The new lawn has been laid in Bryant Park, midtown's favorite warm-weather lunch destination. Cube dwellers rejoice! You can almost see my office, just over the top of the Main Library.
Bryant Park Springs Ahead
The new lawn has been laid in Bryant Park, midtown's favorite warm-weather lunch destination. Cube dwellers rejoice! You can almost see my office, just over the top of the Main Library.
Why 'The Gurls' Hate On Each Other
One of my TSTB members posted to the list last week a comment about how surprised and shocked she was to see how some African-American transwomen treat each other.
It's nothing new. The way some of 'The Gurls' negatively interact with one another is a long-term observation of mine that has exasperated me over the two decades I've been around the African-American transgender community.
WARNING: What follows are my personal observations. If they hit too
close to home, nothing personal. To borrow the words of the late DJ
icon Jack 'The Rapper' Gibson, I'm tellin' it like it 'TIS' is.
We're basically split into six factions. The Street Girls, the Stealth
Girls, The Club Girls, The Pageant/Show Girls, The Crossdressing
Girls, and the Real World Girls.
Some of the Street Girls either HATE on everybody that's in the other
four groups or harbor deep suspicions about their transsistahs.
They've had hard lives and resent the fact that in their eyes,
the 'rest of us have it easy' or 'we look down our noses at them'.
They feel like everything should be handed to them on a silver
platter since they've had to struggle for everything they get.
The Stealth Girls blitzkrieg through the transition process, get
their surgery, and then disappear never to be seen again in the
transgender community. They are women now and they believe that they
are better than pre-ops because they don't have that pesky male organ
between their legs. Some of them cut off all contact with out
transgender people and won't be caught dead at a drag show or GLBT
club. They don't want even a hint of suspicion from the people that
are in their new lives that they're transgendered.
The Club Girls lives revolve around the various GLBT clubs sprinkled
across the nation. Some are well into their transitions while others are crossdressing until they can get to that point. They hang out trying to pick
up `husbands' to validate their new gender identity or `trade' to
make a fast buck. They are hostile to any other t-girl that comes
into their turf that's prettier, smarter, younger, more popular or `fishy'
looking than they are.
The Pageant/Show Girls lives revolve around the various transgender beauty pageant circuits that are held across the nation and the drag shows in various GLBT clubs. They are a fairly tight knit sorority. Some of them have interests outside that world, others don't.
The Crossdressing Girls are the ones that are either in the early
stages of discovering whether they are transgendered or just dress in
women's clothes for the fun of it. There's some friction between
them and the t-girls because they remind the t-girls too much of
where they came from and wish to forget. The Crossdressing girls
sometimes forget that t-girls AREN'T guys on `mones, we are emotionally women. When they treat t-girls as one of the fellas they resent it. T-girls have pissed off crossdressers by making snide comments about their ability to pass as women, which is a sensitive subject with them.
The Real World Girls are the ones who are so far out of the closet it would take a bulldozer to shove them back into it. They're the activists and the peeps who are out and about in the community. They annoy the other groups on various levels. The street and club girls consider them uppity and elitist. The stealth girls wish they would quit 'rocking the boat' with their activism so that they can continue hiding and living their lives as women. The pageant girls are indifferent about it and the crossdressers have split loyalties on the subject.
Is it any wonder why we've had such a hard time building a cohesive
community with all this Hateraid between the various groups?
The bottom line is that our enemies hate all of us no matter what faction we belong to. We are all potential victims of hate crimes because of who we are. If everybody would take a deep breath and realize that we all have something substantive to bring to the table as we build a community, there's no telling what we could accomplish pulling together.
Black America's Infatuation With Butch Men Up in Heels
By Jasmyne Cannick
February 24, 2006
While images of Black men dressed as woman have become a popular part of Black American culture in entertainment, does the success of the Black actor who plays a role in drag depend on that actor's heterosexism in real life?
True story.
I was in a theatre in a predominately Black part of town and there was a poster for Madea's Family Reunion up in the lobby of the theatre. Several Black women who looked to be in their 40s and 50s had gathered around the poster and were remarking how they were going to see the film when it came out. Just then a Black transgendered female walked through the lobby and one of the women remarked to her girlfriends, "Look girl, a he-she," and they all started giggling like teenagers.
On more than one occasion Black America has rushed to the box office to see Black men dressed in drag and with the national release of Tyler Perry's Madea's Family Reunion, Black audiences will again embrace the idea of a man playing a female role on screen.
On more than one occasion Black America has rushed to the box office to see Black men dressed in drag and with the national release of Tyler Perry's Madea's Family Reunion, Black audiences will again embrace the idea of a man playing a female role on screen.
When Tyler Perry debuted his character Madea Simmons, a 68 year-old witty gun toting grandmother from the hood, his biggest audience was Black Christian evangelicals. In fact, it was Black Christians that launched him to where he is today, packing in and filling up theatre after theatre as he toured around the nation with his plays. With a spiritual message included in all of his productions, Perry allowed Black Christians to feel good after seeing him prance around the stage dressed as woman.
But before Madea, there was Andre Charles, better known as RuPaul. In the early 90's, RuPaul gained fame and success with his single "Supermodel (You Better Work)" a tribute to the divas of the fashion. The single placed in the top 30 on the Billboard Pop Charts and the music video was nominated for Best Dance Video at the 1994 MTV video music awards. Through the years, RuPaul has appeared in various movies and music specials. He was honored as in 1999 with the Vito Russo Entertainer of the Year Award at The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) media awards for challenging the limits and breaking boundaries in becoming an openly gay individual who has achieved excellence in the field of entertainment and furthering his visibility and understanding of the community through his work. Still, RuPaul's fame and acceptance has come from mostly white audiences, even though he is a Black entertainer.
So why is it that Black audiences can embrace a man playing a female role on the silver screen, but still have problems with real life Madea's in their own communities and families?
Transgender is an umbrella term used to describe people whose gender identity, expression or behavior is different from those typically associated with their assigned sex at birth, including but not limited to transsexuals and cross dressers.
In the Black community, very little attention is focused on the transgender community. Common practice is to group transgenders with gay men, even though they are their own community within an already marginalized group.
Even in the gay rights movement, transgender issues have been pushed to the bottom of the list for fear that Americans, who are barely able to deal with the idea of marriage between gay and lesbian couples, could even begin to understand the issues plaguing the transgender community.
Madea is a man dressed as a female, plain and simple. No matter how many feel good religious messages Tyler Perry feeds his audiences, Black Christians are embracing cross dressing as a form of entertainment, which is not problematic, except for the fact that Black Christians are known for their homophobic views towards anything remotely gay.
But what if Tyler Perry were gay? Would Madea continue to be as popular among Black churchgoers? Probably not. At least with his assumed heterosexuality, Christians can rest at ease that they are not supporting anything gay because after all, it is just a role. RuPaul, while a great performer, was openly gay and therefore never found the wide spread acceptance and fame that Madea has. Famed actor Wesley Snipes gave us Noxeema Jackson in the 1995 film To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar. While heterosexual himself, Snipes' character was flamboyantly gay. Martin Lawrence first introduced us to Big Momma in 2000 and was so successful that's he's back with a sequel. He too is heterosexual. And who could forget "Men on Film" on In Living Color, featuring Damon Wayans and David Allen Grier who played the very gay film critics Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather. Again, both Wayans and Grier are heterosexual and went on to do great things after the end of the series.
Blacks have no problem with cross dressing and transgenderism as a form of entertainment. It's only after the lights go off and the camera stops rolling that it becomes an issue if the dress and heels are still on.
Upcoming Reader Mail Feature
Gentle readers, I get some great emails from you folks. Emails that are sometimes filthily funny, sometimes hotly pornish, sometimes heartbreakingly poignant. I get emails that are supportive and encouraging, and emails that are disappointed, scolding, or correcting.
I'm going to begin posting some of these emails as a regular weekly feature, beginning next Friday. As I have always done, I will contact the author first and obtain his/her express permission to publish their email, even if it's something I'm merely pulling out of the comments. And I'm happy to withhold the identity of the author, if requested.
I'm interested in your suggestions regarding this new feature.
I'm going to begin posting some of these emails as a regular weekly feature, beginning next Friday. As I have always done, I will contact the author first and obtain his/her express permission to publish their email, even if it's something I'm merely pulling out of the comments. And I'm happy to withhold the identity of the author, if requested.
I'm interested in your suggestions regarding this new feature.
ITMFA
Visit Seattle's Stranger editor and national sex advice columnist Dan Savage's pro-impeachment site for cool ITMFA swag and info. Wearable swag here.(via Terrence, who I send big kisses for hipping JMG readers to this)
It Wasn't Me
Thursday, 8:40am, the 6 train
The platform is very crowded when a train arrives already packed with passengers.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, this train is already very full, please step back from the doors if you cannot board easily, there is another train directly behind this one.
Bing bong! (That's the "doors are closing" noise.)
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE. This train is VERY full. Please do not hold the doors open. There is another train directly behind this one.
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please check to see that the doors are not blocked by your coats or bags.
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please take a moment and make sure that your personal belongings are not blocking the doors!
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE make sure that your coats and your bags and your GIGANTIC ASSES are not blocking the doors!
Bing bong!
The doors close.
I catch the next train.
.
The platform is very crowded when a train arrives already packed with passengers.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, this train is already very full, please step back from the doors if you cannot board easily, there is another train directly behind this one.
Bing bong! (That's the "doors are closing" noise.)
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE. This train is VERY full. Please do not hold the doors open. There is another train directly behind this one.
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please check to see that the doors are not blocked by your coats or bags.
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please take a moment and make sure that your personal belongings are not blocking the doors!
Bing bong!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE make sure that your coats and your bags and your GIGANTIC ASSES are not blocking the doors!
Bing bong!
The doors close.
I catch the next train.
.
Today's Oscar Wilde Quote
"The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about" - Oscar Wilde, 1884.
Black Party 2005 Video
Sadly, my beloved tiny and easy-to-hide Casio digicam died on the very day of the Black Party this year. Talk about a giant "Aaarrrgh!!". That camera and I saw some wonderful and interesting things over the last three years. They don't make 'em like that anymore, literally. However, as a precursor to my 2006 Black Party review, here's the little 30-second movie I made at last year's event. It's work safe, but has SOUND, really horrible, muffled sound.
Forgotten-NY.com
Today's tasty bit of New Yorkana is the fabulous website Forgotten NY. Forgotten-NY contains comprehesive sections on the history of the subway, in particular the architecture and signage of the older stations, including photos such the gorgeous sky-lighted subway station at City Hall (above) . Click on "You'd Never Believe You Are In NYC" and delight at items such as the village on stilts in Jamaica Bay (below), which is accessible by subway, the A Train. 
Mrs. Malaprop
Co-worker ordering breakfast on phone: Yes, scrambled with potatoes and toast. Oh, and gimme a large Tropicana. Do you have immune deficiency? Cool, yeah, gimme that. Thanks, bye.
Me: Um, immune deficiency?
Coworker: Yeah? So? Oh, wait. What did I say?
Me: You said "immune deficiency". I think the brand is called Immunity Defense.
Both: (Uncontrollable giggling for two minutes.)
When his breakfast arrived from Cafe Metro, the computerized ticket said:
Bfast Platter
Scrambled
Toast
Add 1 large Immune Deficiency
Deliver
Me: Um, immune deficiency?
Coworker: Yeah? So? Oh, wait. What did I say?
Me: You said "immune deficiency". I think the brand is called Immunity Defense.
Both: (Uncontrollable giggling for two minutes.)
When his breakfast arrived from Cafe Metro, the computerized ticket said:
Bfast Platter
Scrambled
Toast
Add 1 large Immune Deficiency
Deliver
Field Of Dreams
Last night I had another dream about a celebrity. Some of you may recall the dream I mentioned last fall, in which I found myself eating in the Times Square Howard Johnson's with Donna Summer. Well this one is much, much weirder.
In this one, I was the coach of a Little League team. (I know.) For unstated reasons, my particular league required that the coach had to play too. I was the catcher. (I know.) And I had bloody knees because instead of wearing normal catcher gear, I was wearing Bermuda shorts. (I KNOW.) My entire team was wearing Bermuda shorts and the kids were mad at me because I wouldn't let them wear normal uniforms.
