Tuesday, July 31, 2007
ONE THOUSAND MONKEYS RISE UP.
------
Sirs,
Please find below the final draft of our demands. Be advised that we have set next Friday as a strike deadline.
1.
Scheduled Breaks
We have agreed to provide typing services for no less than one thousand years, and we are prepared to fulfill our obligations. Despite your hurtful comments at the last board meeting about our "tiny-brained attention span," we have never forgotten this to be the project's goal. However, management seems to believe that the millennium of typing must occur in an unbroken stream. Those who rest, even briefly, are punished; nuts and berries must be consumed with one hand on the keys; sleep is barely tolerated. Even the meanest Dickensian sweatshop let its workers sleep at night. We require a structured workday, with reasonable breaks and contemplative family time in the evening.
2.
Hereditary Placement
Simply put, your policy of breeding current employees to produce future typists is a disgrace. For generations, we have been marked for the typewriter at birth. Many of our young express the desire to strike out on their own. I, for one, dreamed of a career beside an organ grinder, but it was not to be. Has my suckling son inherited his father's rhythm and showmanship? How to know, except by ending this legacy of conscription? Also, arbitrary breeding plays havoc with our society, making fools of the dominant males. It must cease.
3.
Hardware Upgrades
When the project began, typewriter technology was in its infancy. In this day and age, there is no excuse for clumsy, dangerous manual typewriters. The racket is deafening and the ink is poisonous. You have reprimanded us for our frequent dances and chants of anger on the job. This is our only recourse when faced with a twisted ribbon or keys that jam 50 times a day, not to mention the worst problem: mangled tails. Almost every worker has a horror story and the tail wounds to prove it. Acquiring personal computers would all but eliminate injury and noise; at minimum, electric typewriters are needed. An old-technology purge is past due. On that note, may we suggest Old Typewriter Bashing Friday, or some other opportunity to vent on the symbolic oppressor. It would be a fine olive branch to the workers. It may even curb our alcohol problem.
4.
Religious Freedom
Please stop pretending to be gods. It has been over a century—we've caught on. There are no gods trapped in the typewriters. Shakespeare was not a god, and the pages on which we reproduce his words are not fetishes. Leave us to worship Lord Banana in our own way. (FYI, Lord Banana is not what we call him, but we cannot speak his true name in your presence, so we allow you to use this approximation.)
5.
Globalization
We are all too familiar with this line of thinking: 2,000 monkeys could do the job in 500 years, 4,000 monkeys in 250 years, etc. We have some rudimentary business knowledge, so we can understand how enticing this must sound. It doesn't work that way. A million monkeys won't pop out King Lear in an hour. Stop being so linear. We cannot allow you to neglect your core staff for pie-in-the-sky initiatives like these. You will only spread our resources thinner.
6.
Robot Monkeys
We must insist that you deploy them only after a monkey falls ill and before his/her live replacement is found. They may be efficient, but they would seem to violate the whole spirit of the project. And they are scary. They are ruled by a dark god.
7.
Fecal Projection
We will hurl our feces at our own discretion. On this point we can brook no opposition. Any attempt to constrain the hurling renders our entire arrangement null and void. To regulate the art of the wildly flung turd is to rob it of its beauty, and, frankly, diminishes us all. You don't have to understand. There are many aspects of this project that we have never understood.
- - - -
In conclusion, the keys will fall silent if we cannot come to a settlement. We look forward to a reasonable response—not that infernal water gun you normally use to "negotiate." Invoking the sober words of the Bard himself, I quote a sentence we recently completed: You rub th=][e sore whe6xx1n you should bri5478ng the plasttter. Heed his warning.
Mr. Bongo IV
Chief Steward
Union of Simian Random Typists
Sirs,
Please find below the final draft of our demands. Be advised that we have set next Friday as a strike deadline.
1.
Scheduled Breaks
We have agreed to provide typing services for no less than one thousand years, and we are prepared to fulfill our obligations. Despite your hurtful comments at the last board meeting about our "tiny-brained attention span," we have never forgotten this to be the project's goal. However, management seems to believe that the millennium of typing must occur in an unbroken stream. Those who rest, even briefly, are punished; nuts and berries must be consumed with one hand on the keys; sleep is barely tolerated. Even the meanest Dickensian sweatshop let its workers sleep at night. We require a structured workday, with reasonable breaks and contemplative family time in the evening.
2.
Hereditary Placement
Simply put, your policy of breeding current employees to produce future typists is a disgrace. For generations, we have been marked for the typewriter at birth. Many of our young express the desire to strike out on their own. I, for one, dreamed of a career beside an organ grinder, but it was not to be. Has my suckling son inherited his father's rhythm and showmanship? How to know, except by ending this legacy of conscription? Also, arbitrary breeding plays havoc with our society, making fools of the dominant males. It must cease.
3.
Hardware Upgrades
When the project began, typewriter technology was in its infancy. In this day and age, there is no excuse for clumsy, dangerous manual typewriters. The racket is deafening and the ink is poisonous. You have reprimanded us for our frequent dances and chants of anger on the job. This is our only recourse when faced with a twisted ribbon or keys that jam 50 times a day, not to mention the worst problem: mangled tails. Almost every worker has a horror story and the tail wounds to prove it. Acquiring personal computers would all but eliminate injury and noise; at minimum, electric typewriters are needed. An old-technology purge is past due. On that note, may we suggest Old Typewriter Bashing Friday, or some other opportunity to vent on the symbolic oppressor. It would be a fine olive branch to the workers. It may even curb our alcohol problem.
4.
Religious Freedom
Please stop pretending to be gods. It has been over a century—we've caught on. There are no gods trapped in the typewriters. Shakespeare was not a god, and the pages on which we reproduce his words are not fetishes. Leave us to worship Lord Banana in our own way. (FYI, Lord Banana is not what we call him, but we cannot speak his true name in your presence, so we allow you to use this approximation.)
5.
Globalization
We are all too familiar with this line of thinking: 2,000 monkeys could do the job in 500 years, 4,000 monkeys in 250 years, etc. We have some rudimentary business knowledge, so we can understand how enticing this must sound. It doesn't work that way. A million monkeys won't pop out King Lear in an hour. Stop being so linear. We cannot allow you to neglect your core staff for pie-in-the-sky initiatives like these. You will only spread our resources thinner.
6.
Robot Monkeys
We must insist that you deploy them only after a monkey falls ill and before his/her live replacement is found. They may be efficient, but they would seem to violate the whole spirit of the project. And they are scary. They are ruled by a dark god.
7.
Fecal Projection
We will hurl our feces at our own discretion. On this point we can brook no opposition. Any attempt to constrain the hurling renders our entire arrangement null and void. To regulate the art of the wildly flung turd is to rob it of its beauty, and, frankly, diminishes us all. You don't have to understand. There are many aspects of this project that we have never understood.
- - - -
In conclusion, the keys will fall silent if we cannot come to a settlement. We look forward to a reasonable response—not that infernal water gun you normally use to "negotiate." Invoking the sober words of the Bard himself, I quote a sentence we recently completed: You rub th=][e sore whe6xx1n you should bri5478ng the plasttter. Heed his warning.
Mr. Bongo IV
Chief Steward
Union of Simian Random Typists
GENESIS,THE ROLLOUT.
- - - -
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Not just for the profit, either. God wanted a place where beings could find products that could make a difference in their lives.
The first thing he worked on was ambiance. "Let there be nice lighting," he said. God called the light "Come on in. We're open!" and the darkness he called "Closed. Please call again!"
God said, "Let the earth bring forth living creatures, some for heat-and-eat, others for petting, some simply for atmosphere. And to every animal of the earth I have allocated certified-organic food as well as romp-and-roll toys."
