Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

No villans

Last night--I'm sure you've heard by now, but just in case--the great state of New York decided they liked it, and they put a ring on it. They legalized same-sex marriage.

It's been a long walk down the aisle here in NY. The Assembly and the Senate have voted on the issue quite a few times, but like a skittish bride or a reluctant groom, never made it to the vows. Last night, there were vows. There was an 'I do,' and then a kiss in the form of a governor's signature on the bill allowing marriage equality.

A few quick facts: Governor Cuomo lobbied hard to get the bill passed, which to me is an incredibly brave thing for him to have done; New York has tried in the past, when the Senate was controlled by dirty commie librul Democrats, to pass the same-sex marriage bill, and failed; New York is the largest state in the Union to pass said bill, now doubling the amount of gay American citizens allowed to get hitched; the bill passed with bipartisan approval in a Senate controlled by Republicans who were not required to bring the bill to a vote at all.

For a while, in fact, it didn't seem there would be a vote. Republicans conferenced the hell out of this thing, discussing behind closed doors the possibility of bringing an up-or-down vote to the...

Whatever. There are the facts, and then there's the fact: My love for Greg is now recognized by the state of NY as a legitimate, uncontested, unpreventable love. What I now feel in every cell, every atom, each centimeter of flesh, each fiber of organ, each vein and artery, what I've always known is now accepted as truth by my fellow New Yorkers as being right and normal. (The picture up there of G and I kissing is from a decade ago, btw. It was taken a few weeks after we met.)

Incidentally, I was born the year the American Psychiatric Association decided homosexuality was not a disease in need of treatment. And I'm not that old.

It seems odd to me to thank others for recognizing my humanity, recognizing my inability to resist having the capacity for love. But I do thank others. I thank the 29 democrats and three republicans who voted for the bill. I thank all the straight people who couldn't care less about my homosexuality, and couldn't care more about my equality. I thank my family. I thank my friends.

I even thank my dog, Waffles.

I thank the trees, and streets, and the bricks, and the pages of my favorite books, and the individual frames of my favorite movies. I thank the gods I don't believe in and the fictitious hell I'll never see. I thank all the tiny little incidents of my life that led up to the moment I met Greg, and I thank all the tiny little incidents that led him to me.

Last night was historic. It will be challenged in the courts by people seeking to delegitimize facts. And those courts may see fit to overturn last night's facts. But the truth will out, as they say, and in my experience it's very hard to go back in once you've come out.

The great work begins, as always.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


There's an ersatz campaign to convince the Pulitzer people to award The Onion a prize. And ok yes The Onion deserves a Pulitzer. Lesser things have won one. Greater things have not.

Ira Glass--the host of This American Life--posted a video online supporting The Onion's Colbertesque campaign to win a Pulitzer, as has Tom Hanks, Arianna Huffington, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili, Paul Reiser and the guy two flights down from me, who is also named Paul Reiser, but isn't the Paul Reiser, and smells like stale cottage cheese. He also looks more like Helen Hunt than Paul Reiser, but that's ok since his wife looks more like Paul Reiser than Helen Hunt, and their kids look like Jerry Seinfeld. Sort of. I mean, their kids look like a shaved Jerry Seinfeld.

I have terrible eyesight, by the way. Just got new glasses but still.


Ira Glass, in his posted video supporting the Pulitzerfication of The Onion, says this: "Hey! Hey, cocksuckers! How about taking your heads out of your collective asses... and giving The Onion a Pulitzer already."

Ira's use of the word 'cocksucker' has raised some eyebrows. Apparently, most of Ira's This American Life audience believe him to be the unassuming, neutered hipster he portrays each week rather than the Ian McShane acolyte he truly is. NPR listeners are so naive. Those great shows we hear on NPR don't magically make it to air. Those shows require hard-nosed, hard-biting determination, cutting down the competition. To get a show on NPR, one must be a Joe Pesci of broadcast journalism.

There's a reason it's a prize for Carl Kasell to leave a message on your home answering machine: You don't want Carl Kasell to come to your actual fucking house. No you most definitely do not because he'll break your fucking balls.

Right. So. Cocksucker. Cocksucker cocksucker cocksucker. It's a fun word to say. Ira Glass says it. Ian McShane says it. I say it. I even do it.

But Dan Clark--some guy on the internet--doesn't like the word. Dan says [and this is all sic, btw], "Seriously? I know that it's a joke, but I would not have expected to head [heh, Freudian slip much?] Ira Glass using hate-speech. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Again, I get that it's a joke, but if I wanted to hear that kind of garbage, I'd listen to Tracy Morgan. "

After a gratuitous Tracy Morgan slam, Dan adds: "
I gave $100 to the program just a couple of months ago. I'm certainly never doing that again."

That's right. Dan is withdrawing his $100 support to This American Life because Ira Glass said 'cocksucker.'