Coaching for the opposing team was Salman Rushdie. Why Salman Rushie? That's what I'd like know. I've never met Salman Rushie, don't recall having seen him on TV, never read The Satanic Verses. I think I vaguely know what he looks like from seeing a picture of him in Time Magazine, but somehow he made it into my dream.
At some point it became the last inning and I was at bat. The bases were loaded and we were behind by one run. The game rested on my shoulders. I took a mighty swing and slammed the ball high and far over the heads of the opposing players. However, their center fielder, Salman Rushdie, who happened to be wearing a jetpack, lifted off in a cloud of dust and intercepted my shoulda-been home run.
At that point, I was awakened by the stupid motherfucking pigeons that roost in the airshaft of my apartment building. I hate pigeons. But not as much as I hate Salman Rushdie right now.
.
In this one, I was the coach of a Little League team. (I know.) For unstated reasons, my particular league required that the coach had to play too. I was the catcher. (I know.) And I had bloody knees because instead of wearing normal catcher gear, I was wearing Bermuda shorts. (I KNOW.) My entire team was wearing Bermuda shorts and the kids were mad at me because I wouldn't let them wear normal uniforms.
Coaching for the opposing team was Salman Rushdie. Why Salman Rushie? That's what I'd like know. I've never met Salman Rushie, don't recall having seen him on TV, never read The Satanic Verses. I think I vaguely know what he looks like from seeing a picture of him in Time Magazine, but somehow he made it into my dream.
At some point it became the last inning and I was at bat. The bases were loaded and we were behind by one run. The game rested on my shoulders. I took a mighty swing and slammed the ball high and far over the heads of the opposing players. However, their center fielder, Salman Rushdie, who happened to be wearing a jetpack, lifted off in a cloud of dust and intercepted my shoulda-been home run.
At that point, I was awakened by the stupid motherfucking pigeons that roost in the airshaft of my apartment building. I hate pigeons. But not as much as I hate Salman Rushdie right now.
.
Resolution / Redemption
"Push a few of them OFF the Hudson Piers...the rest will get the message." - a gay right-wing blogger, commenting on my post, Dollars Vs. Gay Youth.
Unsurprisingly, they all are white males, these bloggers, these gay men whose sites are an infected rash upon the skin of the blogosphere. Some of them are no more than hate-bloggers, back-slapping and high-fiving each other in circle jerks of racism, misogyny, classism, xenophobia, and most of all, homophobia.
Yes, homophobia. Because above all, the thing that they hate the most (and if you are unfortunate enough to come across any of these blogs, hate is often the Daily Special), is themselves. These are capital "A" assimilationists, mocking the mere existence of gay neighborhoods and belittling those who reside within, ridiculing the work of GLAAD and HRC, and making vicious attacks on Pride events. To some of them, people with HIV or AIDS are promiscuous, dirty drug addicts who got what they deserved. These gay right-wingers long for a world free of openly queer culture, a world where gays live fully integrated (and therefore invisible) in their picket-fenced, cul-de-sac'd McMansions. They shout that "gay is only a small part" of who they are, yet fail to see the irony in their blog titles which use words such as "gay", "queer", even "faggot". Talk about cognitive dissonance.
These gay right-wing bloggers are also inordinately smug about their own perceived personal masculinity. Many are transphobic, femme-phobic, dagger-phobic. Many of them bitch and whine about TV characters like Will & Grace's Jack as unrepresentative of the true homo world, something they probably do believe, because they wouldn't have someone like Jack for a friend in the first place. They don't want flamboyant queens representing THEM on national TV. They want lawyers and truck drivers and football players who Just Happen To Be Gay and are never, ever, ever the slightest bit queeny. (Or interesting, as is so often the case. Example: Will.)
Full disclosure: I used to haunt these blogs and occasionally post in their comments, in some fruitless effort to provide opposing views in their echo chamber of self-congratulatory cuntiness. My final straw moment came when the host of one of these sites posted that my opinion must be caused by some AIDS-dementia. (No, really. He did.) But no more. I have resolved that I will be strong. No longer will I read, comment upon or link to the gay right-wing blogs. I will leave these unhappy men to themselves and their daily tens of readers.
However, outside of the world of these mostly unnoticed gay right-wing bloggers, these is an occasional redemptive moment. Andrew Sullivan has long been vilified by gay lefties, usually for his support of President Bush and the Iraqi war, but often for an embarrassing personal situation (references to which will be removed from my comments, by the way). Regular readers of Sullivan are already aware that he has now changed his mind about Bush and devotes the bulk of his postings to blistering critiques of the Bush II administration, the handling of the war effort, the grotesque bloating of the budget, the nasty viciousness of the Republican Party and Bush's obeisance to the American Christianists who want to turn this country into a Christian version of Iran, complete with its own Levitical sharia laws. Sullivan is still a self-described conservative, but now I find myself reading him and coming away inspired and nodding my head. Those of you who wrote Sullivan off long ago, should visit his blog again. You'll find a man who isn't afraid to say that he's changed his mind, which I find impressive and refreshing, especially coming from one of the leaders of the pundit world.
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
Unsurprisingly, they all are white males, these bloggers, these gay men whose sites are an infected rash upon the skin of the blogosphere. Some of them are no more than hate-bloggers, back-slapping and high-fiving each other in circle jerks of racism, misogyny, classism, xenophobia, and most of all, homophobia.
Yes, homophobia. Because above all, the thing that they hate the most (and if you are unfortunate enough to come across any of these blogs, hate is often the Daily Special), is themselves. These are capital "A" assimilationists, mocking the mere existence of gay neighborhoods and belittling those who reside within, ridiculing the work of GLAAD and HRC, and making vicious attacks on Pride events. To some of them, people with HIV or AIDS are promiscuous, dirty drug addicts who got what they deserved. These gay right-wingers long for a world free of openly queer culture, a world where gays live fully integrated (and therefore invisible) in their picket-fenced, cul-de-sac'd McMansions. They shout that "gay is only a small part" of who they are, yet fail to see the irony in their blog titles which use words such as "gay", "queer", even "faggot". Talk about cognitive dissonance.
These gay right-wing bloggers are also inordinately smug about their own perceived personal masculinity. Many are transphobic, femme-phobic, dagger-phobic. Many of them bitch and whine about TV characters like Will & Grace's Jack as unrepresentative of the true homo world, something they probably do believe, because they wouldn't have someone like Jack for a friend in the first place. They don't want flamboyant queens representing THEM on national TV. They want lawyers and truck drivers and football players who Just Happen To Be Gay and are never, ever, ever the slightest bit queeny. (Or interesting, as is so often the case. Example: Will.)
Full disclosure: I used to haunt these blogs and occasionally post in their comments, in some fruitless effort to provide opposing views in their echo chamber of self-congratulatory cuntiness. My final straw moment came when the host of one of these sites posted that my opinion must be caused by some AIDS-dementia. (No, really. He did.) But no more. I have resolved that I will be strong. No longer will I read, comment upon or link to the gay right-wing blogs. I will leave these unhappy men to themselves and their daily tens of readers.
However, outside of the world of these mostly unnoticed gay right-wing bloggers, these is an occasional redemptive moment. Andrew Sullivan has long been vilified by gay lefties, usually for his support of President Bush and the Iraqi war, but often for an embarrassing personal situation (references to which will be removed from my comments, by the way). Regular readers of Sullivan are already aware that he has now changed his mind about Bush and devotes the bulk of his postings to blistering critiques of the Bush II administration, the handling of the war effort, the grotesque bloating of the budget, the nasty viciousness of the Republican Party and Bush's obeisance to the American Christianists who want to turn this country into a Christian version of Iran, complete with its own Levitical sharia laws. Sullivan is still a self-described conservative, but now I find myself reading him and coming away inspired and nodding my head. Those of you who wrote Sullivan off long ago, should visit his blog again. You'll find a man who isn't afraid to say that he's changed his mind, which I find impressive and refreshing, especially coming from one of the leaders of the pundit world.
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
FIERCE! Update
Color me shocked, but sometimes this darn thing we call a gub'mint really works. Here's the resolution passed at the West Village meeting dealing with the underage queer problem that is tormenting many and causing deep divisions among the rest of the residents.
Community Board 2 passed this resolution, a program with a trial period until 6/30:
- Pier 45 to remain open until 1AM. Bathrooms and food vendors will be available until 1AM.
-FIERCE! will create teams to patrol Christopher Street to discourage noise making and engage in ’self policing”.
- Hudson River Park Trust, Community Board 2, local elected officials, and FIERCE! will work with service providers to build upon informal network of peer education and outreach workers who already work at Pier 45.
-Various mobile social service and health providers for queer youth will be allowed to park and provide services near Pier 45.
-Pier 45 Task Force will be created, and will include Community Board 2, local elected officials, Borough President, NYPD Precinct 6, and LGBT youth service providers to monitor the above program, make necessary modifications, and make a record of whether and how this program (including 1 AM closing) should continue or be modified after 6/30.
- The 1Am curfew is on a test run til 6/30. A community advisory panel (the Task Force mentioned above) which includes members of FIERCE!, get to review, monitor, and make decisions about whether to extend the curfew or make any changes after 6/30.
(via Daily Dose Of Queer)
Community Board 2 passed this resolution, a program with a trial period until 6/30:
- Pier 45 to remain open until 1AM. Bathrooms and food vendors will be available until 1AM.
-FIERCE! will create teams to patrol Christopher Street to discourage noise making and engage in ’self policing”.
- Hudson River Park Trust, Community Board 2, local elected officials, and FIERCE! will work with service providers to build upon informal network of peer education and outreach workers who already work at Pier 45.
-Various mobile social service and health providers for queer youth will be allowed to park and provide services near Pier 45.
-Pier 45 Task Force will be created, and will include Community Board 2, local elected officials, Borough President, NYPD Precinct 6, and LGBT youth service providers to monitor the above program, make necessary modifications, and make a record of whether and how this program (including 1 AM closing) should continue or be modified after 6/30.
- The 1Am curfew is on a test run til 6/30. A community advisory panel (the Task Force mentioned above) which includes members of FIERCE!, get to review, monitor, and make decisions about whether to extend the curfew or make any changes after 6/30.
(via Daily Dose Of Queer)
Life after Gwen
An Op-Ed piece that appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle
----------------------------------------------------------------
Sylvia Guerrero
Thursday, January 26, 2006
I am not sure how I expected to feel at this point. When my daughter Gwen, a transgender teenager, was brutally murdered on Oct. 4, 2002, I was sure that I would never feel whole again. Looking back, I didn't yet know exactly what "transgender" meant or how to fully embrace my child's identity. But I knew one thing: I wanted justice for my child.
I thought that maybe I'd feel better on the day when the four suspects in her murder were brought to justice. More than three years and three months since Gwen's murder that day is finally here. On Friday, these men are being sentenced to prison terms for their actions, two of them convicted of second-degree murder and two taking plea bargains for voluntary manslaughter. I guess I hoped that once we got to the sentencing date, the pain would end and I could get back to my life. But it hasn't and I can't.
No amount of justice can return the part of me that these men took when they killed Gwen. The closure that people keep talking about hasn't come. It would be so much easier to write that it had. After all, that is what most people want to read: The system worked; my family is whole; the story is over. It would be comforting and allow us to get on with our lives. Of the many things I'm feeling, closure isn't one of them.
I'm angry. Angry that Gwen's brothers and her nieces and nephews won't get to grow up knowing her the way her aunts, uncles, older sister and I did. Angry that instead of celebrating her birthday, we get together each year to commemorate her death. Angry that, in both trials, the defendants tried to blame Gwen for her own murder. Angry that other young lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender kids continue to face the discrimination she did in our public schools and our workforce.
I'm also grateful. Grateful that my family and our friends rose to the challenge and sat through two gruesome and explicit criminal trials to make sure that everyone knew that Gwen was loved for who she was. I'm grateful for the support we've all received from perfect strangers who have told us in-person and through e-mail that we are in their thoughts and prayers. I'm grateful for the remorse that two of the defendants and some of their family members have expressed to me and my family.
And I'm sad. Sad that I'll never get to see Gwen grow into the beautiful woman she would have become. Sad that four men chose to end my daughter's life, and throw away their own simply because they thought they were acting like "real men." And sad that other transgender women have been killed since Gwen's murder and that we don't have a realistic end in sight to that violence.