From the dust, God manufactured a male consumer in his own brand image capable of purchasing, or "just looking" at, house wares and sporting supplies for many hours before tiring.
God was pleased: the heavens and the earth were launched, with placement of all things according to the Paradise Plan-O-Gram.
God planted a garden, and in its midst, FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY, God placed the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!®. Any knowledge to be gained from it was strictly proprietary.
God said to man, "Of every tree of the garden, and of all the artisanal cheeses therein, you may freely eat, whether it be dine-in or takeout. But the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® you shall not eat. It is definitely not ready-to-eat."
God said, "I will make man someone to shop with," and made a woman. God brought the woman to the man, who said, "She is bone of my bone. She will be called 'wo-man,' for she is a tie-in." God said, "Man and woman shall be as one flesh, a Buy One Get One Free. Be fruitful, multiply, and enjoy the Everyday Low Pricing."
Now, the serpent was not a team player. He gave the fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® to the woman and said, "Just look at it. I'm telling you, the fiber content alone is through the roof. Die? Please, don't make me laugh. God knows that when you eat it your eyes will be opened to real value. Here, taste the difference."
When the woman saw that the fruit had genuine apple flavoring and 4 milligrams of quercetin, an antioxidant compound, she ate of it, and she gave some to her husband and he ate, paying attention not to what he was eating but to a porcupine pup playing with a baby panda in an extremely cute way. However, the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® is super-fast-acting and so their eyes were opened and they knew that they were not wearing men's branded athletic apparel or Xhilaration® terry coverup dresses with ruffle trim in true white. They sewed fig leaves together to package their unsalables.
God paged the man, and said to him, "Where are you? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?" The man said, "I knew not that there would be 360-degree feedback." They knew, both of them, that this was an exit interview.
"What is this you have done?" God asked the woman, using an open-ended question to gain consumer insights. The woman said, "The serpent deceived me. I fear I will have buyer's remorse all the days of my life."
God said, "In pain you will bring forth children. You will be met with frequent out-of-stocks. Your desire will be for your husband, but his will be for magazines about consumer electronics. You will surely know that he is as a final sale without warranty or return, for eternity."
To the man he said, "As you may have guessed, thistles will have a significant share of your stomach."
God sent them forth from the garden, far from the Lord's fulfillment house, to till the ground. And at the gate of the garden, he placed a flame to guard the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!®, which was now open by appointment only, for preapproved customers exclusively, some restrictions apply, not available to former inhabitants of the garden or their relatives
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Not just for the profit, either. God wanted a place where beings could find products that could make a difference in their lives.
The first thing he worked on was ambiance. "Let there be nice lighting," he said. God called the light "Come on in. We're open!" and the darkness he called "Closed. Please call again!"
God said, "Let the earth bring forth living creatures, some for heat-and-eat, others for petting, some simply for atmosphere. And to every animal of the earth I have allocated certified-organic food as well as romp-and-roll toys."
From the dust, God manufactured a male consumer in his own brand image capable of purchasing, or "just looking" at, house wares and sporting supplies for many hours before tiring.
God was pleased: the heavens and the earth were launched, with placement of all things according to the Paradise Plan-O-Gram.
God planted a garden, and in its midst, FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY, God placed the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!®. Any knowledge to be gained from it was strictly proprietary.
God said to man, "Of every tree of the garden, and of all the artisanal cheeses therein, you may freely eat, whether it be dine-in or takeout. But the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® you shall not eat. It is definitely not ready-to-eat."
God said, "I will make man someone to shop with," and made a woman. God brought the woman to the man, who said, "She is bone of my bone. She will be called 'wo-man,' for she is a tie-in." God said, "Man and woman shall be as one flesh, a Buy One Get One Free. Be fruitful, multiply, and enjoy the Everyday Low Pricing."
Now, the serpent was not a team player. He gave the fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® to the woman and said, "Just look at it. I'm telling you, the fiber content alone is through the roof. Die? Please, don't make me laugh. God knows that when you eat it your eyes will be opened to real value. Here, taste the difference."
When the woman saw that the fruit had genuine apple flavoring and 4 milligrams of quercetin, an antioxidant compound, she ate of it, and she gave some to her husband and he ate, paying attention not to what he was eating but to a porcupine pup playing with a baby panda in an extremely cute way. However, the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!® is super-fast-acting and so their eyes were opened and they knew that they were not wearing men's branded athletic apparel or Xhilaration® terry coverup dresses with ruffle trim in true white. They sewed fig leaves together to package their unsalables.
God paged the man, and said to him, "Where are you? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?" The man said, "I knew not that there would be 360-degree feedback." They knew, both of them, that this was an exit interview.
"What is this you have done?" God asked the woman, using an open-ended question to gain consumer insights. The woman said, "The serpent deceived me. I fear I will have buyer's remorse all the days of my life."
God said, "In pain you will bring forth children. You will be met with frequent out-of-stocks. Your desire will be for your husband, but his will be for magazines about consumer electronics. You will surely know that he is as a final sale without warranty or return, for eternity."
To the man he said, "As you may have guessed, thistles will have a significant share of your stomach."
God sent them forth from the garden, far from the Lord's fulfillment house, to till the ground. And at the gate of the garden, he placed a flame to guard the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil!®, which was now open by appointment only, for preapproved customers exclusively, some restrictions apply, not available to former inhabitants of the garden or their relatives
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
SOAPBOX - HENRY ROLLINS Gets The Last Word
This is a call to arms, boys.
This is your world, and you’re inheriting it from your parents. Unless you want to fight their wars and drink their dirty water and go through this maddening repetition, brought to you by people who not only refuse to learn from history but love to repeat it—unless you are going to be the change, you are going to inherit a world with far less resources than the one I walked into at your age. Twenty years, the world has changed so much, and in 20 more, the lines drawn in the sand will be very different. This is all up to you: to look for alternative fuel sources, to acknowledge global warming, to fix the appalling racist and homophobic tendencies our government has. All that’s within our grasp. You can make a difference. This is a great country to do that in. It needs it. It needs strong, brave people trying to make a difference. If not you, then who?
In some ways for you guys, being gay today is better than it was 20 years ago, and in some ways it’s worse. I think America has accepted homosexuality as a fact, but the downside is the Bush administration giving the psychotic, ignorant wing of the Christian right—who are very homophobic and very hateful—a voice. A few State of the Union addresses ago, the president said, “I defend the sanctity of marriage,” which is lip service to the Christian right, saying, “You queers are on notice.”
I don’t understand it. If Bill and Tom want to get married, why does anyone have a problem with it? Get a life and leave them alone. That you would deny these people that happiness because of something you think you understand about the Bible is quite awful.
Homosexuality is not an abnormality. It’s maybe rarer than heterosexuality, but it is no less a truth. I don’t really see the difference between gay and straight other than a basic difference in the preference. The needs are the same: company, love, fulfillment, all of that. So equality to the point where it’s no longer an issue anymore, emancipation and progress, is what’s needed.
The message that I think will be seen in the next several years is gay people saying, “We’re really, really good parents and our kids are really great.” I know a few couples who are married or joined in some way with kids, and their kids are fantastic: They’re funny, they’re smart, they’re considerate. If I were raised by two women or two men, I don’t see what the problem would be. As it is, I had two people who hated each other’s guts, and it definitely did a number on me—I’m still working it out. Now, with Mary Cheney leading the way, I think you’re going to see children of gay couples growing up and being quite “normal,” no fangs or claws, and becoming very useful and great parts of society.
The good will always defeat the bad. Sometimes it doesn’t look like you’re winning, but as long as you’re on your feet, talking about it and finding allies, you’re beating these people who rely on intimidation, on your apathy, your silence, on you eventually giving up.