Here's the thing: I'm a cocksucker, and I don't care if someone calls me one. I suck cock. When someone calls me a cocksucker, I don't feel as if I'm experiencing hate; I just assume they're paying me a compliment. If they'd called me a cock-gobbler, I'd be offended. My technique is nuanced and exact. I suck cock. I do not gobble.

Knob-polisher. That's another one. That's undercutting what I do. Certainly, there's a bit of polishing in my technique but you're selling me short if you think all I do is polish--I also do a bit of gobbling and sucking. Mostly sucking. The sucking is the important part. The polishing and gobbling of the cock is secondary, which is why I take offense when called a knob-polisher or a cock-gobbler. If all I did was gobble or polish a cock, I'd be either a pet attending to a dish of food or a maid cleaning the house.

I am neither a family pet nor Hazel. I suck.

Cocksuckers are a gift from the universe. And the word? The word is magical. It isn't hate-speech to call someone a 'cocksucker'. Frankly, so long as you treat me with respect and know you also have a denigrating nickname to describe your own lifestyle, I don't care what you call me.

Some choice quotes from the ongoing 'cocksucker' debate:

From Elisabeth Goebel (heh):
Yeah, Dan Clark, you'd better not support one of the best programs on the radio because the host has a sense of humor. Nevermind that this wasn't even on the show. God, people like you are frustrating.

From Cynthia Cox (!!!):
And I'm pretty sure that most people who know me would not think that I have no sense of humor. I totally appreciate a good dirty joke. My reaction when I heard him say "cocksucker" was not utter dismay, but more like "really? He had to use that word?" I get that it's a joke, but there are better ways to get a laugh than use a word that has the potential to insult traditionally marginalized and oppressed groups.

From Brian Kiser:
political correctness is gay.

I'm a cocksucker. I take pride in not being a knob-polisher.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

8 Inches of Certitude

This is not a post about Representative Weiner. Of that I am certain.

Well, I mean, I might mention Weiner at some point--I do live in NYC, and he is a pretty big topic right now.

You know that painting by Magritte? The one with a pipe and the caption, "This is not a pipe"? Only it is written in French, so the caption actually says, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe". You know the painting, right? Hell, it's right over there, so even if you didn't know it before, you know it now.

The thing is, the caption is literally correct. That pipe there, that's not a pipe. It's a representation of a pipe, made up of brush strokes and paint. Except, it figuratively is a pipe. So the caption is literally correct but figuratively incorrect, which is an important distinction.

(And yes, I realize the picture over there is not literally a figurative representation of a pipe made up of brush strokes and paint, but a digital recreation of the figurative representation of a pipe literally consisting of brush strokes and paint. Stop figuratively splitting hairs.)

Keep that in mind.

Weiner. This is not a post about Weiner, I promise.

So there's an old joke. I mean, there are a lot of old jokes, right, in that most jokes are old. Did you know--just saying--that 'why did the chicken cross the road' jokes date back to Roman Empire days? It's true, if not literally true, then at least figuratively, in that I am sure some Roman person, just after Appian Way popped up, noticed a chicken crossing it and made a comment to one of his or her buddies. So that's an old joke at least figuratively, in that it maybe wasn't literally the 'why did the chicken cross the road' joke, but it was certainly figuratively a 'chicken cross the road' joke.

Digress. Sorry. So there's an old joke, one of many, which goes like this: "There's an old joke. Two elderly women are having dinner in the Catskills. " (I'm not certain why these two elderly women always are having dinner in the Catskills. Makes no sense, really--the food there is terrible, and in such small portions, so they should probably try a new region, like maybe downtown Manhattan or... wait, I just gave away the punchline. I always do that. Overthink the joke, analyze it too much, deconstruct it.)

So there's an old joke. About old ladies eating at blah blah Catskills blah. And one of them says, "You know, the food here is terrible." And the other one says, "I know. And in such small portions."

See, it's funny because even though the food is terrible, the second elderly lady is indignant that the terrible food is served in small portions. Ha, right? Ha-ha.

That reminds me of another joke, or at least the sense of the joke if not the joke itself. I don't recall the set-up, but the punchline is, 'No, said the monsignor. That's my anus.'

Which is a lie. I mean it's a lie I don't remember the set-up to that punchline, not that the monsignor was lying about the possession of his own anus--I'm sure the monsignor was telling the truth. I was lying. There was never a set-up. It's just something someone I knew in high school used to say during awkward pauses. I don't remember why he used to say that during awkward pauses, and that is the truth. I'm as honest about not remembering why he said that as the monsignor was about his possession of his own anus.

To review: the picture of Anthony Weiner's penis is not, literally, his penis. Americans like their scandals served in large portions even when the scandals are terribly pointless, and despite all the other things the media and the American people could be saying to one another, the Weiner scandal is essentially the monsignor's anus, figuratively, filling the awkward silence.

Which is why Andrew Breitbart's nickname is 'Breitfart.'

That's all I have to say, other than the title of this post is an awful pun on 'One Hundred Years of Solitude,' for no reason. 'The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Blogger' didn't quite work, and 'A Weiner Grows in Brooklyn' seemed gross.

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