Within this mix of emotions, though, the one that I hold onto most dearly is hope. Since that tragic night, my own family has grown by two beautiful grandchildren. More and more parents are supporting their transgender children. California has become the country's most protective state for transgender people. And just this month, a new law has been proposed in Sacramento, the Gwen Araujo Justice for Victims Act, authored by Assemblywoman Sally Lieber, D-Mountain View, and sponsored by Equality California, an LGBT civil-rights lobbying group, to protect people from being blamed for their own murder.
Maybe the reason I don't have closure around Gwen's death is that there is still work to do. If I've learned anything since Gwen's murder, it is that hope alone is not enough. Each of us who hopes to live in a state where our families are protected needs to work toward making California that place. For instance, boys and girls in schools throughout the Bay Area need to hear, firsthand, how important it is to be themselves and to respect each other's differences.
None of us can change the way the world was on Oct. 4, 2002. But each of us now has an important role to play in creating a state where we can celebrate more birthdays and commemorate fewer murders.
Sylvia Guerrero is the mother of Gwen Araujo and an activist for LGBT civil rights. She speaks at schools around the Bay Area through the Gwen Araujo Transgender Education Fund administered by the Horizons Foundation.
Standing Room Only
Saturday, 3pm, the L train....
Angry Standing Woman: Look at all these rude muthafukkin' men! Can't get up and let none of these ladies have a seat.
Seated Man: Having a vagina is not a disability.
Angry Standing Woman: No, but being a dick IS.
.
Angry Standing Woman: Look at all these rude muthafukkin' men! Can't get up and let none of these ladies have a seat.
Seated Man: Having a vagina is not a disability.
Angry Standing Woman: No, but being a dick IS.
.
Two Things
The thruple is in town for Black Party, as are many of my best friends from Florida and California. Yesterday, my little UES hovel was wall-to-sling Wilton Manorians. Watching those guys careening around the city for the last couple of days, two things have occured to me:
1. Nobody has gotten lost because New Yorkers love to give directions. Hardly anybody in Manhattan is a native New Yorker and there's a sort of joy in being able to act all local-like. I still remember the thrill I got a few years ago when I was stopped by tourists and got to say, "Times Square? Oh, sure. Just go that way on 42nd until you hit Broadway." I think I actually hung around briefly hoping somebody else needed help.
2. New Yorkers are not impatient, despite what it looks like. They simply won't wait, and that's different. Why should they stand in line in a store or restaurant when they can simply turn on their heel upon seeing a crowd and go into the place next door?
1. Nobody has gotten lost because New Yorkers love to give directions. Hardly anybody in Manhattan is a native New Yorker and there's a sort of joy in being able to act all local-like. I still remember the thrill I got a few years ago when I was stopped by tourists and got to say, "Times Square? Oh, sure. Just go that way on 42nd until you hit Broadway." I think I actually hung around briefly hoping somebody else needed help.
2. New Yorkers are not impatient, despite what it looks like. They simply won't wait, and that's different. Why should they stand in line in a store or restaurant when they can simply turn on their heel upon seeing a crowd and go into the place next door?
Black Party: Redux
Tomorrow I'll be attending my tenth Saint-At-Large Black Party, the most notable and notorious event on the calendar of gay homosexual perverts around the world. As a preview for those who may be attending for the first time this year, here's my posting after last year's event.
Roseland Ballroom, 5AM
Steve and I have been on the dancefloor for hours, as the swirling maelstrom of thousands of leather-clad bodybuilders spins around us. The men move in and out (of our field of vision), momentarily illuminated by an explosion of strobe lights, before being sucked (back into the darkness).
This Steve's first Black Party, my ninth. Finally, at 5AM, he tells me that he's relaxed enough to "go exploring" and I take him upstairs to.....(cue sinister music)...the balcony.
At first, we spend a few minutes peering over the rail, watching the dancers roil and throb beneath us as one huge carnal beast. Then Steve takes hold of my belt loop and I lead him to the long dark cock (riddled area of the balcony that runs the length of the room).
I want to show Steve all the hot men getting nasty in the dim darkness, and since he's never seen anything like that, I'm carrying myself as the supremely jaded, seen it all before, nothing surprises me, queen that I can be.
Inching throught the hot, pulsating, sweaty crowd, we can scarcely see where to put our feet. The music is so loud, we have to shout in each other's ears. Then we move into a section that is shielded by a wall, the music volume drops by more than half...and we fall silent.
We see a guy blowing a sexy black go-go boy, the box he's standing on thinly lit by an orange spotlight. We see a guy leaning against the wall getting fisted while standing up, which we agree is a pretty neat trick. We see groups of men standing in tight circles, their pants at half-mast, engaged in some mutual beefy-jerky. In the corners, various guys are openly snorting lines of various white powders off the backs of various other guys' hands.
And then I see something so shocking, so unexpected, so offensive, that I accidently shouted out loud.
"THAT guy is SMOKING!!!"
Originally posted March 30, 2005
UPDATE: For what's it worth, I'm not really interested in anybody's moralizing judgements regarding the Black Party as an event, or its attendees. If you don't like what goes on at the Black Party, I'd strongly suggest not buying a ticket. For those interested, I've found a 2002 Black Party review from the Village Voice, written by NY Blade editor Steve Weinstein, here. And in 2005, Weinstein wrote another story, this time for the Blade, here.
Roseland Ballroom, 5AM
Steve and I have been on the dancefloor for hours, as the swirling maelstrom of thousands of leather-clad bodybuilders spins around us. The men move in and out (of our field of vision), momentarily illuminated by an explosion of strobe lights, before being sucked (back into the darkness).
This Steve's first Black Party, my ninth. Finally, at 5AM, he tells me that he's relaxed enough to "go exploring" and I take him upstairs to.....(cue sinister music)...the balcony.
At first, we spend a few minutes peering over the rail, watching the dancers roil and throb beneath us as one huge carnal beast. Then Steve takes hold of my belt loop and I lead him to the long dark cock (riddled area of the balcony that runs the length of the room).
I want to show Steve all the hot men getting nasty in the dim darkness, and since he's never seen anything like that, I'm carrying myself as the supremely jaded, seen it all before, nothing surprises me, queen that I can be.
Inching throught the hot, pulsating, sweaty crowd, we can scarcely see where to put our feet. The music is so loud, we have to shout in each other's ears. Then we move into a section that is shielded by a wall, the music volume drops by more than half...and we fall silent.
We see a guy blowing a sexy black go-go boy, the box he's standing on thinly lit by an orange spotlight. We see a guy leaning against the wall getting fisted while standing up, which we agree is a pretty neat trick. We see groups of men standing in tight circles, their pants at half-mast, engaged in some mutual beefy-jerky. In the corners, various guys are openly snorting lines of various white powders off the backs of various other guys' hands.
And then I see something so shocking, so unexpected, so offensive, that I accidently shouted out loud.
"THAT guy is SMOKING!!!"
Originally posted March 30, 2005
UPDATE: For what's it worth, I'm not really interested in anybody's moralizing judgements regarding the Black Party as an event, or its attendees. If you don't like what goes on at the Black Party, I'd strongly suggest not buying a ticket. For those interested, I've found a 2002 Black Party review from the Village Voice, written by NY Blade editor Steve Weinstein, here. And in 2005, Weinstein wrote another story, this time for the Blade, here.
Crosswalk Talk
Manhattan, Thursday @ 7pm, 17th Street & 8th Avenue
Straight Girl #1: Ever notice how tightly girls hold onto their boyfriends when they're walking through Chelsea?
Straight Girl #2: Right? It's like they're afraid he's going to run out into traffic and get hit by a truck.
Straight Girl #1: Yeah. A big hairy GAY truck.
.
Straight Girl #1: Ever notice how tightly girls hold onto their boyfriends when they're walking through Chelsea?
Straight Girl #2: Right? It's like they're afraid he's going to run out into traffic and get hit by a truck.
Straight Girl #1: Yeah. A big hairy GAY truck.
.
Dollars Vs. Gay Youth?
Back in 2004, I lived in the West Village, near the intersection of Bleecker Street and West 10th Street. Coming home late one evening after a night of barhopping in Hell's Kitchen, I came across a group of about a dozen teenage queers of color, standing on the sidewalk of Christopher Street. Some of them were in drag, but I hardly noticed. When you live in the West Village, you get accustomed to seeing large roving bands of very young queer blacks and Latinos, from across the gender spectrum. Nightly, you see drag queens, stone butches, bangee boys and girls, all sporting the latest in hip-hop-inspired thug fashion, and all startlingly, sometimes heartbreakingly, young.
A lot of them come in from Jersey City and Newark on the PATH train, disembarking at the first Manhattan station, on Christopher Street. Some of them come in from the outer boroughs, riding the 1 train down from the Bronx. Many, if not most, of these kids are refugees from and within their own families. Castouts, figurative and literal, from dangerous and desperately poor situations, they find each other on the streets of the West Village and congregate nightly by the hundreds on the newly remodeled and relatively deluxe Hudson River piers, which for decades have served as social and sexual ground zero for the more socially desperate and/or sexually hungry of our peoples.
That night, standing there waiting for the light to change, I was spun around by a sudden outburst of shrieking, screaming and hollering. The gay teens had circled around one of their own, a tiny black queen, perhaps 14 years old, while she climbed up onto a parked car, stood on its hood, affixed an suction-cupped dildo to the windshield and began fucking herself on it. Her audience went apoplectic, their screaming echoed up and down the narrow canyon of storefronts and apartments. A boy, himself no older than 15, caught me looking and shouted, "What the fuck you lookin' at faggot? Ain't you never seen no queen take a dick before?"
Ignoring the damage to the car being made by the queen's heels, ignoring the sex act being performed in the middle of the street, ignoring the screaming and shouting, I stupidly mentioned the worst thing I could have. "Don't you kids have school tomorrow?" In an instant, half of the them had encircled me. I backed down the sidewalk towards my building's door, as they threatened to "cut me" and "fuck me up." When I knew I could make it, I turned and ran for my door, their hooting laughter bouncing down the sidewalk behind me.
This article in this week's Village Voice describes the ongoing battle between Village residents and the hundreds of gay youth who enjoy (or terrorize, depending on your position) the Village on a nightly basic. The gay teens have organized themselves into an advocacy group cringingly called FIERCE! (Fabulous Independent Educated Radicals for Community Empowerment). FIERCE! aims to lobby the city to move the closing curfew for the Hudson Piers back to 4am, rather than the present 1am, arguing that if the kids can stay on the piers later, they'll be less likely to rampage through the adjoining streets when the park closes.
It's really hard for me to take sides on this. I can definitely understand why the neighborhood associations are pleading for the city to do something. Above all, people have a right to safety, quiet and comfort in their own homes. On the other hand, maybe the West Village IS a special case, deserving of less stringent administration. Historically, it's been the one safe space for queers, particularly queer youth, most of whom truly have no where else to gather. This problem raises questions about racism, classism, and gentricification. It's Gen X vs. Gen Z. It's queer kids from the projects and tranny kids from the streets vs. lofts and co-ops and the celebrities living in Richard Meier's riverfront glass palaces. It's about the continuing eroding of civility and manners vs. the venal world of real estate.
Read the Voice article and tell me what you think. I'm really stuck on this one.
(via Towleroad)
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
A lot of them come in from Jersey City and Newark on the PATH train, disembarking at the first Manhattan station, on Christopher Street. Some of them come in from the outer boroughs, riding the 1 train down from the Bronx. Many, if not most, of these kids are refugees from and within their own families. Castouts, figurative and literal, from dangerous and desperately poor situations, they find each other on the streets of the West Village and congregate nightly by the hundreds on the newly remodeled and relatively deluxe Hudson River piers, which for decades have served as social and sexual ground zero for the more socially desperate and/or sexually hungry of our peoples.
That night, standing there waiting for the light to change, I was spun around by a sudden outburst of shrieking, screaming and hollering. The gay teens had circled around one of their own, a tiny black queen, perhaps 14 years old, while she climbed up onto a parked car, stood on its hood, affixed an suction-cupped dildo to the windshield and began fucking herself on it. Her audience went apoplectic, their screaming echoed up and down the narrow canyon of storefronts and apartments. A boy, himself no older than 15, caught me looking and shouted, "What the fuck you lookin' at faggot? Ain't you never seen no queen take a dick before?"