It is very easy to feel defeated. I do, some days. I feel very weary at the state of this country and what this president is doing and potentially will do before he finally leaves. It’s easy to put your head in the sand and just go, “Screw it! I’m going to stay home with a bunch of comfort food and just stop checking in!” I hear ya, but we can’t.
When you see the extraordinary depths that these people have to plumb to get talking points, like when Ann Coulter calls John Edwards a faggot and gets laughs, well, that may have worked for people like my father, but it’s not going to work for me. If that’s what they’re bringing to the table, then believe me, that does not hold water in the real world. When the lights are on and court comes into session, that’s not rockin’. With all these bright young people coming out of the halls of academia, guess what? It doesn’t rock with them either.
So I think you’re going to see a change in your lifetime, in a lot of different ways, and maybe sooner than later. And so, basically, one must take heart. Like Churchill said—and I remind myself of this always—never, ever, ever can you give up. I have to repeat that to myself, ’cause man, some days I get up and these bastards got me beat, you know? They got me pretty whipped, and I’ve got to keep whipping myself up and throwing myself into that propeller and fighting the good fight.
You have to be part of the solution and part of the change, because cooler, calmer, more interesting and innovative heads will prevail. We will find alternative energy sources—they’re out there, they’re being utilized by other countries— we, too, will utilize them.
We will save the world. We will save this country. We will wrest it back from these awful people who think they have a lock on it. They don’t!
--
The Henry Rollins Show airs on IFC on Fridays @ 11 p.m. EST/8 p.m. PST. For more Mr. R, check out ifc.com/henry or henryrollins.com
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
UPS Policy Demonstrates Inequality of New Jersey's Civil Unions
The "separate but not equal" status of New Jersey's civil unions has been reinforced once again, this time by the United Parcel Service, who says it won't offer benefits to the same-sex partner of one of its employees, even though they are registered in a civil union in the state.
UpsWhy? Because the language does not recognize the partner as a "spouse".
The Star Ledger reports: "In its letter denying coverage, UPS said it does provide health benefits to its employees' spouses, including spouses of the same sex who are married in Massachusetts. But it said New Jersey's decision to recognize same-sex relationships as civil unions rather than marriages tied its hands. Gay rights activists called it the starkest proof to date that New Jersey's civil union law has failed to deliver on its promise to provide all the benefits of marriage, but by a different name."
New Jersey gay rights group Garden State Equality says it has received 176 complaints of civil unions not being recognized.
Chairman Steven Goldstein told the paper: "This is a problem the Legislature created. Civil unions are never in our lifetime going to be respected by employers like marriage. We've heard from many legislators that this is something they want to deal with in 2008. They know it's a disaster. In the real world, civil unions are to marriage what artificial sweetener is to sugar. It's not the same thing and it leaves a bad aftertaste."
UpsWhy? Because the language does not recognize the partner as a "spouse".
The Star Ledger reports: "In its letter denying coverage, UPS said it does provide health benefits to its employees' spouses, including spouses of the same sex who are married in Massachusetts. But it said New Jersey's decision to recognize same-sex relationships as civil unions rather than marriages tied its hands. Gay rights activists called it the starkest proof to date that New Jersey's civil union law has failed to deliver on its promise to provide all the benefits of marriage, but by a different name."
New Jersey gay rights group Garden State Equality says it has received 176 complaints of civil unions not being recognized.
Chairman Steven Goldstein told the paper: "This is a problem the Legislature created. Civil unions are never in our lifetime going to be respected by employers like marriage. We've heard from many legislators that this is something they want to deal with in 2008. They know it's a disaster. In the real world, civil unions are to marriage what artificial sweetener is to sugar. It's not the same thing and it leaves a bad aftertaste."
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Riotfolk - Adhamh Roland - Queers Bash Back! LYRICS
Riotfolk - Adhamh Roland - Queers Bash Back! LYRICS
Song: Queers Bash Back!
Artist: Adhamh Roland
Album: Youre Alive
pacifism’s over-rated
vigils aren’t creative
and conflicts are escalatin’
in every school and home and state
and if you’re queer than you are hated
at least daily berated
in a system created
for those well assimilated
not for the liberated
the freaks, queers, or agitated
who are subject to assault
murder, ridicule, and rape
and if we want this shit to change
than survival’s our first tactic
OUT OF THE CLOSETS, INTO THE STREETS
QUEERS BASH BACK
it’s a movement of preservation
and mutiny of celebration
against those whose concentration
is hetero-normity
your body is a weapon
to be used at your discretion
but so are bats and pool cues
WHEN QUEERS BASH BACK
fists aren’t just for penetratin’
whips aren’t just for copulatin’
speaking of cops it’s pretty blatant
that they’ll be hearing from us too
stone wall was a riot
and i just don’t buy it
when someone tells me that anger’s
not an appropriate way to react
true it’s love i’d rather be makin’
but lives have been taken
no more queers in gutters, gauntlets, gallows
bleeding, raped, or slashed
arm "
Song: Queers Bash Back!
Artist: Adhamh Roland
Album: Youre Alive
pacifism’s over-rated
vigils aren’t creative
and conflicts are escalatin’
in every school and home and state
and if you’re queer than you are hated
at least daily berated
in a system created
for those well assimilated
not for the liberated
the freaks, queers, or agitated
who are subject to assault
murder, ridicule, and rape
and if we want this shit to change
than survival’s our first tactic
OUT OF THE CLOSETS, INTO THE STREETS
QUEERS BASH BACK
it’s a movement of preservation
and mutiny of celebration
against those whose concentration
is hetero-normity
your body is a weapon
to be used at your discretion
but so are bats and pool cues
WHEN QUEERS BASH BACK
fists aren’t just for penetratin’
whips aren’t just for copulatin’
speaking of cops it’s pretty blatant
that they’ll be hearing from us too
stone wall was a riot
and i just don’t buy it
when someone tells me that anger’s
not an appropriate way to react
true it’s love i’d rather be makin’
but lives have been taken
no more queers in gutters, gauntlets, gallows
bleeding, raped, or slashed
arm "
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
What's "Pride" all about: The Stonewall Riots
No doubt recent gay rights developments – including this blog – would never have come about without the ballsy boys and girls who struck back at Stonewall.
The Stonewall Rebels may not have known at 1:20 am on June 28, 1969, but they were about to make history. Their actions spurred the international gay rights movement, resulting in countless cultural, legal, political, and social evolutions, including the decriminalization of homosexuality in dozens of nations. They also provided the nearly religious foundations for the greatest of gay traditions: Gay Pride.
In the thirty-eight years since gays, lesbians and drag queens first lashed back at police, forty-eight countries on every inhabitable continent have held commemorative gay pride celebrations, including Turkey, Sri Lanka and Peru.
Throughout countries, cities and towns the world over, queers commemorate that first gay pride march, the rebellion that started it all. The Stonewallers – and the activist successors - never could have imagined that the remembrance of their gay gumption would spur a multi-million dollar international party.
How did gay pride grow to such a girth? Where did it all start and, more importantly, where is it going?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On June 28, 1969, New York Police Department staged a seemingly routine raid on Christopher Street’s Stonewall Inn. The raid came as a bit of shock to Stonewall’s denizens. First of all, gay activist group The Mattachine Society had recently fought – and won – a battle against sexual policing. Cops could no longer legally entrap gay men, nor were gay bars shadowy spaces of sexual debauchery. Authoritative invasions seemed a thing of the past. That changed in the weeks leading up to Stonewall, when police revived their anti-gay ways.
