of the government to arrest cancerous corporate growth before the economy metastasizes.

More Advanced Praise for "It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt"

Hey folks:

Super exciting news. Ed Bok Lee, author of the best-selling collection of poetry Real Karaoke People reviewed my manuscript for my upcoming book (and collaboration with visual artist David Berube) from Summerfolk Press: It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.

Here is what Ed had to say:

Brandon Lacy Campos is a word thief of the best and brightest kind, pilfering from “a corrupt system that must fall/If we’re ever to have liberty and justice for all.” These scathing, impassioned poems kick up stars dragged along asphalt—with outlandish sass, old-time funk, and a hot, ever-shimmying soul that could teach the stiffest otherness in anyone more than a few things about its most generous self.


--Ed Bok Lee, author of Real Karaoke People

Look for It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt in October 2009!

Brandon's Twisted Nursery Rhymes: St. Sally of the Back Alley

Yet another new Twisted Nursery Rhyme...this is the last one that I am going to post for a while. David and I are going to work on this project over the coming months. He will be illustrating the poems, and we will be working on this as our next book project...stay tuned for illustrations from the book...and look for this book on the shelves sometime in the not so distant future ;-).

Saint Sally of the Back Alley

Little Sally wasn't all there
she had a pet dragonfly that lived in her hair
A family of voles lived in her shoes
she picked her nose
and drank shampoo
she lived in a bucket
above a dry cleaner's
one eye was blue
the other a bit greener
her teeth were bucked
much browner than white
she slept during the day
and stayed up all night

She only combed her hair
every other Tuesday
she talked to herself
and responded quite promptly
she never wore panties
had a dead snake for a belt
her pubic hair was so long
it was akin to a pelt
she braided it on Monday's
and she dredded it too
she listened to reggae
while she sniffed glue
she laughed when she farted
and sniffed her own rear
she ate what she found
growing in her own ears

She always flirted
with the rats in the alley
taught salsa to roaches
the girl was quite jolly
she walked on her hands
had callouses on her knuckles
she played cards with her shadow
crazy eights and pinochle
she had an old fiddle
used cat tails for strings
composed her own operas
but the girl couldn't sing

When people saw her
they would whisper and stare
people would point
and say that girl is not all there
but though Sally was simple
and Sally was crude
Sally was happy
how about you?

Brandon'sTwisted Nursery Rhymes: The Jiggerbee

Here is the second in my new Twisted Nursery Rhymes series.

Jiggerbee

Have you ever seen a jiggerbee
Such a wonderful thing
It has purple spots
ten little legs
And four yellow wings

It sings when it flies
It waltzes too
I hear they have one at the Central Park zoo
It’s eyes are all golden
It’s tail grape and puce
It laughs instead of buzzes
It’s snout’s long and fuzzy

It huffs and puffs
As it circles the air
It lives in a nest that it builds in your hair
It wiggles and tickles
It darts all about
The jiggerbee loves to fly all around

But don’t let a jiggerbee nest in your hair
It’s not quite as sweet as it might appear
It has yellow wings
Golden eyes too
But it has a red stinger
That it will never show you
The stinger is long
The stinger is sharp
The stinger has poison
And mean little barbs
The jiggerbee hums
And waltzes too
But it does these things
Just to fool you

If you let the jiggerbee
Build a nest in your hair
I’m afraid the jiggerbee
Will lay eggs in your ear
It will stick its red stinger
Right down in your head
And once it does that
You will be terribly dead
You will twitch and shake
You will writhe and moan
And lament that the jiggerbee made your hair its home
Your eyes will pop out
Your veins all explode
And little jiggerbees will gnaw on your bones

So beware of the jiggerbee
You have been warned
Never ever let the jiggerbee
Make your hair its home

Rookies versus Barbarians (grrrr)

What do you get when you mix a high femme white girl with black girl tendencies and gay softball? NOAH!

Holy shit...this kid today was taking every pitch as if the Barbarian pitcher were throwing shade instead of a ball. She smacked that softball so hard I heard the ball scream "fuck you biyatch" as it sailed over the East River into the Lower East Side. Noah hit that ball so hard that my panties got all moist and I almost took my boxer briefs off right there and threw them at her when she hit home plate. Whew lord!