Ignoring the damage to the car being made by the queen's heels, ignoring the sex act being performed in the middle of the street, ignoring the screaming and shouting, I stupidly mentioned the worst thing I could have. "Don't you kids have school tomorrow?" In an instant, half of the them had encircled me. I backed down the sidewalk towards my building's door, as they threatened to "cut me" and "fuck me up." When I knew I could make it, I turned and ran for my door, their hooting laughter bouncing down the sidewalk behind me.
This article in this week's Village Voice describes the ongoing battle between Village residents and the hundreds of gay youth who enjoy (or terrorize, depending on your position) the Village on a nightly basic. The gay teens have organized themselves into an advocacy group cringingly called FIERCE! (Fabulous Independent Educated Radicals for Community Empowerment). FIERCE! aims to lobby the city to move the closing curfew for the Hudson Piers back to 4am, rather than the present 1am, arguing that if the kids can stay on the piers later, they'll be less likely to rampage through the adjoining streets when the park closes.
It's really hard for me to take sides on this. I can definitely understand why the neighborhood associations are pleading for the city to do something. Above all, people have a right to safety, quiet and comfort in their own homes. On the other hand, maybe the West Village IS a special case, deserving of less stringent administration. Historically, it's been the one safe space for queers, particularly queer youth, most of whom truly have no where else to gather. This problem raises questions about racism, classism, and gentricification. It's Gen X vs. Gen Z. It's queer kids from the projects and tranny kids from the streets vs. lofts and co-ops and the celebrities living in Richard Meier's riverfront glass palaces. It's about the continuing eroding of civility and manners vs. the venal world of real estate.
Read the Voice article and tell me what you think. I'm really stuck on this one.
(via Towleroad)
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
Finer Specimens of Human Beings
One of my guiding principles ever since I started transition in 1994 is that I want to be BETTER than the genetic women around me.
It's not because I think that I'm superior to other people. Far from it. I'm human and I do make mistakes from time to time. But I've had to work hard to become the Phenomenal Transwoman that I've become and I'm a human being that has the unique gift of having lived on both sides of the gender fence. So I don't take my femininty for granted. I have also been blessed with the God-given gifts of intelligence and the ability to articulate my thoughts in written word.
I realize that in a community that desperately needs positive role
models, I have to lead by example and be prepared to explain to our
fellow African-Americans and others what an African-American transperson is really all about beyond the stereotypes.
It's a committment to excellence. It is as old school as the guiding
values of our people that we brought from Africa and it's past time for them to be applied to our subset of the African-American community.
If you're going to be a female illusionist, be the best damned one you
can be. Like it or not, you are a representation of our community.
That also applies to the rest of us. Whatever your profession is, be the best at it.
The Houston GLBT community has a saying that is posted in several Montrose bars:
What I do reflects on you. What you do reflects on me. What WE do
affects the ENTIRE gay community.
When I pick up my Trinity on April 7 I will be representing not only
myself but the TSTB list and our commmunity. Dawn was representing us
when she did her radio/TV interview last month. Tona is on the road
representing us right now in her quest to become a 21st century
Leontyne Price. Joshua is about to start a church. Jeana is in school
representing us on the other side of The Pond. There are other African-American transpeople that I hopefully will get to meet that are making similar strides to forever destroy those negative stereotypes of what African-American transpeople can and cannot do.
Am I dreaming? Damned skippy I am. But as someone once said 'If
your mind can conceive it you can achieve it.' There is power and a
wonderful sense of accomplishment when you conceive something and it comes to fruition. No one was happier than I was last fall when I walked around the Galt House and realized that my dream of an African-American transgender convention had just come true. We're now taking that to the next level and building a community.
I don't ever want another African descended transkid to grow up like
we all did in terms of not having role models or not knowing their history.
Our transkids need to know that being trans is not the end of their life but the point when they can become the finer specimens of human beings that God intended them to be.
My Past, Revealed
Yes, it's true, Finnish porn blogger Pete, who authors Roids And Rants, has indeed unearthed a bit of my past, as I realized after getting buried with hits from his site during the night. But I swear, it's not what it looks like. More on this later today, with a photo.
(By the way, in case the words "porn blogger" didn't tip you off, Pete's site is SO totally NOT fucking work safe. Seriously, you're halfway to being fired just reading this disclaimer.)
UPDATE: By now, those of you able to go look should know that despite what Pete considers an "uncanny resemblance", the Colt Model in question is definitely not me. But what is uncanny, and the main reason I linked Pete's post, is that I'm actually friends with said Colt Model. I met "R" (I'm forgetting his professional name at the moment) on the beach in Fort Lauderdale while back home on vacation back in 2000, and he visited me in San Francisco later that year. He's a good man and we've stayed in touch over the years.
And by the way, while most of my friends did question my dallying with a guy almost two decades younger than me, (while simultaneously expressing their jealousy), none of them thought that we looked alike. Here's a picture of us, taken at a nightclub in South Beach in March 2000. Somebody jump-start the Wayback Machine, I'd like my triceps back.
(By the way, in case the words "porn blogger" didn't tip you off, Pete's site is SO totally NOT fucking work safe. Seriously, you're halfway to being fired just reading this disclaimer.)
UPDATE: By now, those of you able to go look should know that despite what Pete considers an "uncanny resemblance", the Colt Model in question is definitely not me. But what is uncanny, and the main reason I linked Pete's post, is that I'm actually friends with said Colt Model. I met "R" (I'm forgetting his professional name at the moment) on the beach in Fort Lauderdale while back home on vacation back in 2000, and he visited me in San Francisco later that year. He's a good man and we've stayed in touch over the years.
And by the way, while most of my friends did question my dallying with a guy almost two decades younger than me, (while simultaneously expressing their jealousy), none of them thought that we looked alike. Here's a picture of us, taken at a nightclub in South Beach in March 2000. Somebody jump-start the Wayback Machine, I'd like my triceps back.
The East Bay Mind Fuck
San Francisco, 1997
Walking behind the guy I'd just met in the Powerhouse, I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, Joe. Just how hard up are you?" I preferred having sex in my own place, so I could kick the other guy(s) out afterwards and get some sleep. And here I'd just agreed to follow this dude all the fucking way to Berkeley. But he was handsome, furry, and muscular. You'd have gone to Berkeley for this guy too.
Fortunately, the ride over to the East Bay was quick. Somewhere that seemed more Emeryville than Berkeley, my "date" (let's call him Sam) slowed down in front of an rather impressive looking apartment building and with some waving, indicated that I was to find parking on the street. Sam drove into his building's garage and I began hunting for a space. And hunting. And hunting. A couple of times I thought I'd even lost where his building was. Several blocks away, I found a questionable parking space alongside a dumpster and decided to chance it.
When I walked up to Sam's building, he was standing inside the front vestibule, peering anxiously up the street. He pushed the door open for me and said, "I'm really sorry about the parking problem around here. You were taking so long, I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about me." He looked down and added, "Not that I'd blame you if you did."
That seemed a bit odd. He'd seemed so confident in the bar, almost cocky. Probably why I was attracted to him in the first place. We got into the elevator and Sam fumbled with his keys. He had the penthouse and needed a key to take the elevator to his floor. I made a mental note not to comment on how well off he must have been. The door opened directly into his place and we stepped out into one of the most spectacular apartments I'd ever been in. Floor to ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of downtown San Francisco and both bridges. The effect was stunning.
Equally stunning, however, was the decor. It was if a thrice-divorced woman had gone on a mad spree at Pier One or QVC with a stolen Mastercard. There was not a seating surface that had not been throw-pillowed, not a shelf or counter-top that had not been Hummeled into submission. I got the impression that the entire apartment had been arranged from the viewpoint of the elevator entrance, everything seemed to be angled towards making that first impression.
Sam said, "Why don't we sit on the couch and have a drink?" Again, he cast his eyes down. "I'll get you whatever you want. I have everything. You say it and I'll get it immediately." I started to get an idea where this visit was headed. I pushed a pile of beaded pillows off the sofa and sat down. "A beer is fine." Sam nodded, "Yes-" He seemed to cut himself off and scurried away.
Sam returned with a six pack and placed it on the coffee table, taking care to slide an Ikea catalog underneath. He handed me a beer, and again with that curious downward look, said, "I was thinking on the way over here that you were probably an OK guy, since you go to the Powerhouse. You have to be pretty open-minded to go to the Powerhouse."
I raised my eyebrows. "You do? I thought you just had to like beer and slutty men."
"Oh, I mean that...you know...Powerhouse being a leather bar and all, you wouldn't be there unless you were, um....open to stuff."
"Here it comes," I thought. What was it gonna be this time? Spanking? Bondage? I steeled myself to be non-reactive when he laid it on me. I smiled faintly. "And just what is it that you are hoping I'll be open to?"
Sam leaned forward and put his beer on a copy of Martha Steward Living. "Don't think I'm a freak or anything, but I'm really into.....being humiliated."
Fuck. I hate the mental kinks. The physical stuff is easy. Shackle this, electrify that. If I know how the gear works, I can go through the motions even though the thrill is pretty much one-sided. But the mental stuff, the mind fucks, the stuff where I have lines to say and have to act, that shit can be pretty tiresome at times. But not always. I'll be the first to say that on occasion I may have gotten a little too into the "Cruel Daddy Master" schtick. On the occasions when I could successfully stifle any giggling, that is.
So it was with utter nonchalance that I said, "Humiliated, how?"
I could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Sam's forehead. "Well, that's up to you. SIR. I'm just really into being in the presence of a superior man. You know, a superior man that isn't afraid to tell me how beneath him I am." I didn't say anything. Sam stole a glance at me and looked at the floor again and said softly, "But how you tell me, you know....that's up to you...Sir."
Jesus. I had to act and I had to improvise? Trying to buy some time, I made a weak, terrible joke, something that I'd heard a stand-up comic say. "You want humiliation? How 'bout we start with this fucking wicker sofa?"
Sam's eyes flew wide open and a fearful look spread over his face. "I know. It's a terrible sofa. I'm lucky to have a superior man like you sitting on it." He fell to his knees in front of me and looked up, his face now completely wet, flushed with eagerness and excitement. "What else?" he pleaded.
I pointed at an armoire. "And what the fuck have you got over there? The entire fucking Franklin Mint? What are you, a man or some pussy housewife?"
Sam rubbed his crotch and reached out for mine. "Yes sir. I know. It's terrible."
Emboldened by his touch and caught up in his excitement, I almost shouted, "Did you macrame' those plant holders yourself, you bitch?"
Sam pulled his cock out and began jacking it furiously while undoing my belt with his other hand. "My....mother did. But...I....helped her!"
I sat back to allow Sam to get my pants open, foolishly hoping that once the actual sex started, I could ease off on the "humiliation". Sam pulled my cock out and started sucking it, but stopped just long enough to hiss, "What else?"
My eyes darted around the room. "Oh, um....um...I would definitely have gone in another direction with that window treatment." Apparently, that wasn't harsh enough because the fervor in Sam's sucking eased off. He waited. I knew he wanted more but for the life of me, I couldn't find a new target for decor derision. I turned around a little bit but I couldn't see into the bedroom.
"What else?" Sam whispered insistently, his mouth still on my cock. I could see his own cock beginning to deflate. I was blowing the scene as badly as he was blowing me. I whipped my head around, looking for something, anything to ridicule. In desperation, I was about to return to the topic of the wicker furniture when Sam decided to help me.
"The ahdwuk!" he mumbled, then pulled his mouth off my cock and repeated. "What about my artwork!"
Bingo. He had a chrome-framed Nagel. I went to town. And so did Sam. Twenty minutes later I was paying my toll, westbound on the Bay Bridge.
Walking behind the guy I'd just met in the Powerhouse, I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, Joe. Just how hard up are you?" I preferred having sex in my own place, so I could kick the other guy(s) out afterwards and get some sleep. And here I'd just agreed to follow this dude all the fucking way to Berkeley. But he was handsome, furry, and muscular. You'd have gone to Berkeley for this guy too.
Fortunately, the ride over to the East Bay was quick. Somewhere that seemed more Emeryville than Berkeley, my "date" (let's call him Sam) slowed down in front of an rather impressive looking apartment building and with some waving, indicated that I was to find parking on the street. Sam drove into his building's garage and I began hunting for a space. And hunting. And hunting. A couple of times I thought I'd even lost where his building was. Several blocks away, I found a questionable parking space alongside a dumpster and decided to chance it.