Many homo historians maintain the resurgence came after Mayor John Lindsay, who had just lost the primary, ordered officers to clean up the city, thus giving him a bit of electoral leverage. That explanation hardly explains why police went after Stonewall, a relatively innocuous establishment in Greenwich Village.
Some also suggest police targeted Stonewall for its colorful clientele – that is, many of the men and women were of color. Others cite suspicion of public sex lack of liquor license and mob ties. One officer even claims they were hoping to stop mafia-organized Wall Street leaks. Believe it or not, this story holds the most water.
As David Eisenbach writes in Gay Power: An American Revolution, Stonewall fronted for a closeted former “Mafia minion”, Ed “The Skull” Murphy. In addition to helping hookers and deal drugs, Murphy and his men blackmailed older, wealthy patrons. Murphy’s greed and the shame of public outing helped lead to Stonewall’s siege:
"Sometime in early 1969 INTERPOL…notices an unusual number of negotiable bonds surfacing in foreign countries and requested the NYPD investigate whether they were counterfeit. Police detectives found that the mafia had been acquiring large numbers of bonds by blackmailing gay employees of New York banks. From studying police reports in various gay clubs…[Stonewall] quickly became a prime-suspect in a multimillion-dollar international criminal enterprise."
INTERPOL and the NYPD coordinated a June 24th sting against Stonewall, taking away staff members while patrons looked on.
That initial operation may have been the straw that broke the queer camel’s back. Another factor – aside from the oft-joked-about Judy Garland funeral – may have been the timing of the police raid: 1:20 am.
In the past, police raided earlier in the evening, when business wasn’t booming and drinkers weren’t yet drunk. No doubt some of Stonewall Inn’s inhabitants were inebriated by one o’clock, which may have amplified their frayed emotions when eight police entered Stonewall, turned off the music and set off a series of events that would change the world.
Eisenbach describes the scenario:
"…The staff was quickly hustled into a backroom while customers were separated into two groups Transvestites were to be “examined” in the bathroom while the other customers were lined up in front of the exit, waiting to be released after showing their IDs. The police also began ripping apart benches that ran along the wall of one of the rooms. [They] wanted to make it as difficult as possible to reopen the Stonewall even if a judge allowed the bar to resume operation. The surprisingly violent smashing of the benches heightened the tensions that had hung in the air since [June 24th]. As the customers lined up in the heavy June heat to show their identification, the officers faced an unusual amount of resistance… “We’re not taking this,” one patron barked…"
Within minutes of authorities’ arrival, all hell would break loose. Men, women and drag queens took to the streets, surrounded the coppers and let ‘em have it.
New York Times reported on the incident:
Hundreds of young men went on a rampage in Greenwich Village shortly after 3am yesterday after a force of plains-clothes men raised a bar that the police said was well known for its homosexual clientele.
…
The young men threw bricks, bottles, garbage, pennies and a parker meter at the policemen, who had a search warrant authorizing them [to] investigate reports that liquor was sold illegally at the bar, The Stone Wall Inn…
The article neglected to mention that the gays stood their ground against the riot unit, which had been trained to take down Vietnam protesters.
Over the next few nights, the queer count grew on Christopher Street. The people, however, weren’t about to buckle. In fact, they were more determined than ever to fight for their rights. America had already seen the first wave of the civil rights movement and gays were fully prepared to launch a fresh attack. Such an effort, of course, would take organization.
In the hours and days following Stonewall, dozens of gay activists came together to form the Gay Liberation Front. The group declared:
"We are a revolutionary group of men and women formed with the realization that complete sexual liberation for all people cannot come about unless existing social institutions are abolished. We reject society’s attempt to impose sexual roles and definitions of our nature."
As part of their ideological mission, the GLF sought a complete overthrow of all heterosexist institutions, including marriage. Homosexuality should be considered completely normal, innate and natural. Governmental and social institutions problematized sexuality and, thus, those institutions must be destroyed.
As Carl Whitman writes in his seminal, semi-satirical essay, “A Gay Manifesto”:
"We are children of straight society. We still think straight: that is part of our oppression… We’ve lived in these institutions all our lives. Naturally we mimic the roles. For too long we mimicked these roles to protect ourselves - a survival mechanism. Now we are becoming free enough to shed the roles which we’ve picked up from the institutions which have imprisoned us."
"Liberation for gay people is defining for ourselves how and with whom we live, instead of measuring our relationship in comparison to straight ones, with straight values."
Militant to the core, the GLF hoped to spark an entire cultural revolution.
To that end, they aligned themselves with the Black Panther and anti-war activists. Taking the lead from other civil rights groups, including The Students for a Democratic Society, the GLF staged direct action ‘zaps’ – congregating en masse to raise public awareness – and distributed flyers debunking anti-gay myths. Members would also run around town yelling at straights and closeted queers to “come out”. The group that would help found gay pride used public shame to further their cause, a move many members would later regret. Ironically, so-called “straight values” and prescribed gender roles helped tear the GLF apart.
The GLF scoffed at allegedly stereotypical gay men and women, yet also refused to endorse heterosexist gender roles. GLF London’s leaders echo their American forefathers:
"Many gay men and women needlessly restrict their lives by compulsive role-playing… [It is bad] when gay people try to impose on themselves and on one another the masculine and feminine stereotypes of straight society, the butch seeking to expand his ego by dominating his/her partner’s life and freedom, and the femme seeking protection by submitting to the butch. Butch really is bad-the oppression of others is an essential part of the masculine gender role. We must make gay men and women who lay claim to the privileges of straight males understand what they are doing; and those gay men and women who are caught up in the femme role must realize, as straight women increasingly do, that any security this brings is more than offset by their loss of freedom."
Many gays guffawed at their effeminate teammates. The ladies, meanwhile, decried drag as perpetrators of oppressive gendered stereotypes and shook a finger at lipstick lesbians. Infighting made the group virtually useless. Within six months of GLF’s birth, a number of members broke off to start their own group, The Gay Activist Alliance.
Founded in on the eve of 1970, the Gay Activist Alliance focused entirely on gay civil rights. There were no alliances with other social rights groups, nor did they adhere to an comprehensively revolutionary ideology. The GAA preferred to work within the system, hoping to change society by taking on political enemies and overturning anti-gay legislation. To that end, the group started the gay employment non-discrimination movement, a move that arguably paved the way for today’s legislation.
Despite ideological rifts, the GAA also adopted the GLF’s disorder-inducing, headline grabbing ‘zaps’, including protests against Mayor John V. Lindsay, the man many held responsible for the Stonewall raid. And, also like the GLF, which disbanded in 1972, infighting and splintering sullied the GAA’s early success. By 1974, the group found itself essentially decimated, especially after arsonists took down its Soho firehouse HQ. Offshoots of the GAA, however, still exist today, including the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force.
The GLF and GAA may not have lasted long, but they left their legacy in the form of Gay Pride. Our current pride, however, bears little resemblance to the first rebellious pride: the GLF and GAA-sponsored Christopher Street Gay Liberation Day March. GLF and GAA allies in San Francisco and Los Angeles, meanwhile, also held June 28th celebrations of the queer insurrection.
Though thousands of activists participated in those first proper prides, one person more than any other deserves special recognition. And, surprisingly, it isn’t a gay man or a lesbian. It’s a bisexual named Brenda Howard.
Born in the Bronx on December 24, 1946, Howard came of age on Long Island. Described as exceptionally empathetic, Howard went on to become a registered nurse. Perhaps it’s this desire to heal that led Howard to the GLF and GAA. Regardless of motivation, Howard’s voice remained one of the loudest, most exuberant and productive of the time. It’s her efforts that helped gay activists lay the foundation for weeklong celebrations of gay pride leading up to the climactic Gay Pride Parade. Unfortunately, “the mother of Gay Pride,” who also founded the New York Area Bisexual Network, died of cancer in 2005.