I had a mixed game today...I smacked the ball really well a couple of times...but...once...I listened to Reggie a little bit too late...and ran to third when I should have stayed on second...I was tagged out. And then, the next time I smacked the ball, I managed to pull muscles in BOTH of my quads on my way to first base. But a bitch was a safe. I got a leg cramp halfway there and ran through it. I then became close personal friends with Ben Gay. I am now, officially, my Grandmother. Did I mention that I tried to blame my tag out at third on Reggie and Miss Mason let me have it with a ferocity matched only by the late, great, Nell Carter on a cheescake.

Of course, the absolute best play of the day came when the pitcher from the opposing team was running into home. Someone from the Rookies got the ball to Clay who then tagged home plate. Clay (I originally had Dan in this blog but Scott corrected me) then stood there facing the pitcher while Mason is screaming "TAG HIM! TAG HIM!" Both Clay (not Dan/not David) and the aforementioned pitcher realized at the same time that the pitcher was not actually out. And then, the pitcher, did the fucking splits shoving his foot between Clay's legs at the same time that Clay tagged him. The pitcher was called out...and even though I am on the Rookies and cheered at the call...I secretly thought that anyone that could do a full split on demand to try and score a point should get the damn point. I am all about delivery and form.

I swear, at one point, Joe was surrounded by the spirit of Bea Arthur and snatched a ball up out of the air and then Estelle Getty appeared in the clouds and gave her blessing on our entire team.

There were some shady calls made by the ump, including a fantastic play by Dan when he tagged out the Goliath Big Girl Who Smacked the Ball To Jupiter Every At Bat (that's his native name)...but the Goliath Big Girl Who Smacked the Ball To Jupiter Every At Bat was so damn big that even though Dan totally tagged his big ass out the ump, who was on the far side of Jupiter...called him safe...even though he was not. Reggie...our fearless queer leader...could not call on his powers as commissioner as he was busy checking out an outfielder during the play. She will be punished later.

And, of course, my very own David was fiercely supportive again...taking pictures...and making snacks...and he has promised to put out tonight...which...in the end...makes him today's MVP.

Brandon's Twisted Nursery Rhymes: Shoelaces

So I am starting a new project called Twisted Nursery Rhymes inspired by Shockheaded Peter and the Tiger Lillies.

Check out the first:

Shoelaces

Tommy was Terrible everyone knew
No matter what Mother said
he would not tie his shoes
He loved how the strings would wiggle when he ran
He loved how they looped and they dipped and they fanned
Out to the sides when he jumped in the air
His Mother would warn him
Tell him to take care
That one day he would fall
And break his young neck
But Tommy was Terrible and didn’t listen one wit

He climbed over rocks
And shimmied up trees
He pulled his shoe laces right up to his knees
He tied them in loops and he tied them in knots
but bows on his feet
Were definitely out
He scoffed at his poor Mother
Said, “Oh Mother please, just look at how glorious my laces are free!”
Mother was worried
Oh my she would fret
knowing that one day
Tommy would break his poor neck
She begged and she pleaded
She ordered and pledged
To buy him chocolates and presents if he’d
Just tie those darn laces
Just lace them right up
But Tommy was Terrible
And would not listen to Mom

On one fine morning
So sunny and bright
Tommy’s Mommy tried again
But it all came to naught
Tommy ran into the yard
He climbed in his tree
He swung from the branches
Laughing with glee
Til lunch time he frolicked
His laces undone
When his sandwich was ready
His Mom called him home
Tommy raced across the yard
But before reaching the door
He tripped on his laces
Like never before
He tumbled and twirled
He bounced and he jounced
He flipped and he skipped
He was thoroughly trounced
He screamed and he pleaded
full of regret
he let out one last holler
then snap went his neck
he landed upside down
with his face right side up
poor Tommy was dead
because he didn’t lace up.

Hot Daddy Part II: Here Comes Daddy

So, since there was quite a bit of interest in the saga of Hot Daddy, I thought I would provide all you voyeurs an update.

Today, I have basically been vibrating with extra energy. I couldn't sit still. I looked like an ADHD kid that had been given a shot of meth directly to the brain. I was in the laundromat with David this morning, and if you had hooked an electrode to my skin and touched it to the circuit breaker, I could have powered the entire damn place by myself.

David was folding laundry, and I was basically using all my will power to make him fold faster...as I was afraid that I was about to physically jump out of my skin and run screaming around the laundromat shreaking "WALOOLOO LOOO WALOOO LOO LOO" at the top of my lungs.

I ain't trying to get sent to the nut ward at Mt. Sinai.

Anywho, we got back in, ate lunch, and I decided that I would lay down. David decided to be off to the gym. I tried to fall asleep but at 3pm, at the time when the elementary school across the street gets done for the day, the damn ice cream man shows up with his ridiculous music.