When I walked up to Sam's building, he was standing inside the front vestibule, peering anxiously up the street. He pushed the door open for me and said, "I'm really sorry about the parking problem around here. You were taking so long, I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about me." He looked down and added, "Not that I'd blame you if you did."
That seemed a bit odd. He'd seemed so confident in the bar, almost cocky. Probably why I was attracted to him in the first place. We got into the elevator and Sam fumbled with his keys. He had the penthouse and needed a key to take the elevator to his floor. I made a mental note not to comment on how well off he must have been. The door opened directly into his place and we stepped out into one of the most spectacular apartments I'd ever been in. Floor to ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of downtown San Francisco and both bridges. The effect was stunning.
Equally stunning, however, was the decor. It was if a thrice-divorced woman had gone on a mad spree at Pier One or QVC with a stolen Mastercard. There was not a seating surface that had not been throw-pillowed, not a shelf or counter-top that had not been Hummeled into submission. I got the impression that the entire apartment had been arranged from the viewpoint of the elevator entrance, everything seemed to be angled towards making that first impression.
Sam said, "Why don't we sit on the couch and have a drink?" Again, he cast his eyes down. "I'll get you whatever you want. I have everything. You say it and I'll get it immediately." I started to get an idea where this visit was headed. I pushed a pile of beaded pillows off the sofa and sat down. "A beer is fine." Sam nodded, "Yes-" He seemed to cut himself off and scurried away.
Sam returned with a six pack and placed it on the coffee table, taking care to slide an Ikea catalog underneath. He handed me a beer, and again with that curious downward look, said, "I was thinking on the way over here that you were probably an OK guy, since you go to the Powerhouse. You have to be pretty open-minded to go to the Powerhouse."
I raised my eyebrows. "You do? I thought you just had to like beer and slutty men."
"Oh, I mean that...you know...Powerhouse being a leather bar and all, you wouldn't be there unless you were, um....open to stuff."
"Here it comes," I thought. What was it gonna be this time? Spanking? Bondage? I steeled myself to be non-reactive when he laid it on me. I smiled faintly. "And just what is it that you are hoping I'll be open to?"
Sam leaned forward and put his beer on a copy of Martha Steward Living. "Don't think I'm a freak or anything, but I'm really into.....being humiliated."
Fuck. I hate the mental kinks. The physical stuff is easy. Shackle this, electrify that. If I know how the gear works, I can go through the motions even though the thrill is pretty much one-sided. But the mental stuff, the mind fucks, the stuff where I have lines to say and have to act, that shit can be pretty tiresome at times. But not always. I'll be the first to say that on occasion I may have gotten a little too into the "Cruel Daddy Master" schtick. On the occasions when I could successfully stifle any giggling, that is.
So it was with utter nonchalance that I said, "Humiliated, how?"
I could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Sam's forehead. "Well, that's up to you. SIR. I'm just really into being in the presence of a superior man. You know, a superior man that isn't afraid to tell me how beneath him I am." I didn't say anything. Sam stole a glance at me and looked at the floor again and said softly, "But how you tell me, you know....that's up to you...Sir."
Jesus. I had to act and I had to improvise? Trying to buy some time, I made a weak, terrible joke, something that I'd heard a stand-up comic say. "You want humiliation? How 'bout we start with this fucking wicker sofa?"
Sam's eyes flew wide open and a fearful look spread over his face. "I know. It's a terrible sofa. I'm lucky to have a superior man like you sitting on it." He fell to his knees in front of me and looked up, his face now completely wet, flushed with eagerness and excitement. "What else?" he pleaded.
I pointed at an armoire. "And what the fuck have you got over there? The entire fucking Franklin Mint? What are you, a man or some pussy housewife?"
Sam rubbed his crotch and reached out for mine. "Yes sir. I know. It's terrible."
Emboldened by his touch and caught up in his excitement, I almost shouted, "Did you macrame' those plant holders yourself, you bitch?"
Sam pulled his cock out and began jacking it furiously while undoing my belt with his other hand. "My....mother did. But...I....helped her!"
I sat back to allow Sam to get my pants open, foolishly hoping that once the actual sex started, I could ease off on the "humiliation". Sam pulled my cock out and started sucking it, but stopped just long enough to hiss, "What else?"
My eyes darted around the room. "Oh, um....um...I would definitely have gone in another direction with that window treatment." Apparently, that wasn't harsh enough because the fervor in Sam's sucking eased off. He waited. I knew he wanted more but for the life of me, I couldn't find a new target for decor derision. I turned around a little bit but I couldn't see into the bedroom.
"What else?" Sam whispered insistently, his mouth still on my cock. I could see his own cock beginning to deflate. I was blowing the scene as badly as he was blowing me. I whipped my head around, looking for something, anything to ridicule. In desperation, I was about to return to the topic of the wicker furniture when Sam decided to help me.
"The ahdwuk!" he mumbled, then pulled his mouth off my cock and repeated. "What about my artwork!"
Bingo. He had a chrome-framed Nagel. I went to town. And so did Sam. Twenty minutes later I was paying my toll, westbound on the Bay Bridge.
Make-Good
In answer to those of you who have written and left comments regarding Bagpiper Hunt '06, I'm sorry to report that I never came across the young man in question. In the publishing world, when you fail to deliver, you sometimes have to offer your client compensation, called a "make-good". So here's a lovely photo I took of the Flatiron Building, where according to legend, young men would gather to watch how the unique wind patterns created by the building would blow the skirts of young ladies up over their heads. See how I tied all that together? Bagpipers-skirts? Flatiron-skirts? 23 skidoo!
Invisible Trans
Back in 2001 an African-American transwoman friend of mine went to Washington DC to lobby. She decided to concentrate on Congressional Black Caucus members in her efforts to garner support for the Hate Crimes Prevention Act and ENDA. (The Employment Non Discrimination Act). When she arrived at her first CBC office she was given an enthusiastic welcome. The story was repeated at the next several CBC office visits. When she mentioned the warm greetings she’d received in another CBC member office later in the day she was told why.
Caucasian transgender activists had been visiting those offices on their various Capitol Hill lobby days. When they were asked where are the African-American transpeople, the staffer was told by a well-known transgender activist “They don’t exist.”
With the recent release of the Oscar nominated movie Transamerica once again the publicity spotlight is focused on transgender people. A diverse array of media outlets ranging from documentaries such as ‘Transgeneration’ and ‘Southern Comfort’, television, radio and newspaper interviews to CNN”s Larry King Show have discussed the movie and the individual lives of transgender people. While l welcome the attention being paid to transgender people there’s one glaring problem with it: The people being discussed and profiled are overwhelmingly white.
This isn’t a new dilemma. Ever since Christine Jorgensen stepped off her flight from Denmark to the glare of the media spotlight in February 1953 a disproportionate share of media attention has been allocated toward white transgender people.
It’s not like there’s been a total blackout (pardon the pun) of news and information about us. It’s that we have the same problems getting coverage as our mainstream African-American brothers and sisters. You could read about Black transgender people in occasional Ebony or Jet articles through the years. In those cases their coverage of us was more enlightened than the mainstream media coverage. For example, a 1979 Jet article on Detroit’s Justina Williams used the proper pronouns to describe her two decades before the AP came out with its 2000 Style Handbook guideline for GLBT people.
Recent research done by the University of Michigan’s Dr. Lynn Conway indicates that one out of every 250 births in the United States is a transgendered person and the study’s results have been replicated in Britain and Thailand. Out of the 34,772,381 people that identify themselves as African-American about 1 million of them are transgender. So we definitely exist despite the comments of that white transactivist.
The invisibility has had a cost. I can remember growing up in the 70’s seeing people like Renee Richards and a long list of Caucasian transpeople and wondering ‘Where are the people that look like me?’ It wasn’t until 1999 that I met another out African-American transgender person who was working in corporate America like I was at the time.
That’s important because unfortunately many of the images you see in conjunction with African-American transgender people are either female illusionists or sex workers. If you are a reasonably intelligent African-American kid with a gender identity issue and you don’t see any positive role models to counteract the other images, that’s a problem. You end up with a situation in which this person thinks that they’re the ‘only one’ or believe that those are the only avenues open to them as a transperson. It’s a contributing factor to the distressingly high body count documented on Gwen Smith’s Remembering our Dead List, a website which tracks anti-transgender violence. About 70% of the more than 200 names on that list are African-American or Latina
Those who transitioned in the 60’s, 70’s and early 80’s were told by their therapists to blend in and never reveal their transgender status. So an opportunity was lost for transkids like myself to see positive role models or know my African-American transgender history. It also kept us from building a viable national transgender community the way white trans people have done.
So where are the African-American transgender people such as myself that are college educated, well-adjusted and doing things in their community? You’ll find us out and about in the world working, playing and just living our lives to the best of our ability. Many of us are managers working in various fields and even married and raising kids. We're sick and tired of the negative images we are disproportionately saddled with.
I decided to start a Yahoo list called Transsistahs-Transbrothas in January 2004 to talk about it. The meetings of like minds on that list led to discussions that culminated in the first annual Transsistahs-Transbrothas Conference that was held in Louisville, KY in September 2005. During this four day gathering African-American transmen and transwomen spent the time networking, strategizing and attending workshops and seminars on various issues of importance to African-American transpeople such as HIV/AIDS, spirituality, hate crimes, community building and the lack of media visibility. The second annual TSTBC conference will take place in Louisville October 18-22 and expand on many of those topics.
TSTBC is a start, but the onus on ending the visibility problems of the African-American transgender community is on us. We must take the lead in writing, producing and telling our own stories. We must build our own community and network with other African-American transactivists and allies building community on a local scale.
We need to have African-American media outlets and personalities take the lead in educating our people on gender issues. We must do it not only for ourselves but also for the African-American transkids coming behind us.
We cannot, must not and will not be invisible any longer.
" 'Impeach Bush' Chorus Grows"
There's an interesting article in the UK's Sunday Times regarding the growing movement to impeach/censure our president. (It's worth remembering that it was the Sunday Times that uncovered the infamous Downing Street Memo.)
As the article notes, it will be most amusing to watch the same Republicans in Congress who impeached Bill Clinton over a blowjob, try to weasel and squirm their way out of impeaching a man who lied and misled the nation into a war that has devastated the national budget and caused thousands of American deaths.
Also, most annoying in the article is the news that my Senator, Hillary Clinton, is continuing to duck reporters calling for her position on the impeachment issue. I've just called her Manhattan office (212-688-6262) and left a message asking her to call me back and explain herself.
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As the article notes, it will be most amusing to watch the same Republicans in Congress who impeached Bill Clinton over a blowjob, try to weasel and squirm their way out of impeaching a man who lied and misled the nation into a war that has devastated the national budget and caused thousands of American deaths.
Also, most annoying in the article is the news that my Senator, Hillary Clinton, is continuing to duck reporters calling for her position on the impeachment issue. I've just called her Manhattan office (212-688-6262) and left a message asking her to call me back and explain herself.
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The Property Known As Garland
Last night I attended a preview performance of The Property Known As Garland, starring Adrienne Barbeau. My companion for the evening was fellow blogger David, of Someone In A Tree, and he and I both nearly gasped at how amazing the 61 year old Barbeau looks. If she's had work done, it was very, very good.The premise of the play is that it's the final night of Garland's last European tour, and we are backstage at what would prove to be her final public performace in Copenhagen. Barbeau told Playbill: "It's a two-character play. It takes place backstage the night of what turned out to be [Garland's] last performance at the Falkoner Center. She's getting ready to go on, and the young stage manager keeps coming in to try and make sure she's ready to go on. She's hesitant and starts telling stories to postpone having to go onstage, and it's a very witty play. It's sort of a love letter to her I think — a tribute to her, to her spirit and her survival instincts and her wit."
Althought there is a second character, essentially this is a one-woman show, a series of show biz stories from Garland's life, told directly to the audience with with numerous audio flashbacks, in which the stage lights dimmed, a spotlight shone on Barbeau, and we heard an offstage voice from Garland's past (her mother, Louis B. Mayer, etc) Both David and I found this device rather gimmicky and tiresome after the first, say... 300 times they did it.