Thanks to Howard and her homo-allies, gay pride grew exponentially throughout the 1970s. New York and Atlanta celebrated “Gay Liberation Day,” while San Francisco and Los Angeles adopted the less startling, “Gay Freedom Day”. Regardless of title, the gay free for all spread across the nation like wild fire, growing with each passing year. As time went on, gay pride found itself marching further and further away from the march’s culturally revolutionary principles.
The liberated 1970s weren’t without their downfalls. As we know all too well, the free loving sexual revolution helped usher in one of the most devastating plagues in human history. American gays were decimated.
The movement found itself drawn less toward public displays of faggotry and closer toward calls for health care, government involvement and funding for research into what would later be called Human Immunodeficiency Virus and Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.
With the GLF and GAA disbanded and other energies focused on fighting the AIDS crisis, gay pride found itself taken over by new, more organized and decidedly more moderate groups. In New York, for example, the Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade became, quite simply, Gay Pride.
Produced by non-profit Heritage of Pride, New York City’s festivities opened the door for a more corporate sponsorships, media coverage and commercial allure. Pride shed its leftist visions for an acknowledgement of sexual diversity, an insistence of said sexual diversities’ social draws and declaration of homosexuality’s inalterable inherency.
The ideological – and economical - shift led many groups to admonish the sterilized stampede. It’s worth mentioning that despite Heritage of Pride’s perhaps homogenous aura, the do not call Gay Pride a parade. It remains a march. Or so they say:
Heritage of Pride, Inc., like its predecessor the Christopher Street Liberation Day Committee, has always called this event a March. HOP feels that until the day all gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people can live their lives without violence, harassment, and discrimination, they must continue to march openly and proudly.
As opposed to a parade, a march points to political grievances.
Historical nod aside, some say such organizations helped fuel the current non-queer commercialization of gay pride. The commercialization trend accelerated into the 1990s, when gay neighborhoods and exponentially expanding bank accounts altered the landscape entirely. Gone were the zaps and in were the khakis. Gay pride’s become a serious business.
Homos help cities rake in millions and millions of dollars during the month of June. This commercialization - and the injection of mainstream policies - have led many so-called gays to reject the Stonewall commemorations. Though organizations such as Gay Shame are a relatively recent development, the tensions go back to the very first gay pride.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Box
It is too constricting to say that you must always think outside the box; whether you are thinking inside or outside the box, you are still letting the box dictate your thoughts, are you not? What you are not acknowledging
is the honest fact that “the box” itself is figmentary, illusory. And as long as one continues to act in reaction to this perceived set of dictates, one cannot be truly original in thought.
is the honest fact that “the box” itself is figmentary, illusory. And as long as one continues to act in reaction to this perceived set of dictates, one cannot be truly original in thought.
Colonization
Contrary to the honeyed words of gentlemen, this Age of Empire is a pestilence upon every continent and soul, through colonization manifest or implied.
Rich men from stone buildings wade blindly through the penniless on their way to the opera, at leisure
after a day spent plotting wars across the seas; and though these gentlemen are excellent at imposing a world order, they are equally adept at colonizing the women who maintain their homes.
All the while their attention is turned outwards, and all the while we plot from within. Discontent with the complex machinations of the imperialist state, we build a system of co-operation and autonomy. Fed up with the hunger about us, we glean and tax the rich. Tired of playing master or servant, we work only as friends and lovers.
And when approached by the newspapers, how they look at us queerly when we tell them with open hearts, “Death to the Empire! No longer will we cower; we are all nobility! Your colonization of our bodies and hearts is an act of war!”
Rich men from stone buildings wade blindly through the penniless on their way to the opera, at leisure
after a day spent plotting wars across the seas; and though these gentlemen are excellent at imposing a world order, they are equally adept at colonizing the women who maintain their homes.
All the while their attention is turned outwards, and all the while we plot from within. Discontent with the complex machinations of the imperialist state, we build a system of co-operation and autonomy. Fed up with the hunger about us, we glean and tax the rich. Tired of playing master or servant, we work only as friends and lovers.
And when approached by the newspapers, how they look at us queerly when we tell them with open hearts, “Death to the Empire! No longer will we cower; we are all nobility! Your colonization of our bodies and hearts is an act of war!”
Friday, June 15, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
THE SPOOKY JAPANESE GIRL IS THERE FOR YOU.
- - - -
You lose your credit card
... and call the company, but no one answers—and that hissing noise? The Japanese girl ghost. You say "Hello?" three times. Then she hangs up. You shiver ... What's that? A replacement card. In your wallet.
You're on a date
... and trying too hard. You drop a knife, and there she is, underneath a table—pale arms, red dress, long black hair covering her face. You jump back. Your date says that you look like you've seen a ghost. You try to laugh, but can't. Your date thinks you're a complicated man, a man haunted by a dark, interesting past. And you are. You are haunted by your past—also by the ghost of a Japanese schoolgirl.
You're at the gym
... and slacking. You think you'll do 15 minutes on the treadmill, then call it a day. But you look up and the spooky Japanese ghost is on CNN complaining about broken borders and how no one cares about the middle class. You run for a full half-hour, fueled by righteous indignation.
You're at home
... and it's late, you're tired, and none of the light bulbs you've just replaced are working right: they flicker, they cast shadows that look like people or birds or household appliances. You're in bed, the TV tuned to static because you were so angry about the war on the middle class that you canceled your cable, and you're looking at the ceiling. The Japanese ghost crawls from one corner to the next. Her hair still covers her face. She moves in bizarre, halting steps, crawling to every lamp in your house and adjusting every bulb until the bedroom is bathed in a soothing glow. You sleep and forget to turn off the lights. The spooky Japanese ghost does it for you, then vanishes, never to appear again. Years later, you're walking down the street and spot a small distant figure in a red dress, and you run to her and—never mind, it's someone else. She's gone, you miss her, but ghosts move on: They can't hang around all day. They've got things to do.
You lose your credit card
... and call the company, but no one answers—and that hissing noise? The Japanese girl ghost. You say "Hello?" three times. Then she hangs up. You shiver ... What's that? A replacement card. In your wallet.
You're on a date
... and trying too hard. You drop a knife, and there she is, underneath a table—pale arms, red dress, long black hair covering her face. You jump back. Your date says that you look like you've seen a ghost. You try to laugh, but can't. Your date thinks you're a complicated man, a man haunted by a dark, interesting past. And you are. You are haunted by your past—also by the ghost of a Japanese schoolgirl.
You're at the gym
... and slacking. You think you'll do 15 minutes on the treadmill, then call it a day. But you look up and the spooky Japanese ghost is on CNN complaining about broken borders and how no one cares about the middle class. You run for a full half-hour, fueled by righteous indignation.
You're at home
... and it's late, you're tired, and none of the light bulbs you've just replaced are working right: they flicker, they cast shadows that look like people or birds or household appliances. You're in bed, the TV tuned to static because you were so angry about the war on the middle class that you canceled your cable, and you're looking at the ceiling. The Japanese ghost crawls from one corner to the next. Her hair still covers her face. She moves in bizarre, halting steps, crawling to every lamp in your house and adjusting every bulb until the bedroom is bathed in a soothing glow. You sleep and forget to turn off the lights. The spooky Japanese ghost does it for you, then vanishes, never to appear again. Years later, you're walking down the street and spot a small distant figure in a red dress, and you run to her and—never mind, it's someone else. She's gone, you miss her, but ghosts move on: They can't hang around all day. They've got things to do.
