This has been bumming me out, and finally Pam’s House Blend has the ultimate post about it. The entire thing makes me sick. The Day of Silence is an incredibly – I am loathe to use the mundane “beautiful”, but I find it’s the one that keeps occurring to me – it’s this beautiful, powerful action. Perhaps beautiful is the perfect word, because it’s so basic, so simple. The Day of Silence is a movement of solidarity, infused with irony. The form the activism takes is the opposite of its goal. That’s part of its intensity. The message is that no one should have to be silent. Which is why this bizarre sudden fixation on opposing it is so goddamn depressing. (I’d link to all that, but others have done so and they annoy me, so not today, crazy ex-gay folks.)

Even our silence is offensive to these frigging people. Some days – why do I even get out of bed?


After what felt like a two-year sabbatical – twelve whole days, sheesh! – G-A-Y is back. Thank the gods, oh thank the gods. Far too long to go without that customary snark-with-your-morning-hating-of-the-world. Hating the world requires snark, and coffee. Sometimes chocolate, as well.

Just to show that we may all be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least we’re having a good time, this nugget, regarding ex-gaydom and why we queers are all nasty bigoted hypocrites. But we’re so good at it! Hypocrisy is especially potent when you sniff it directly from the canister (as those of us recovering from organized religion did throughout our formative years). Clearly the folks at the American Family Association are still high.

I can’t bring myself to open that tab, by the way. When I must, I use Safari, but I absolutely refuse to open violent hate-spewing garbage alongside the usual suspects. I’m too ocd. I fear the tainting of my day, should the hate be prepared on the same dish as the angry, articulate truth-speak.

Good As You is also covering the so-called Americans For Truth attempts to destroy the Vagina Monologues. First of all: dear god, what is this, news? Eve Ensler wrote a play and used the “v” word a lot. Like twelve years ago, people! And distasteful as using the “v” word admittedly is, if you haven’t managed to stop her yet, what makes you think that now’s the time? For more in Peter LaBarbera news, hit Pam’s House Blend for this bit, regarding dialing back all tentative progress made in the acceptance of transfolk in the name of, y’know, squashing the Homosexual Agenda. Dammit. Why am I not on that email list? Where can I sign up? I was the president of the gay club for three frigging years in high school – you’d think people like me would be ducking calls from the Homosexual Agenda. “Hey, aren’t you gonna get your phone?” “Nah, it’s just the Homosexual Agenda again. They never stop calling. I keep thinking about getting on that no-call list, but you just never know when we might be phone-treeing to form that militia we’re always talking about…”

Lastly on the G-A-Y front: a pull-out from this hilarious piece of trash by the soulless Matt Barber. Jeez. There’s no good place to start, and I can’t spend the rest of my day on this, so I’ll mention, simply, this bit:

The fact that we don’t have mandatory surgeon general warnings on the side of condom wrappers is a testament to the power and influence wielded by the radical homosexual lobby. (Warning: Male-male anal sodomy has been proven to shorten your lifespan by up to 20 years.)

Fascinating stuff. I mean, you have warnings on cigarettes that say smoking’s bad because, you know, if you’re buying cigarettes you’re pretty much guaranteed to be, I dunno, smoking them. On the other hand, I’ve actually used condoms, if not altogether recently, but I am almost a hundred percent certain that I never once used them for “male-male anal sodomy”. I’ve given it thought. Nope. Not once did male-male anal sodomy occur on, or even near, my person. The coolest part of the story, as covered at Good As You, is that the folks who put out the study Barber ruthlessly twists for his own demonic goals were so ticked off they released what G-A-Y’s calling an “all-out condemnation” of all attempts to misuse the study for ignorant purposes. Sure, issuing a memo about a memo about a memo isn’t going to get anyone’s ears boxed for spouting more drivel into the universe, but it’s nice, all the same.

And if someone could drop me a line the next time the radical homosexual lobby holds a get together, that’d be great.

Gay Panic and Other Misadventures

It is impossible for me to be calm about this. I admire people who can feel strongly and remain articulate, collected, seemingly not flipped out. I wish I had that superpower. Well, that and and the empathy wand: “Oh yeah? You think that bitch had it coming? Wham. Well, there you go. No, don’t cry, don’t be a little girl about it, fucker. Cause ‘that bitch’ feels like you’re feeling now every day.”

But enough about superpowers. Pandagon reports that even going on ten years into the twenty-first century, the penalty for being gay is still death. Oh, and robbery, evidently. The basic outline of the story stands as: guy falls asleep, guy comes to in his living room with a man attempting to fellate him, guy picks up handy baseball bat and nearly beats the life out of unwanted-attention-giver, guy shoves the body in the trunk of u-a-g’s own vehicle, guy steals u-a-g’s credit card, guy goes on shopping spree and flies to Texas while u-a-g bleeds to death in aforementioned trunk.

Oh, right. Guy sentenced to a maximum of 15 years for manslaughter. Poor guy.

There’s a funny split amongst commenters. I suppose I should give a little respect to the fellas who are tentatively mentioning that we can’t, collectively, dismiss guy’s claim that he was being assaulted. Okay. A little respect. Because it’s probably not easy for you to give your incredibly naive viewpoint in a potentially hostile environment. I get that you think I’m dismissing guy because he’s – you know – a guy. When in fact that doesn’t come into my judgement until lower down on the list, after “you were so fucking traumatized you stole your attacker’s credit cards and went fucking shopping???” and “I see, so you’re saying you regularly gay-bash just for the sake of robbery, but this one time robbery was merely the icing on the cake, after you were almost forced to receive a blow job, right”.

I don’t want to bring the “r” word into this, because to do so would be to trivialize everything I believe to be true about the many and frequently fucked up ways that people deal with physical assaults in their lives. People do crazy things in the name of coping, of healing, of getting through the goddamn day. What I’m saying is this: here we have a human being who killed another human being and went shopping. Put all the other stuff aside. I think there are moments when you do what you need to do to survive, when adrenaline hits and you find yourself in a situation you never expected to be in, perhaps doing something you absolutely never expected to do, and for most of us I hope killing another person is on that list. There are a lot of ways we deal with that kind of situation. Shopping with stolen credit cards, though, seems a tad bit cavalier, if you’re going to make the case to me that you’ve also just survived a sexual assault on your person. Those pieces do not add up to “I will never recover the slam on my dignity that was a man picturing my naked ass”.

Gay panic’s not about justifying one deed in the name of reaction to another. Gay panic’s about justifying a whole slew of potential future violent acts with the excuse that what someone else is cannot be tolerated. Is there a similar condition for my continued exposure to extreme religious conviction while in the course of my duties as a barista? Is there a line, somewhere, that, when crossed, would justify my throwing an entire pitcher of extra-hot no foam nonfat into the eyes of the woman who tells me, serenely, that Jesus is my savior? Because I am filled with rage. Because I don’t want to have to see people like you in my daily life, I don’t need any reminders that you exist. And I don’t want any of what you’ve got rubbing off on me.

I get panic. I get rage. And then, presumably, I get arrested. What I don’t get is a jury – many juries – coming to the same conclusion, again and again: it’s okay to kill queers. Well, not okay, exactly, but – well, we understand. They’re so – it’s just all so distasteful, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?