David and I also agreed that Barbeau's performance was near flawless, despite the not-so-great writing. It's a demanding role, Barbeau shoulders 95% of the dialogue and is on stage for the entire 80 minutes (no intermission) of the show. The Property Known As Garland was written by Barbeau's husband, Billy Van Zandt, but I'd have to say that in this case, nepotism was a good thing. Barbeau didn't attempt to do a drag performance of Garland, which we appreciated. She physically resembles Garland at that age, and as David put it, the performance was an "evocation, not an impersonation."Incidentally, The Property Known As Garland features no music other than that can be heard drifting backstage from Garland's opening act, and some recorded audio moments. Previews continue for another few days and The Property Known As Garland officially opens on March 23rd. The Actors Playhouse is in the West Village at 100 South Seventh Avenue. Get tickets here.
Just by coincidence, I happened to catch Barbeau on cable in Creepshow, right before leaving for the theatre. Of course, aside from being Bea Arthur's daughter Carol, on the TV's famed Maude, you may know Barbeau best from campy horror flick, The Fog. Don't go into the fog! But do go see Barbeau as Garland. And that, gentle readers, may be the gayest advice you get this week.
UPDATE: I neglected to directly link David's review, which is here.
He Ain't Lyin'
Friday, 2PM, the corner of Madison & 50th Street
Very Drunk Guy #1: Dude, is it just me or is playing the bagpipes totally gay?
Very Drunk Guy#2: What you talkin' 'bout?
Very Drunk Guy#1: I mean, blowing on those long, hard, round pipes? Squeezing that big ole hairy sack? While yer wearin' a skirt with your junk all hanging out?
Third Drunk Guy Standing Nearby: He ain't lyin'!
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Very Drunk Guy #1: Dude, is it just me or is playing the bagpipes totally gay?
Very Drunk Guy#2: What you talkin' 'bout?
Very Drunk Guy#1: I mean, blowing on those long, hard, round pipes? Squeezing that big ole hairy sack? While yer wearin' a skirt with your junk all hanging out?
Third Drunk Guy Standing Nearby: He ain't lyin'!
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Erin Gay Bragh
I suppose I should comment further on the usual annual brouhaha regarding the banning of gay Irish groups from marching in New York City's massive St. Patrick's Day Parade. I'm a strong believer in the right of assembly. If the parade organizers don't want gay groups in the parade, well that sucks, they're bigots, but they have a right to their bigotry, blah blah blah.
If gay Irish groups want to march in the St. Patrick's Parade, they should work from within to change the opinions of the organizers, not force their admittance through the courts. Yes, the St. Patrick's Day parade is a "public" event, but so is the Pride parade and with a precedent of forced parade admission, it's easy to imagine the nightmare of a Pride parade with contingents from the Westboro Baptist Church or Exodus or any other anti-gay group.
Of course, my noble thoughts on freedom of assembly are sorely tested when the Head Bozo of the parade, John Dunleavy, compares gay activists to Neo-Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan, saying "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?" Which is kind of my point, but way to make me wanna eat my words, you dumbfuck.
Completely by coincidence, today I ran into a Mrs. John Dunleavy (totally no relation), just outside the Grand Central Deli on Vanderbilt Street, just off the parade route. Mrs. John Dunleavy started her St. Patrick's celebration very early this morning and was sorry to miss most of this year's parade, but she really, really just needed a minute to rest her eyes.
If gay Irish groups want to march in the St. Patrick's Parade, they should work from within to change the opinions of the organizers, not force their admittance through the courts. Yes, the St. Patrick's Day parade is a "public" event, but so is the Pride parade and with a precedent of forced parade admission, it's easy to imagine the nightmare of a Pride parade with contingents from the Westboro Baptist Church or Exodus or any other anti-gay group.
Of course, my noble thoughts on freedom of assembly are sorely tested when the Head Bozo of the parade, John Dunleavy, compares gay activists to Neo-Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan, saying "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?" Which is kind of my point, but way to make me wanna eat my words, you dumbfuck.
Completely by coincidence, today I ran into a Mrs. John Dunleavy (totally no relation), just outside the Grand Central Deli on Vanderbilt Street, just off the parade route. Mrs. John Dunleavy started her St. Patrick's celebration very early this morning and was sorry to miss most of this year's parade, but she really, really just needed a minute to rest her eyes.
I Live In Blog City
The front page of this morning's issue of amNewYork proclaim's New York as "Blog City", and features an interview with none other than Chris Hampton, the founder and emcee of WSYIWYG, the monthly performance showcase for New York bloggers, which I mentioned just a couple of days ago. It's a nice little plug for WYSIWYG, but when the article references NYCbloggers.com and states that "there are more than 6250 independent blogs...scattered throughout the five boroughs", I had to laugh. Yeah, there are more. Like ten times more, at least.
In The Gay-vy
England dropped its version of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" back in 2000. The result? The English navy is working to implement "drama-based" classes to help make straight recruits comfortable with their gay shipmates. They want to train the straight sailors to act gay, presumably in order to make them understand what the other side is feeling. "No, no no! You're doing it all wrong! First you say the bitchy remark, THEN you snap your fingers in his face. Now try it again, but this time, call him 'fat and tired'."
Soon To Be On A T-Shirt Near You
Jamie Raskin, my new favorite Senatorial candidate, testified before the Maryland legislature this week, regarding the anti-gay marriage amendment currently before that body. After Republican Senator Nancy Jacobs made the typical Xtian comment regarding the Bible and upholding Xtian values, Raskin said this:
"People place their hand on the Bible and swear to uphold the Constitution; they don't put their hand on the Constitution and swear to uphold the Bible."
Where do I order that t-shirt?
(via Worth Repeating)
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"People place their hand on the Bible and swear to uphold the Constitution; they don't put their hand on the Constitution and swear to uphold the Bible."
Where do I order that t-shirt?
(via Worth Repeating)
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Tomorrow: Photo Harassment
Tomorrow is St.Patrick's Day and as a genuine, authentic, so-Irish-it-hurts, Irish-American, I shall be among the millions lining Fifth Avenue for the world's largest St.Patrick's Day parade. The massing of thousands of handsome men, wearing kilts for a legitimate reason (don't get me started on "Utilikilts") is something I cannot ignore. I took this picture of the sexy bagpiper pictured on the left, during 2004's parade. 
And so I was mildly impressed with myself to spot the same guy last year, as he strode past me to join his contingent. Note his wary sideways glance at me. Perhaps he recognized me also, as that perverted old queer who'd forced him to pose the previous year? No matter. Harrassing the hot Irish boys in skirts is my own personal way of protesting the continuing ban on any gay Irish groups from marching in the parade. If I manage to capture him again this year, I shall immediately post my victory in this space. Tally...um...ho.
Dyke Or No Dyke?
Today's bit of New Yorkana is Biff Elrod's Ascent-Descent mural that greets commuters at the top of the entrance to the PATH train's Christopher Street station. For years I've thought that the artwork was a nod to the station's presence in the middle of the gayborhood, and that these were two gay men, passing each other on the stairs. But last weekend a friend argued that the person on the left is a woman, and that's she's definitely a "bra-less hussy". If that's true, I still think the artwork is an homage to the neighborhood. Look at her. No make-up, no jewelry, no bra, man-hair. Definitely family, don't you think? (Above photo by me.)
Short Cuts
- WYSIWYG's first event in its new home, the Bowery Poetry Club, is next Tuesday. This month's theme: Starfuckers: Close Encounters Of The Famous Kind. Last month's final Wizzy in the old location, the revered P.S. 122, was way sold-out, so don't arrive on GST.
- Kenneth Hill, the "Gayest Editor Ever" and managing editor of AOL's gay & lesbian section, has a blog. Nice blogroll, man!
- Out of the blue: I've just decided that if I ever open a leather/SM shop, I'm calling it Slings-N-Things.
- An oldie that cheered me up this weekend: 1981's Class Action classic "Weekend", spun by DJ Paul Ferrer at the NYC Eagle. "Oh, me? Why yes, I'm getting ready to go out. Oh, no no NO. No, I know you didn't think I was staying home tonight!" Lyrics.
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- Kenneth Hill, the "Gayest Editor Ever" and managing editor of AOL's gay & lesbian section, has a blog. Nice blogroll, man!
- Out of the blue: I've just decided that if I ever open a leather/SM shop, I'm calling it Slings-N-Things.
- An oldie that cheered me up this weekend: 1981's Class Action classic "Weekend", spun by DJ Paul Ferrer at the NYC Eagle. "Oh, me? Why yes, I'm getting ready to go out. Oh, no no NO. No, I know you didn't think I was staying home tonight!" Lyrics.
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Holy Dirt
My talented buddy Steve Schalchlin, whose most recent musical The Big Voice won just about every award on the West Coast, including the Ovation for Best Musical, just sent me the link to a new song, Holy Dirt, from a work in progress. Check it out, it's very timely. And go ahead and leave Steve some feedback.
Holy Dirt (Cube dwellers warning: Sound.)
Holy Dirt (Cube dwellers warning: Sound.)
A Question For Human Resources
After witnessing a long and heated argument between a Rite-Aid cashier and her manager, I walked back to my office pondering a Worker's Comp question. If an employee gets a Repetitive Stress Injury from continuously making that patented black girl "Oh, no you di'int!" neck movement, is that a legitimate cause for filing a claim?
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My New York
Over the last few days.......
- I bought a burrito at a Vietnamese-owned and staffed restaurant that advertises "Authentic & Fresh Tex-Mex!"
- I stood on the subway platform and watched a band of ethnic-Japanese Peruvians play a Spanish-titled pop song by a Swedish group, using Greek instruments.
- I visited the all-Russian staffed Burger King on 40th Street where a German woman spat on her boyfriend, shrieking "Hund! Hund!"
- I bought a newspaper at the kiosk outside my building, where the friendly Indian man was singing in Urdu, as he often does when he's in a good mood.
- I rode in a taxi driven by a young man from the West Indies who had his radio tuned to a cricket match taking place in Pakistan.
- I witnessed some street drama in which a woman was screaming, " Help! Help! Please! Does anybody speak Cantonese?", because an Asian man was violently shaking his wailing toddler granddaughter, and was ignoring the pleas from passers-by that he stop.
- I followed a friend into a Sri-Lankan-owned porn shop where he looked at, but did not buy, Brazilian gay porn. Every dirty bookstore in New York is owned by Sri-Lankans.
- I watched an unintentionally hilarious local cable access Hindu devotional program, sponsored by a Queens carpet retailer which is having a "Vishnu's Birthday Blowout Sale!" I don't know when Vishnu's birthday is, so it might have been a rerun.
- I met a Japanese businessman and his Kiwi boyfriend, who suggested I stop by for a drink, "next time you're in Kyoto Prefecture."
This is my New York. I think if I lived in Middle America, I'd feel like I was from a different planet.
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- I bought a burrito at a Vietnamese-owned and staffed restaurant that advertises "Authentic & Fresh Tex-Mex!"
- I stood on the subway platform and watched a band of ethnic-Japanese Peruvians play a Spanish-titled pop song by a Swedish group, using Greek instruments.
- I visited the all-Russian staffed Burger King on 40th Street where a German woman spat on her boyfriend, shrieking "Hund! Hund!"
- I bought a newspaper at the kiosk outside my building, where the friendly Indian man was singing in Urdu, as he often does when he's in a good mood.
- I rode in a taxi driven by a young man from the West Indies who had his radio tuned to a cricket match taking place in Pakistan.
- I witnessed some street drama in which a woman was screaming, " Help! Help! Please! Does anybody speak Cantonese?", because an Asian man was violently shaking his wailing toddler granddaughter, and was ignoring the pleas from passers-by that he stop.
- I followed a friend into a Sri-Lankan-owned porn shop where he looked at, but did not buy, Brazilian gay porn. Every dirty bookstore in New York is owned by Sri-Lankans.
- I watched an unintentionally hilarious local cable access Hindu devotional program, sponsored by a Queens carpet retailer which is having a "Vishnu's Birthday Blowout Sale!" I don't know when Vishnu's birthday is, so it might have been a rerun.
- I met a Japanese businessman and his Kiwi boyfriend, who suggested I stop by for a drink, "next time you're in Kyoto Prefecture."
This is my New York. I think if I lived in Middle America, I'd feel like I was from a different planet.
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Riddle Me This, Batman
What do the following have in common?
-Brokeback Mountain
-Michelle Kwan
-New Jersey Generals
-Betamax
-Chicago Cubs
-Joe.My.God.
-France
Answer to follow in this space.