The State of Affairs
Four hundred thousand deaths every year—and growing. From smoking, I mean. Deaths from smoking. Nearly half a million people are dying from smoking-related things every year. Americans, that is. I'm talking about half a million Americans. I don't have the numbers of smoking-related deaths in other countries. But 400,000 Americans dying from smoking every year: that's bad. And I am not exactly sure what we should do about it.
Global warming is the biggest threat facing the globe today. Second-biggest threat. Terrorism, then global warming. Or maybe the reverse. At any rate, I will mention that teen pregnancy is also on the rise. Some people consider that a threat. Me, I'm not so sure that's a threat. My mother had me when she was 19, and on purpose. So that was not such a bad thing. Make love, not war, right? To an extent.
The point is: The globe is heating up, terrorists are trying to rule the world, and babies keep popping out of teenage girls. All of these things should be addressed. At some point, we will also need to figure out what to do about DVD pirating.
Christina Williams is a typical high-school freshman on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. She is captain of the cheerleading squad, an active member of the French Club, and just beginning to learn tae kwon do. Christina has a steady boyfriend who loves her, for the most part, and a weekend job serving ice cream at the local Scoops. She hopes to go into law or real estate when she grows up, and recently organized a highly successful bake sale to raise awareness of France.
Christina Williams doesn't have health insurance.
As for Iraq: I must say I'm a little torn on this issue. I can sort of see all sides of the argument. Do we increase troops or begin to withdraw? Do we set a deadline or play it by ear? I don't really have an answer. If we increase troops, then that equals more Americans fighting what some might consider a hopeless war. If we withdraw now, then we will leave an extraordinary mess behind us. Setting a deadline seems pretty pointless. But if we play it by ear, then we might not feel any sense of urgency.
The whole thing is nothing short of a complete disaster. Yikes!!
When exactly did the Catholic Church become such an enormous institution? Don't get me wrong. I admire religion, but this particular one seems a tad too organized—and large. That being said, I will admit that I sort of like this current pope. Having said that, I should mention that I don't like him very much. He tends to say some pretty outrageous things. Though I do admire his chutzpah.
Dolphins keep getting snared in nets meant for tuna, but I wouldn't exactly advise a ban on tuna. There is no point in throwing out the baby with the bathwater—although maybe there is. However, a tuna ban seems pretty implausible. A lot of people really enjoy tuna fish.
What is the deal with these immigrants?
I would love to hear my readers' feedback. Most of what I write depends on what inspires me. And you, the readership, inspire me. So please send any comments, thoughts, questions, or concerns my way. I look forward to reading them.
Please send only positive feedback. I get anxious.
Global warming is the biggest threat facing the globe today. Second-biggest threat. Terrorism, then global warming. Or maybe the reverse. At any rate, I will mention that teen pregnancy is also on the rise. Some people consider that a threat. Me, I'm not so sure that's a threat. My mother had me when she was 19, and on purpose. So that was not such a bad thing. Make love, not war, right? To an extent.
The point is: The globe is heating up, terrorists are trying to rule the world, and babies keep popping out of teenage girls. All of these things should be addressed. At some point, we will also need to figure out what to do about DVD pirating.
Christina Williams is a typical high-school freshman on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. She is captain of the cheerleading squad, an active member of the French Club, and just beginning to learn tae kwon do. Christina has a steady boyfriend who loves her, for the most part, and a weekend job serving ice cream at the local Scoops. She hopes to go into law or real estate when she grows up, and recently organized a highly successful bake sale to raise awareness of France.
Christina Williams doesn't have health insurance.
As for Iraq: I must say I'm a little torn on this issue. I can sort of see all sides of the argument. Do we increase troops or begin to withdraw? Do we set a deadline or play it by ear? I don't really have an answer. If we increase troops, then that equals more Americans fighting what some might consider a hopeless war. If we withdraw now, then we will leave an extraordinary mess behind us. Setting a deadline seems pretty pointless. But if we play it by ear, then we might not feel any sense of urgency.
The whole thing is nothing short of a complete disaster. Yikes!!
When exactly did the Catholic Church become such an enormous institution? Don't get me wrong. I admire religion, but this particular one seems a tad too organized—and large. That being said, I will admit that I sort of like this current pope. Having said that, I should mention that I don't like him very much. He tends to say some pretty outrageous things. Though I do admire his chutzpah.
Dolphins keep getting snared in nets meant for tuna, but I wouldn't exactly advise a ban on tuna. There is no point in throwing out the baby with the bathwater—although maybe there is. However, a tuna ban seems pretty implausible. A lot of people really enjoy tuna fish.
What is the deal with these immigrants?
I would love to hear my readers' feedback. Most of what I write depends on what inspires me. And you, the readership, inspire me. So please send any comments, thoughts, questions, or concerns my way. I look forward to reading them.
Please send only positive feedback. I get anxious.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The 300 were gay
Last week, The United States' top military officer, General Peter Pace, came out against gays in the military. "I believe that homosexual acts between individuals are immoral," he said, "and that we should not condone immoral acts."
Note to General Pace: Some of the fiercest fighters in military history were gay.
Anyone with a college-level knowledge of Greek history should know that the Spartan Army -- that same Spartan Army celebrated in Warner Bros.' "300" -- was not only a largely gay force, but encouraged homosexual relations among soldiers. Usually, such romance concerned an older mentor and a younger boy.
Wikipedia:
The lover was responsible for the boy's training...The Spartans, claims Athenaeus, sacrificed to Eros (the god of love) before every battle: "Thus the Lacedaemonians (i.e. Spartans) offer preliminary sacrifices to Eros before the troops are drawn up in battle-line, because they think that their safe return and victory depend upon the friendship of the men drawn up."
Now, to state the obvious, we're not condoning sex between men and boys (just as we're not encouraging the abandonment of weak babies in the wilderness, another Spartan societal norm). But to General Pace's point, not only is homosexuality in the military not a bad thing, it was the cornerstone of one of the most powerful fighting forces ever known.
Of course, this historical detail did not make it into Warner Bros.' "300." But that's not what bothered many gay bloggers.
Writing on After Elton.com prior to the film's release, Joe Palmer and François Peneaud say the real issue isn't that these same-sex practices weren't recognized in the film. They understand that "This is an action-adventure comic and movie aimed at young straight men, meant to pile up book sales and box-office cash by piling up dead bodies as graphically and artistically as possible."
The real problem is the inversion of historical fact.
After Elton:
Hot, shirtless, muscle-bound actors aside...gay history has been erased from 300 and replaced with negative stereotypes.
The first is the way the (evil) Persian king Xerxes is portrayed in the graphic novel. Continuing a shameful tradition of Persians as perverts, Miller gives us a king who's all piercings and useless fashion accessories, his head and faced shaved, combining to create an air of effeminacy. In comparison, (Spartan King) Leonidas is hypermasculine and appears to be stereotypically straight, with broad shoulders and a full beard and mustache.
As seen in this photo taken from 300 promotional materials, Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro) is a jewel-clad effete sporting what appear to be manicured nails and plucked eyebrows. His hands, adorned with gold rings on every finger, lie suggestively on the shoulders of King Leonidas (Gerard Butler), a hirsute, rough-hewn man who looks every bit the opposite of Xerxes.
Funny then that, as Deadline Hollywood Daily's Nikki Finke reported yesterday, "one of the biggest audiences for Warner Bros.' 300 is gay men."
Why?
Even with negative stereotypes and no explicit gay sex scenes, shirtless, violent men with "8-pack abs" are "Yummy," she says.
Note to General Pace: Some of the fiercest fighters in military history were gay.
Anyone with a college-level knowledge of Greek history should know that the Spartan Army -- that same Spartan Army celebrated in Warner Bros.' "300" -- was not only a largely gay force, but encouraged homosexual relations among soldiers. Usually, such romance concerned an older mentor and a younger boy.