If I had a shotgun, he would be a dead ice cream man right now. Hey kiddies...how about some Grey Matter Ice Cream. Delicious!

Anywho, so after about an hour, I decided to get up and go to the gym. I wasn't sure if David would still be there or not. I changed into my gym clothes, and no sign of that man of mine. I walk out of the locker room and there he is...HOT DADDY.

I got on the suicidal cardio machine, and Hot Daddy starts using a machine behind me. Of course the wall in front of me is ALL mirrors...and Hot Daddy is obviously not wearing any underwear and obviously half "cocked." Hot Daddy could also be called Very Very Big Daddy.

Anywho, I head downstairs to lift weights, and as I hit the first landing, I look back up and there is Hot Daddy lookin' down at me. I smile, and realize I had left my music making instruments in my locker, so I duck back inside and who should I run into the shower area but my baby boo. I give him a kiss, and wink, and grab my gear, and head back out.

On the floor, I see Hot Daddy seeing me. And after a few minutes, he turns and heads into the locker room. My Mama didn't raise no fool...so I followed on after. David is dressed and leaving, smiles, and says "Hot Daddy is back at the lockers. Have fun," and then giggles.

I will spare you the pornographic details, but, suffice it to say that I saw Hot Daddy in action, and sweet Jesus I was not disappointed. There were a few people in the steam today, and Hot Daddy clearly was interested in me. Enough said on that subject.

After showering, I get dressed and here comes His Royal Hottiness. He smiles and says, "You got left behind today."

I replied, "Oh, you saw my partner?"

He said, "Yes. Your boyfriend is a shy one."

I would not describe David as shy.

"Naw....he is just direct in a different way that I am."

"Awww...well by how I judge those things you are very direct. You always make eye contact."

"Well, that's because David and I both think you are adorable."

"Adorable?" He chuckled his pecs flexing, "I think you can only describe people under 30 as adorable."

"Well choose the adjective you like...we both think you are hot."

The man actually blushed. "Well thank you for the compliment."

I then introduced myself, and he introduced himself to me. We chatted for a few more minutes, and I explained the nature of my relationship to him...which made him smile even more broadly.

And then, just before leaving he let on that he had been at the gym in the morning a couple of days before and hadn't seen us there (Ummmmmm he noticed we were missing...excellent)...

and then he asked...

"Will you boys be here in the morning?"

"Oh yes."

"I will see you then."

I smiled, nodded, and walked out.

I basically sprinted home to tell David the story. The rest of the conversation between David and I is privileged information...but...let it be known...that I was not the only happy one with today's events.

The rest of the details, though, are for participants only. Use your imagination, and then turn it up a notch...it's even better than that ;-)

The Blacks Are Coming! The Blacks Are Coming!

Lord have mercy I can't stand Republicans. I don't hate who they are. I hate what they do. Love the Republicans, hate the Republicanism. Whatever, fuck 'em.

A good friend of mine wrote recently that we need to be partisan. Hell fucking yeah. I am partisan as hell. And the root of partisan is party...and I'll be damned if any Republicans are invited to mine. I am going to have a big ass black dyke hippy draft dodging Communist feminist Wiccan abortion doctor recovering addict as the bouncer at the door with a loaded double barrelled shot gun and Black Panther tendencies.

I heard the dumbest thing I believe I have EVER heard on the radio today:

“Blacks, blacks, blacks. The blacks are everywhere. The blacks are being promoted. I am being discriminated against because I am white.” So spoke a woman from Oklahoma interviewed by BBC America about Barack Obama and his first 100 days in office.

I love BBC America...if there is a wignut Fox news Rupert Murdoch blowin' bleach blonde former beauty queen turned pundit out in the wilds of the rural West, they will find her...put her on the radio...and giggle.

Now, pardon my French lovin' ass, but, with African-Americans making up 12% of the U.S. population how the hell are we “everywhere?” Yesterday, a story came out saying that college educated blacks are being laid off at TWICE the rate of blacks without a college degree. So where the hell are we getting promoted? Popeye's Chicken? Shit.

Has this lovely woman in Oklahoma taken a gander at Obama's cabinet? There are more women/white women up in there than there has ever been in any administration ever. I mean come on Janet Napolitano, Katherine Sebelius, Hilary Rodham Clinton, and I am sure I am missing a few.