UPDATE: As some of you have noted, the anwer to my riddle is that all of those names are known for being losers. The list was prompted by yesterday's win by gossip blog Queerty, in the 2006 Bloggies Awards, widely considered the "Oscars" of blogging. Congrats to David and Bradford and the staffers over at Queerty. Condolences to my fellow losers: Little.Yellow.Different, Towleroad, and Good As You.
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-Brokeback Mountain
-Michelle Kwan
-New Jersey Generals
-Betamax
-Chicago Cubs
-Joe.My.God.
-France
Answer to follow in this space.
UPDATE: As some of you have noted, the anwer to my riddle is that all of those names are known for being losers. The list was prompted by yesterday's win by gossip blog Queerty, in the 2006 Bloggies Awards, widely considered the "Oscars" of blogging. Congrats to David and Bradford and the staffers over at Queerty. Condolences to my fellow losers: Little.Yellow.Different, Towleroad, and Good As You.
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On Beer, Hair, And Ports Security
Yesterday afternoon, a small group of my friends and I were hard at work, adjacent to the Hudson Piers, doing our patriotic duty to ensure that all shipping of beers from the bar to our corner of the room was done only by certified mostly-Americans. We were at constant high alert that absolutely no beers would be handled or transported by any dirty foreigners, especially nun'a'dem shifty United Arab Emiritians. The safety and security of our nation's beer portals is always our utmost concern.
Well...that was the original plan, anyhow. Typical of your standard American jingoistic edict, our Zone Of Safe Transport was thwarted almost at once, by that most cunning of sexy foreign operatives, the Hung Brazilian, who brazenly defied our trade sanctions with a wave of a $20 bill and a thickly accented offer to buy us all a round. Talk's cheap, and draft beer is $3 a pop, so from there ensued a raft of extralegal non-domestic beer shipping. Yes, we can be bought. We're a lot like the Port Authority that way.
After the Brazilian shipment, we accepted delivery from a nation on the State Department's Travel Warning list. That shipment was followed immediately by a shipment from that new country on the outskirts of Turkey. You know, the one that's shaped like a clock? It's called Tofurkey or Turducken or something like that. Anyway, all that dirty foreign-funded beer began to fill me up with shame. And beer. I felt so un-American. And drunk. I left my not-American beer shippers and their discussion of the finals on Pakistani Idol (fo' realz, swear!), and slipped away towards the can.
Just outside the restroom door, my elbow was grabbed by a passing acquaintance. "Hey, Joe. I've been meaning to ask you something. You don't have to answer if it's too personal."
Well, there's no way this will end well, is there?
"Too personal? Hehe, that doesn't sound good," our hero muttered with false joviality.
"Ha, ha. Yeah, well I've just been meaning to ask you if you are using that hair stuff, you know, Propecia or whatever."
I shook my head. "Nope. All I use on my hair is Irish Spring. Where did this come from?"
"Oh, well I've just been noticing that the last few times I've seen you, you don't look as bald as you usually do."
Oh. Thanks?
Tell the man in the turban that I'm ready for another round.
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Well...that was the original plan, anyhow. Typical of your standard American jingoistic edict, our Zone Of Safe Transport was thwarted almost at once, by that most cunning of sexy foreign operatives, the Hung Brazilian, who brazenly defied our trade sanctions with a wave of a $20 bill and a thickly accented offer to buy us all a round. Talk's cheap, and draft beer is $3 a pop, so from there ensued a raft of extralegal non-domestic beer shipping. Yes, we can be bought. We're a lot like the Port Authority that way.
After the Brazilian shipment, we accepted delivery from a nation on the State Department's Travel Warning list. That shipment was followed immediately by a shipment from that new country on the outskirts of Turkey. You know, the one that's shaped like a clock? It's called Tofurkey or Turducken or something like that. Anyway, all that dirty foreign-funded beer began to fill me up with shame. And beer. I felt so un-American. And drunk. I left my not-American beer shippers and their discussion of the finals on Pakistani Idol (fo' realz, swear!), and slipped away towards the can.
Just outside the restroom door, my elbow was grabbed by a passing acquaintance. "Hey, Joe. I've been meaning to ask you something. You don't have to answer if it's too personal."
Well, there's no way this will end well, is there?
"Too personal? Hehe, that doesn't sound good," our hero muttered with false joviality.
"Ha, ha. Yeah, well I've just been meaning to ask you if you are using that hair stuff, you know, Propecia or whatever."
I shook my head. "Nope. All I use on my hair is Irish Spring. Where did this come from?"
"Oh, well I've just been noticing that the last few times I've seen you, you don't look as bald as you usually do."
Oh. Thanks?
Tell the man in the turban that I'm ready for another round.
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Ball. Rolling.
Thirty Democratic Representatives have cosigned onto Rep. John Conyers' (D-MI) House Resolution 635 which calls for a special Select Committee to look into impeachable illegal acts committed by Bush II. I'm proud to say that my own Representative, Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) is among those 30 who have already signed on as a co-sponsor of the resolution. Is your Congressperson on the list? (via Daily Kos)
Write to your Congressperson and demand that they add their name!
Open The Windows, New York
The high in NYC today is expected to be near 70. It's the first morning in 2006 that I've left the house without hat and gloves, so of course I had a minor spastic attack on the train wondering where I'd dropped them. And would you believe that sometimes I still wonder where my car keys are? (Oh, that's right! I left them in 1995!)I have to hand it to the city for getting us all in the mood for spring. There are fully bloomed flowers in every nook and cranny, like these I found along the Hudson River yesterday. Being a bad gay, I have no idea what kind of flowers they are, but I'm sure one of you boys will be along in a moment to tell me.
UPDATE: Gay men are passionate about flowers! Who knew?
Daddy's Boy
Last spring, one of my buddy Mark's sons was visiting New York and we took him to the auto show at Javitz Center. Mark didn't come out until his mid-40's, after ending a marriage of over 20 years, a marriage that yielded two sons, two sons that have yielded, to date, two grandchildren. After divorcing his wife, Mark moved to New York City and dove headfirst into the leather scene, becoming well known and liked in the bars.
Mark has made peace with one of his sons, Corey, the one we took to the auto show. It's a peace based on an agreement that there would be no more secrets, that Mark would be completely open about his new life. So it felt kind of natural that when we wanted to go for a drink after the auto show, the Eagle would be our destination. Now, over the years, I've met plenty of "Daddies" and "boys" at the Eagle, but I'd never walked in the door with an actual Daddy and his literal boy. I felt like the entire bar was looking at us.
Mark, being the popular guy that he is, waded into the crowd hugging and back-slapping friends, while Corey and I trailed behind. I watched Corey's eyes dart around the room, taking in the erotic artwork, the rough-looking tattoed bartenders, the hairy muscular shirtless men with their arms draped around each other. I watched Corey take in the scene, his first moments ever in any gay bar, and I thought to myself, "Wow, talk about throwing this poor straight kid in the deep end, taking him to the Eagle with his own father."
We all moved to the far end of the bar and took up position under the DJ booth, while Mark secured us drinks at the bar. That's when I saw Corey's head tilt up towards the television over the bar. Following his gaze, I saw that playing on the screen was a particularly hardcore bit of porn. A half-dozen men were gathered around a table. Shackled to the table was a huge hairy bodybuilder, his legs hoisted into hanging chains. The other men were taking turns moving to the end of the table and with snarls and spitting, they were savagely shoving their tongues into the shackled man's asshole. It was a brutal gang-rimming. It was a leather rim-a-rama.
I looked back at Corey. His face was completely blank. Mark returned from the bar with our beers and stopped short, following Corey's eyes up to the television. Mark's face drained of color and he shoved a beer into Corey's hands and shouted, "I NEVER DO THAT!"
Corey took a sip of his beer and shook his head. "Dad, you promised. NO MORE LYING!"
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Mark has made peace with one of his sons, Corey, the one we took to the auto show. It's a peace based on an agreement that there would be no more secrets, that Mark would be completely open about his new life. So it felt kind of natural that when we wanted to go for a drink after the auto show, the Eagle would be our destination. Now, over the years, I've met plenty of "Daddies" and "boys" at the Eagle, but I'd never walked in the door with an actual Daddy and his literal boy. I felt like the entire bar was looking at us.
Mark, being the popular guy that he is, waded into the crowd hugging and back-slapping friends, while Corey and I trailed behind. I watched Corey's eyes dart around the room, taking in the erotic artwork, the rough-looking tattoed bartenders, the hairy muscular shirtless men with their arms draped around each other. I watched Corey take in the scene, his first moments ever in any gay bar, and I thought to myself, "Wow, talk about throwing this poor straight kid in the deep end, taking him to the Eagle with his own father."
We all moved to the far end of the bar and took up position under the DJ booth, while Mark secured us drinks at the bar. That's when I saw Corey's head tilt up towards the television over the bar. Following his gaze, I saw that playing on the screen was a particularly hardcore bit of porn. A half-dozen men were gathered around a table. Shackled to the table was a huge hairy bodybuilder, his legs hoisted into hanging chains. The other men were taking turns moving to the end of the table and with snarls and spitting, they were savagely shoving their tongues into the shackled man's asshole. It was a brutal gang-rimming. It was a leather rim-a-rama.
I looked back at Corey. His face was completely blank. Mark returned from the bar with our beers and stopped short, following Corey's eyes up to the television. Mark's face drained of color and he shoved a beer into Corey's hands and shouted, "I NEVER DO THAT!"
Corey took a sip of his beer and shook his head. "Dad, you promised. NO MORE LYING!"
.
Measure For Pleasure
Friday night I saw Measure For Pleasure, the new David Grimm play making its world premiere at The Public Theatre. The press materials intrigued me: "Restoration comedy meets modern sex farce in this play, exploring the elusive nature of happiness and featuring mistaken identities, duels and double-dealings, gay marriage, and the obligatory sex cave."I called my friend Mike and read that bit to him. "So you wanna go?"
"Sex cave? What's the setting? Steamworks?"
"Actually, it says here that the setting is England, 1751. Wanna go?"
"1751? Um, I don't know."
"There's a trannie hooker in it."
"I'm in."
Said trannie hooker is played by dreamy (those eyes!) Tony nominee Euan Morton, whom I thought was fantastic as Boy George in Taboo. (Yes, I was one of the few that saw Taboo.) Also in the cast is Wayne Knight, best known as the mailman on Seinfeld. I should have mentioned this to Mike, because the first time Knight took the stage, Mike blurted out, "Newman!" (Cut to Joe, shrinking in his seat.) The rest of the cast was unfamiliar to me except for Susan Blommaert, who occasionally appears on Law & Order as Judge Steinman. Although by coincidence, just last night I recognized cast member Saxon Palmer playing a drug dealer on...Law & Order.
The play was funny and clever, although you really have to keep your ears open to catch all the witty (and really dirty) double entendres. Old ladies seated behind me: "It's so bawdy! Didja know it was gonna be so bawdy? It's not obscene, ya know...but it's definitely, um...bawdy!" (I don't know how to spell the word "bawdy" with a horrific Queens accent, so just repeat it outloud to yourself until you reach hilarity.) The plot treads on the familiar themes of love forbidden, love denied, love renewed, however with moments such as the one in which Wayne Knight is chasing someone across the stage while wearing a giant strap-on golden dildo, I was never bored.
I left the show as a huge new fan of Tony nominee Michael Stuhlbarg, who plays the lead character in love with Morton's trannie hooker. The second act opened with a frustratingly brief bit of singing by Morton, which I suspect may have been inserted to highlight his impending CD release, New Clear, which he'll be showcasing at Joe's Pub on March 20th and April 3rd.
Measure For Pleasure officially opens tonight, March 8th.
UPDATE: New York Times review here. AP review here.
This Is Why You're A Temp
"I'm sorry but her voicemail isn't working and I'm really too busy to write down your phone number."
.
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The Cheater Calls
Thursday, 1pm, Corner of Lexington & 42nd Street
It's drizzling a cold sleet. People are using their umbrellas like bumper cars, slaloming their way down the icy sidewalk. I'm waiting to cross Lexington, when a woman behind me starts yelling angrily into her Bluetooth earpiece.
"You have got a lot of fuckin' nerve to call me. You piece of shit. What am I, the biggest schmuck in Manhattan? Don't tell me to calm down. I've never been so fucking betrayed in my life. I'm humiliated. My soul is broken. No. You go fuck yourself, you fuckin' cheating bastard!"