Wikipedia:
The lover was responsible for the boy's training...The Spartans, claims Athenaeus, sacrificed to Eros (the god of love) before every battle: "Thus the Lacedaemonians (i.e. Spartans) offer preliminary sacrifices to Eros before the troops are drawn up in battle-line, because they think that their safe return and victory depend upon the friendship of the men drawn up."
Now, to state the obvious, we're not condoning sex between men and boys (just as we're not encouraging the abandonment of weak babies in the wilderness, another Spartan societal norm). But to General Pace's point, not only is homosexuality in the military not a bad thing, it was the cornerstone of one of the most powerful fighting forces ever known.
Of course, this historical detail did not make it into Warner Bros.' "300." But that's not what bothered many gay bloggers.
Writing on After Elton.com prior to the film's release, Joe Palmer and François Peneaud say the real issue isn't that these same-sex practices weren't recognized in the film. They understand that "This is an action-adventure comic and movie aimed at young straight men, meant to pile up book sales and box-office cash by piling up dead bodies as graphically and artistically as possible."
The real problem is the inversion of historical fact.
After Elton:
Hot, shirtless, muscle-bound actors aside...gay history has been erased from 300 and replaced with negative stereotypes.
The first is the way the (evil) Persian king Xerxes is portrayed in the graphic novel. Continuing a shameful tradition of Persians as perverts, Miller gives us a king who's all piercings and useless fashion accessories, his head and faced shaved, combining to create an air of effeminacy. In comparison, (Spartan King) Leonidas is hypermasculine and appears to be stereotypically straight, with broad shoulders and a full beard and mustache.
As seen in this photo taken from 300 promotional materials, Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro) is a jewel-clad effete sporting what appear to be manicured nails and plucked eyebrows. His hands, adorned with gold rings on every finger, lie suggestively on the shoulders of King Leonidas (Gerard Butler), a hirsute, rough-hewn man who looks every bit the opposite of Xerxes.
Funny then that, as Deadline Hollywood Daily's Nikki Finke reported yesterday, "one of the biggest audiences for Warner Bros.' 300 is gay men."
Why?
Even with negative stereotypes and no explicit gay sex scenes, shirtless, violent men with "8-pack abs" are "Yummy," she says.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Romeo and Juliet Beyotch, Sophemore Cheerleader
- - - -
Verona High's evening study hall.
ROMEO: Her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET: Shut up, retard. You get near my cheek and I'll rip your airy region out.
ROMEO: She speaks.
O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a wingèd messenger of heaven ...
JULIET: I said shut up, retard. You smell like Doritos. And do you mind sitting a little further away? I can feel your stupid Dorito breath on my face.
ROMEO: Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET: Listen, Creepoid, my older brother's a linebacker on the varsity squad—and he just loves to beat up the creepoids that bother me.
ROMEO: I take thee at thy word!
JULIET: I know you: Hienkles, right? Your sister's a bitch. Did you know that, Nacho Breath? You're related to a walrus-faced ho sack.
ROMEO: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
JULIET: Whatevs. Don't you play tuba in the stupid jazz band, or something even gayer, like the oboe?
ROMEO: Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
JULIET: You're weirding me out, Cheese 'Stache. And you better not be the sicko that's been peeking into my bedroom window—my dad and brothers are going to crunch the cookies out of that guy.
ROMEO: Thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
JULIET: OK. Let me just explain something: My older brother benches, like, 325—in his sleep. With the flu. Plus, my dad has a collection of crazy-sharp Japanese swords that he got from the emperor or somebody. Like 15 of them.
ROMEO: Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than 20 of their swords.
JULIET: My brothers are going to shit honey over this. You know it's tough playing the oboe with broken thumbs, don't you?
ROMEO: My life were better ended by their hate
Than death proroguèd, wanting of thy love.
JULIET: Jeez, could your fingernails be any longer? You disgust me. Go away.
ROMEO: Wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,
I should adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET: Shut up. And why is your hair so greasy? God, you're grosser than a bag of bear shit. Go tell Blake to come over here. And move to where I can't smell your corn chips and hair juice.
ROMEO: O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET: Seriously, what do you want to leave me alone?
ROMEO: Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET: OK ... Fine.
I ...
I ... love you.
... Not.
God, you're so stupid and gross.
You dumb oboe player.
ROMEO: Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?
JULIET: Because your fingers are orange,
And you smell like fake cheese.
How many bags of Doritos did you eat? Like 10?
Oh, my God! Are you crying?
What are you crying for, you stupid baby?
Hey, Blake! Blake, listen:
Hienkles sounds just like a blubbering walrus.
Arrf, arrf, arrf.
Arrf, arrf, arrf.
OK, that's enough—
It's not really funny anymore.
Jeez, you know, even for a stalker, you're really emotional. Now here: shut up and do my civics homework.
ROMEO: O blessèd, blessèd night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
JULIET: I said shut up, retard.
Exeunt.
Verona High's evening study hall.
ROMEO: Her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET: Shut up, retard. You get near my cheek and I'll rip your airy region out.
ROMEO: She speaks.
O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a wingèd messenger of heaven ...
JULIET: I said shut up, retard. You smell like Doritos. And do you mind sitting a little further away? I can feel your stupid Dorito breath on my face.
ROMEO: Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET: Listen, Creepoid, my older brother's a linebacker on the varsity squad—and he just loves to beat up the creepoids that bother me.
ROMEO: I take thee at thy word!
JULIET: I know you: Hienkles, right? Your sister's a bitch. Did you know that, Nacho Breath? You're related to a walrus-faced ho sack.
ROMEO: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
JULIET: Whatevs. Don't you play tuba in the stupid jazz band, or something even gayer, like the oboe?
ROMEO: Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
JULIET: You're weirding me out, Cheese 'Stache. And you better not be the sicko that's been peeking into my bedroom window—my dad and brothers are going to crunch the cookies out of that guy.
ROMEO: Thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
JULIET: OK. Let me just explain something: My older brother benches, like, 325—in his sleep. With the flu. Plus, my dad has a collection of crazy-sharp Japanese swords that he got from the emperor or somebody. Like 15 of them.
ROMEO: Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than 20 of their swords.
JULIET: My brothers are going to shit honey over this. You know it's tough playing the oboe with broken thumbs, don't you?
ROMEO: My life were better ended by their hate
Than death proroguèd, wanting of thy love.
JULIET: Jeez, could your fingernails be any longer? You disgust me. Go away.
ROMEO: Wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,
I should adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET: Shut up. And why is your hair so greasy? God, you're grosser than a bag of bear shit. Go tell Blake to come over here. And move to where I can't smell your corn chips and hair juice.
ROMEO: O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET: Seriously, what do you want to leave me alone?
ROMEO: Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET: OK ... Fine.
I ...
I ... love you.
... Not.
God, you're so stupid and gross.
You dumb oboe player.
ROMEO: Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?
JULIET: Because your fingers are orange,
And you smell like fake cheese.
How many bags of Doritos did you eat? Like 10?
Oh, my God! Are you crying?
What are you crying for, you stupid baby?
Hey, Blake! Blake, listen:
Hienkles sounds just like a blubbering walrus.
Arrf, arrf, arrf.
Arrf, arrf, arrf.
OK, that's enough—
It's not really funny anymore.
Jeez, you know, even for a stalker, you're really emotional. Now here: shut up and do my civics homework.
ROMEO: O blessèd, blessèd night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
JULIET: I said shut up, retard.
Exeunt.
Jane Eyre runs for president.