And, for the record, back in 1921 the good people of Tulsa, OK rioted and burned to the ground what was called the Negro Wall Street (Greenwood District). They segregated black folks, only allowed them to live within a 35 block radius, refused to let them shop, eat, or go to school with the white folks, had the dubious honor of being the only city in America with segregated telephone booths, and then got pissed the fuck off when black folks spent their money on each other and ended up developing a community that rivaled any white community in the state for education and elegance. So what did they do? They burned the entire damn district to the ground. They shot women and children. They shot and let bleed to death a noted black surgeon that the FUCKING MAYO BROTHERS (you know...Mayo Clinic...best hospital in America) said was the best black surgeon walking the planet. And this heifer is going to have the nerve to get the hell up on the radio and suggest that she was being discriminated against?

Sweet Jesus.....OOOOOOOOOHHHHH SWEET JESUS!

And the Right in this country wonders why it got its ASS handed to them in the last election. They wonder why their own pundits are saying that the GOP has become irrelevant and is falling apart around them. They wonder why the hell Arlen Spectre would jump ship after 30 years as a Republican. Here's the answer, listen closely: YOUR BASE IS A BUNCH OF RACIST LOONIES SPOUTING SHIT IN PUBLIC THAT MAKES THEIR OWN MAMAS PRETEND AS IF THEY DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL THEY ARE.

In the end, I know that this was just shooting off at the mouth by one stupid woman. Unfortunately, I know that her ignorance represents what a segment (and probably a large one) of poor, working class, white folks believe. It's not the fault of the average every day working white person that they may believe this. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of sensationalist radio personalities like this random white woman from Oklahoma who gets on the radio, makes fucked up statements like the one she made. In the end, when the James Byrd style lynchings happen, when black kids are beaten in school, and when black churches are burned to the ground it is the black community that pays the price for one woman's insipid ignorance.

Ain't I A Woman?

Well, actually, no I am not a woman. I was not so blessed as to have been given the gift of life. Though, after seeing friends and family go through the birthing process, I would be lying if I said I am jealous of the actual birthing process. Giving life is a miracle...shooting a football out of a hole the size of a lemon makes me think waterboarding would be a more enjoyable alternative.

Today, the U.S. Congress unveiled the first statue of a black woman in the nationa's capitol. And, fittingly, it was Sojourner Truth. On the dais today were Secretary of State Hilary Clinton, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, House Minority Leader John Boehner with First Lady Michelle Obama making the dedication and Cicily Tyson acting out the speech Ain't I a Woman.

Unfortunately, fucking C-SPAN left the program just before the First Lady spoke. Idiots. But, they did show Miss Cicily give the performance of a lifetime. I was on this crazy machine at the gym that combines an eliptical machine, stair climber, nordictrack, and mideval torture device, and I had the broadest grin on my face listening to Cicily. She brought the speech to life. She made Sojourner live again, and each time she said, Ain't I a woman, I tucked my penis back and said, YES I AM!

Somehow I made it to 31 _ years of age without every having heard or read the full text of that speech. It, along with Martin Luther King's “I've Been to the Mountain Top,” is now my favorite speech of all time. The entire speech is roughly four or five paragraphs long (I am going to include it at the end of this blog). But in five paragraphs Sojourner Truth laid out the best, most succinct, and clear articulation of actualized feminism that I have ever seen. I understand the value of academia and theory. I often lapse into academy speech. But this brief oration reminded me that some people earn (or should earn) their doctorates in exactly 354 words.

Sojourner Truth was a powerful woman. She was a radical. She was a mother of abolitionist, civil rights, and feminist movements. The honor she received today was overdue and well deserved. Thank you Sojourner. You were one hell of a woman.

(P.S. And what a hell of a present to Miss Truth that Arlen Specter announced he is going Blue Dog on us and giving the Democrats a filibuster proof majority in the U.S. Senate. Word).

Text of “Ain't I a Woman” delivered in Akron, OH at the Women's Convention in 1851.

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. (emphasis added)

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say.

One Liner of the Week Award: Megan Thomas

You know the world is a little bit off kilter when a possible major health epidemic becomes the topic of witty banter. Hell, according to a student from Mexico City interviewed yesterday, kids in schools in Mexico are making jokes about Swine Flu and homework.

Have to love a fatalistic sense of humor.

This morning, I logged into Facebook, as I am wont to do, and I noticed my friend Megan's status which read:

"Oh My Lawd!! I can feel the swiney flu sneaking up on me It's lurking outside mah door with brass knuckles. This is worse than Communism!!"

I laughed so hard I almost shat myself.

And this is the One Liner of the Week.