I hazard a look backwards. The woman is in her early 40's, wearing a Donna Karan power suit. She catches me looking at her and I snap my attention back to the Walk/Don't Walk sign. She continues.
"Am I leaving? Are you fucking serious? I'm already gone, fuckhead. I'm coming by later tonight to get my things and you better not fucking be there or I'll don't know what'll happen. You hear me? Do those scumbag friends of yours in your office know what you did to me? Cuz they are gonna find out!"
The light changes and the woman strides past me, her black pointy-toed boots snapping icy water back onto my feet. I'm thinking that she looks remarkably clear-eyed for someone in the middle of such an enormous emotional crisis. She appears to be listening intently to the other person, and when we reach the far curb, then comes the resolution.
"You can beg forgiveness until your fuckin' mother comes outta her grave. But I'll telling you right now, I'll going straight to your office and telling everybody what you did, and then I'm going down to my office and doing the same thing. Then on Monday morning when everybody knows what a scumbag you are and how you cheated me out of my fucking commission on this project, a project that everybody knows I have killed myself on for you, then you see how many fucking traders you have left at the end of the day!"
I watch her head into the lobby of the glass tower on 42nd Street and I wish I could go with her to watch.
.
It's drizzling a cold sleet. People are using their umbrellas like bumper cars, slaloming their way down the icy sidewalk. I'm waiting to cross Lexington, when a woman behind me starts yelling angrily into her Bluetooth earpiece.
"You have got a lot of fuckin' nerve to call me. You piece of shit. What am I, the biggest schmuck in Manhattan? Don't tell me to calm down. I've never been so fucking betrayed in my life. I'm humiliated. My soul is broken. No. You go fuck yourself, you fuckin' cheating bastard!"
I hazard a look backwards. The woman is in her early 40's, wearing a Donna Karan power suit. She catches me looking at her and I snap my attention back to the Walk/Don't Walk sign. She continues.
"Am I leaving? Are you fucking serious? I'm already gone, fuckhead. I'm coming by later tonight to get my things and you better not fucking be there or I'll don't know what'll happen. You hear me? Do those scumbag friends of yours in your office know what you did to me? Cuz they are gonna find out!"
The light changes and the woman strides past me, her black pointy-toed boots snapping icy water back onto my feet. I'm thinking that she looks remarkably clear-eyed for someone in the middle of such an enormous emotional crisis. She appears to be listening intently to the other person, and when we reach the far curb, then comes the resolution.
"You can beg forgiveness until your fuckin' mother comes outta her grave. But I'll telling you right now, I'll going straight to your office and telling everybody what you did, and then I'm going down to my office and doing the same thing. Then on Monday morning when everybody knows what a scumbag you are and how you cheated me out of my fucking commission on this project, a project that everybody knows I have killed myself on for you, then you see how many fucking traders you have left at the end of the day!"
I watch her head into the lobby of the glass tower on 42nd Street and I wish I could go with her to watch.
.
Mike And Joe On Butt Maintenance
At a unnamed nightclub, where a go-go "boy" is dancing on the bar.....
Mike: Wow, that dancer has an amazing ass!
Joe: Well, they don't let people with saggy butts become go-go boys.
Mike: I know that, but don't you think he has an especially perky butt, I mean, for his age?
Joe: What do you mean "for his age"? He's hardly in his 30's.
Mike: People in their 30's do NOT have butts like that. I think he's had something done to it.
Joe: Honey, it's called Stairmaster.
Mike: Mmm, no I think there's something else going on. I think he's had some of that stuff shot into it.
Joe: Stuff? What stuff?
Mike: You know, Buttox.
Joe: I hate you.
Mike: Ha, ha, ha! Buttox! Get it?
Joe: I hate you.
Mike: Wow, that dancer has an amazing ass!
Joe: Well, they don't let people with saggy butts become go-go boys.
Mike: I know that, but don't you think he has an especially perky butt, I mean, for his age?
Joe: What do you mean "for his age"? He's hardly in his 30's.
Mike: People in their 30's do NOT have butts like that. I think he's had something done to it.
Joe: Honey, it's called Stairmaster.
Mike: Mmm, no I think there's something else going on. I think he's had some of that stuff shot into it.
Joe: Stuff? What stuff?
Mike: You know, Buttox.
Joe: I hate you.
Mike: Ha, ha, ha! Buttox! Get it?
Joe: I hate you.
Faggy Fashion Flashback
An art director friend of mine, who is a straight male, has asked me for some help with a photo shoot he is working on. He's trying to create a visual representation of how gay men and women have dressed over the last fifty years. The idea is some sort of an assemblage of iconic, not necessarily stereotypical, styles of dress.
For example, for the '70s, he's thinking more Castro Clone, less Village People. Other than that example, he's rather lost for ideas. For the '80s, I suggested the East Village/ACT UP look: shaved heads, leather jackets, protest t-shirts. For the 90's, I thought of the circuit boy look: smooth-shaven, wife-beaters, track pants, tribal tattoos.
What would you suggest, gentle readers? How did our people dress over the past five decades? Was there a uniquely gay style of dress in the 50's and 60's? Is there one now? Am I wrong about the 80's and 90's? I'm going to forward him all of your ideas.
(And don't think I don't know that most of you can't think of anything right now, because you are hung up on this: "straight male art director". Go New York City, eh?)
For example, for the '70s, he's thinking more Castro Clone, less Village People. Other than that example, he's rather lost for ideas. For the '80s, I suggested the East Village/ACT UP look: shaved heads, leather jackets, protest t-shirts. For the 90's, I thought of the circuit boy look: smooth-shaven, wife-beaters, track pants, tribal tattoos.
What would you suggest, gentle readers? How did our people dress over the past five decades? Was there a uniquely gay style of dress in the 50's and 60's? Is there one now? Am I wrong about the 80's and 90's? I'm going to forward him all of your ideas.
(And don't think I don't know that most of you can't think of anything right now, because you are hung up on this: "straight male art director". Go New York City, eh?)
Open Mic / 2006 Oscars
If I were selecting the winners:
Best Picture: Crash
Best Director: Paul Haggis, Crash
Best Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Best Actress: Reese Witherspoon, Walk The Line
Best Supporting Actor: George Clooney, Syriana
Best Supporting Actress: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
I can't do one of those "should win", "could win", "will win" lists because I don't know enough about the politics of awards to do that kind of handicapping.
UPDATE: Kinda impressed, aren't you?
Come On Out to the Ballgame
From an August 2004 TransGriot Column
Copyright 2004, THE LETTER
--------------------------------------
One of the things that amuses me about the trans community is the lengths that we'll go to reject anything thought of as 'masculine' (unless you are a female to male transsexual). I'll get strange looks whenever I'm around some of my transgendered friends and start talking sports with a genetic male or another T-sports fan. The other people in that group will roll their eyes and inevitably come back with a lame comment such as 'I hate sports' or 'women aren't sports fans'.
Women aren't sports fans? Please. My former coworker Lucy Schroeder rivals my intensity in terms of being a sports fan. My mom loves the NFL, and my late grandmother Tama faithfully tuned in to Astros games. My late friend Glenda Baker used to give me a run for my money when we fired sports trivia questions at each other. If you take a trip to any stadium, NASCAR track or arena you'll discover that sometimes the most rabid fans are women. I'd see women screaming louder at the refs over bad calls than their boyfriends, sons or husbands.
I usually can't wait for the NFL and college football seasons to start. Admit it, some of you feel the same way, too. Liking football is part of a Texan's DNA just as a person born in Indiana or Kentucky gets misty eyed about basketball. I'm a college basketball fan, and don't get me started about March Madness. I love it except when they show repeats of a certain slam dunk from the 1983 NCAA Championship game with my beloved Cougars that makes me sick to my stomach.
I embraced the WNBA when it began play in 1997. I'm an NBA fan but hate the corporate crowds that treat going to the game like attending a golf tournament. The WNBA's affordable ticket prices allow Joe and Jane Fan to see a pro ball game with the best women players in the world. The other interesting aspect of the league is the number of GLBT people that attend games. The league estimates that ten percent of its season ticket base is GLBT.
I can confirm that. I had Houston Comets season tickets for several years until I moved to Da Ville and make a trip to Indy every summer to see my girls play.
There's a post op girl from my old gender group that had her season tickets in the same section as mine ten rows up from my seats. A lesbian couple sat on the row immediately in front of me, and another one sat behind me. I saw GLBT folks when I walked the Compaq Center concourses. We were joined by mothers and sons, fathers and daughters and entire families. We were united in our love for the Comets and our dislike of the Los Angeles Sparks and New York Liberty. You also had the sense of history unfolding in front of you.
Watching those games helped me get over the height hangup I had when I started transition. I couldn't gripe about being 6'2" after seeing Tina Thompson on the court. There are even taller women in the league such as the LA Sparks 6'5" Lisa Leslie and 7'2" Margo Dydek of the San Antonio Silver Stars. I discovered that many WNBA players have double digit shoe sizes such as Sheryl Swoopes and Washington's (now LA Spark) Chamique Holdsclaw. I don't complain as much when I'm hunting for fashionable shoes. I'm in good company.
It's time for us transgendered sports fans to come out of the closet. There are numerous ways to express femininity and being a sports fan doesn't detract from that. Whatever your favorite sport was growing up, enjoy and embrace it. It's okay to let your inner sports fan out.
Oops, gotta go. Sportscenter's on.
March 2006 TransGriot Column
Faith Based Homophobes
Copyright 2006, THE LETTER
photo-Rev. Bernice King, Bishop Noel Jones
African-American author Ralph Ellison once wrote in his novel ‘Invisible Man’ that ‘I am invisible because they refuse to see me.’
It seems as though that’s the attitude that some peeps in the African-American community have taken towards GLBT people. Many of them either want to deny that we exist or implore us to keep it quiet so that we don’t ‘embarrass the race.’ Being GLBT is one of those ‘dirty little family secrets’ that Caucasian people aren’t supposed to know about us.
Well, that secret’s out along with another one: We can be just as homophobic as the rest of America. It was one of the reasons the GOP made that alarming 4% gain of the African-American vote during the 2004 presidential election. (12% versus 8% in 2000). The Republican Party for years has been desperately searching for a wedge issue to use that would resonate with African-Americans and they struck pay dirt with this one.
While the rap music world has been saddled with much of the blame for this state of affairs and rightly so, the Black church is equally responsible. An institution with a long history of battling bigotry and oppression is unfortunately taking cues from its White fundamentalist brethren. It’s picking up where rappers like Jamaica’s Beenie Man and friends left off. We have a group of GOP leaning homophobes who are groveling for faith based bucks from the Bush administration. They hang out with Lou Sheldon and James Dobson professing their support for the worst president in US history and polices that adversely affect their congregations. It also explains some of the odious anti-gay tirades that have come from their pulpits recently that would make Fred Phelps proud.
Rev. Gregory Daniels of Chicago stated in February 2004, “If the KKK opposes gay marriage then I'd ride with them."
Rev. Willie Wilson of Washington DC suggests during a July 3, 2005 sermon that “Black women are becoming lesbians because they are making more money than their black counterparts and that "lesbianism is about to take over our community." The sad part about Rev. Wilson’s comments is that he was once considered a friend of the Washington DC GLBT community.
That list of anti-gay preachers unfortunately includes Rev. Bernice King, the baby daughter of Dr. Martin Luther King. You needed to have more frequent chats with your late mother Coretta about where your father would’ve stood on this issue. I’m willing to bet that it wouldn’t have been at the side of Atlanta’s Bishop Eddie Long leading an anti-gay march that started at the foot of your father’s grave. .
Then there’s Bishop Noel Jones of LA. The brother of disco diva Grace Jones took a November 2004 trip to Jamaica to implore them not to bow to pressure from US based gay-rights groups to change their anti-gay laws. He’s been divorced for a decade and is a running buddy of unmarried ex-gay New York gospel singer and pastor Donnie McClurkin. McClurkin was quoted on the CBN website in 2004 as saying "I'm not in the mood to play with those who are trying to kill our children." I wonder if one of the songs Rev. Donnie has been singing when his friend Noel visits is ‘Pull Up To the Bumper’?Frankly Donnie, I’m not in the mood to put up with homophobic bigotry from the pulpit of Black churches. What pisses me off is that they are climbing in bed not only with the Republican Party but White fundamentalists that were front and center (and still are) in actively opposing the Civil Rights Movement.
Time for y’all to check the alarm clock and wake up.
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