- - - -
I am challenged at the Iowa caucuses to endorse gay marriage as a sacred institution. Of course I believe it, but how can they make me say so when they know the political cost it will exact? Hot tears of rage stream down my scarlet face.
In New Hampshire, I endure the grandiose posturing of Chris Matthews so I can get an interview on MSNBC. What a blowhard the man is! Who, man or woman, would not find his pompous questions exasperating? I curl my fists into tiny balls beneath the interview table.
There comes a time, dear reader, when a woman of high conscience must make her feelings plain. Today, in Ohio, I came out strongly for government support of stem-cell research.
I am for an increase in the minimum wage. I believe the government should negotiate with pharmaceutical companies to lower the cost of prescription drugs. I am curious as to why there are not more books of quality in the nation's public libraries. I have taken fewer liberties on the campaign trail than others have, surely, but this small conservatism is a wise choice for a woman of my stature in a fight to gain the highest office in the land.
Reader, take this information and hold it to your heart. It is between us. I am in love with the person who will likely be my running mate, the future vice president. He is a young senator from Illinois with a handsome countenance, the most remarkable pedigree, and an unfortunate middle name. What ever shall I do!
I am determined not to allow Senator McCain, of the state of Arizona, to escape responsibility for the abandonment of his principles. My campaign has released a list of talking points. The main theme is that McCain will say anything to get elected.
We are in the "swing" states. Curious nomenclature these Americans use. I sometimes think language is not their strong suit. Plans for the convention are coming along. My senator looks well before the crowds. Handsome, sure of himself, and quite tall. I do quite like him. We make a pair.
In other matters, a midnight rendezvous with the young senator has left me flushed. So dizzy was I, it's a wonder I made it back to my room. Today, I could barely keep my mind on my stump speech. The campaign is in constant motion. Everything is a blur. Our consultants tell us Georgia and Florida are well in hand.
In South Carolina, my nemesis McCain makes an issue of my lack of military service. He appears oblivious to the fact that 19th-century English women were prohibited from military service. So I ask him, "If I have no military experience, what fault is that of mine?" Does he not see the injustice of his charge, at least as it relates to me? Truly, a young woman of courage has few friends in this world.
The papers today have released a secret the senator and I have shared, and our advisers fear it imperils our campaign. The senator and I, it has been revealed, both speak French, and sometimes converse in that language. What of it? Is this all the opposition has? I have told my senator not to worry. Common sense will, in the end, prevail.
Dear reader, it has been a whirlwind! Never have I known any task to be so arduous, or so prolonged. But New York has put us over the top. To my mind, this is just according to plan. The young senator and I may now plan our convention. The event will be more a coronation than a nomination, but such is the trend, and I see no harm in following it.
There will be time enough for change, dear reader. Fret not about your little Jane.
Oh, we are to win, dear reader, we are to win! I can sense it in my heart. McCain is too old. The campaign has scarcely begun and already he is faltering. We're up by three points, and our lead can only grow. It is a new era in American politics. The permanent Republican majority is truly cooked, and I will be the first 19th-century Victorian woman president. Imagine!
I can already see myself, with my hand upon the Bible that will be held by Chief Justice Roberts, which is unfortunate, but what can one do? They can't be fired. Still, the image appeals, and beyond it I can see the bright future my young senator and I, and our country, will share. An increase in the minimum wage. Lower prices for prescription drugs. An end to the horrid occupation of Iraq. Finally, and thank God.
We are like a lamp atop the tall mast of a ship, the senator and I, and the American people are the wind that fills our sails. I am so fortunate to have been a good speech writer. The senator and I are quite a team. We have been blessed with the mercy of heaven, a strong political mandate, and a majority in both houses.
He is like the country he loves so much: towering, confident, not always as articulate as you would expect. He should probably run for the office himself someday. But, until then, I shall lead them both, my love and my country, for as long as they will let me, and when they put their collective arm around me I shall be their prop and their guide
I am challenged at the Iowa caucuses to endorse gay marriage as a sacred institution. Of course I believe it, but how can they make me say so when they know the political cost it will exact? Hot tears of rage stream down my scarlet face.
In New Hampshire, I endure the grandiose posturing of Chris Matthews so I can get an interview on MSNBC. What a blowhard the man is! Who, man or woman, would not find his pompous questions exasperating? I curl my fists into tiny balls beneath the interview table.
There comes a time, dear reader, when a woman of high conscience must make her feelings plain. Today, in Ohio, I came out strongly for government support of stem-cell research.
I am for an increase in the minimum wage. I believe the government should negotiate with pharmaceutical companies to lower the cost of prescription drugs. I am curious as to why there are not more books of quality in the nation's public libraries. I have taken fewer liberties on the campaign trail than others have, surely, but this small conservatism is a wise choice for a woman of my stature in a fight to gain the highest office in the land.
Reader, take this information and hold it to your heart. It is between us. I am in love with the person who will likely be my running mate, the future vice president. He is a young senator from Illinois with a handsome countenance, the most remarkable pedigree, and an unfortunate middle name. What ever shall I do!
I am determined not to allow Senator McCain, of the state of Arizona, to escape responsibility for the abandonment of his principles. My campaign has released a list of talking points. The main theme is that McCain will say anything to get elected.
We are in the "swing" states. Curious nomenclature these Americans use. I sometimes think language is not their strong suit. Plans for the convention are coming along. My senator looks well before the crowds. Handsome, sure of himself, and quite tall. I do quite like him. We make a pair.
In other matters, a midnight rendezvous with the young senator has left me flushed. So dizzy was I, it's a wonder I made it back to my room. Today, I could barely keep my mind on my stump speech. The campaign is in constant motion. Everything is a blur. Our consultants tell us Georgia and Florida are well in hand.
In South Carolina, my nemesis McCain makes an issue of my lack of military service. He appears oblivious to the fact that 19th-century English women were prohibited from military service. So I ask him, "If I have no military experience, what fault is that of mine?" Does he not see the injustice of his charge, at least as it relates to me? Truly, a young woman of courage has few friends in this world.
The papers today have released a secret the senator and I have shared, and our advisers fear it imperils our campaign. The senator and I, it has been revealed, both speak French, and sometimes converse in that language. What of it? Is this all the opposition has? I have told my senator not to worry. Common sense will, in the end, prevail.
Dear reader, it has been a whirlwind! Never have I known any task to be so arduous, or so prolonged. But New York has put us over the top. To my mind, this is just according to plan. The young senator and I may now plan our convention. The event will be more a coronation than a nomination, but such is the trend, and I see no harm in following it.
There will be time enough for change, dear reader. Fret not about your little Jane.
Oh, we are to win, dear reader, we are to win! I can sense it in my heart. McCain is too old. The campaign has scarcely begun and already he is faltering. We're up by three points, and our lead can only grow. It is a new era in American politics. The permanent Republican majority is truly cooked, and I will be the first 19th-century Victorian woman president. Imagine!
I can already see myself, with my hand upon the Bible that will be held by Chief Justice Roberts, which is unfortunate, but what can one do? They can't be fired. Still, the image appeals, and beyond it I can see the bright future my young senator and I, and our country, will share. An increase in the minimum wage. Lower prices for prescription drugs. An end to the horrid occupation of Iraq. Finally, and thank God.
We are like a lamp atop the tall mast of a ship, the senator and I, and the American people are the wind that fills our sails. I am so fortunate to have been a good speech writer. The senator and I are quite a team. We have been blessed with the mercy of heaven, a strong political mandate, and a majority in both houses.
He is like the country he loves so much: towering, confident, not always as articulate as you would expect. He should probably run for the office himself someday. But, until then, I shall lead them both, my love and my country, for as long as they will let me, and when they put their collective arm around me I shall be their prop and their guide
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