DOMAsses

Recently, President Obama announced that the Department of Justice would stop defending the Defense of Marriage Act in federal court.  For those of you unfamiliar with the act, it means that if you get gay married in Massachusetts, the bigots of, say, Utah don’t have to recognize it and the federal government doesn’t have to give a fuuuuck.  This is a big win for gay rights activists so obviously, Republican bigots everywhere are scrambling to take up arms.  Let’s focus on Republican Uberbigot John Boehner.  The recently elected Crybaby Speaker of the House had this to say on the issue:

It is regrettable that the Obama administration has opened this divisive issue at a time when Americans want their leaders to focus on jobs and the challenges facing our economy.

Now of course, Boehner has absolutely no evidence of how Obama telling the DoJ to stop wasting time on something is going to contribute to his inability to focus on jobs and the challenges facing our economy.  How much time did it take Obama to stop defending DOMA?  Like, five seconds?

Boehner also claims that this is a terrible time to bring up divisive issues like DOMA.  But it’s totally OK to bring up divisive issues like redefining rape or taking away the funding for Planned Parenthood.  Right.  Because those issues aren’t divisive.  Because Republicans agree with those.  And that means it brings people together because winning 63 seats means that everyone agrees with  you all the time.

So how will Boehner make sure that America’s leaders do focus on jobs and the challenges facing our economy?  Simple, by convening the Bipartisan Legal Advisory Group so they can discuss ways to keep the DOMA in effect.  Did I mention that this group is made up of Boehner as well as the Majority and Minority Leaders and Whips, which of course includes San Francisco liberal Nancy Pelosi?  Oh, I see.  So your plan to keep our politicians focused on jobs and the economy is to take the people who run the House of Representatives and bog them down with a controversial issue, knowing that there’s no way this group of disparate thinkers will ever reach a consensus.

What’s the point of even pointing out this hypocrisy anymore?

Durp durp I’m Saxby Chambliss

Regarding “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” “Senator” Chambliss has this form letter that gets sent out to anyone who writes him to tell him to vote in favor of the repeal. What purpose does this form letter serve? He merely says that he doesn’t agree with the Pentagon’s survey. He doesn’t give any solid reasons why. He simply says he has fears about allowing gay people to openly express their sexuality and then vaguely paraphrases some testimony that a few higher ups in the military said during a hearing (no actual quotes, just the fact that they don’t approve). He claims that the disapproval from war fighting units and the USMC is significantly higher but that is a range of 40% for the USMC and 60% for small niche specialists in fighting units. But that statistic he cites merely expresses personal doubts over the long term effects of the repeal. He neglects to mention that around 85% of members of those same groups said that they have a good or neutral ability to work alongside homosexuals.

An Open Letter to the Non-Racist Voters of Georgia

With less than a month until we elect our new governor, I find myself unable to commit to a candidate. Anyone who knows me or reads this blog may find that hard to believe as I wear my liberal zeal on my sleeve. Therefore, it should be a safe bet that my vote would be going to former Georgia governor and current democratic gubernatorial candidate Roy Barnes. You may remember Barnes as the man who was publicly crucified for removing an overtly-racist symbol from the state flag, so it should come as no surprise that race is once again at the forefront of this year’s election. Only, the bottom-dwellers of rural Georgia have moved on from hating black people and now focus their rage at that most evil of ethnicities: Hispanics.

A respite

I swear there’s something vitriolic and hyperpolitical coming down the pipeline, but in the meanwhile, let’s all enjoy a more whimsical blog project.

Purdy South.

What I Learned from My Three Weeks of Not Drinking (Hint: Nothing)

So, about three weeks ago, I made a foolish and very-public proclamation to my mom and the four other people who read this that I was going to give up alcohol for the entire month of August. The whole experiment was going well, in a manner of speaking, until last Saturday when I ended up at a music festival on the Westside and decided to actually have fun instead of constantly reminding myself that I wasn’t supposed to drink and explaining to friends that I wasn’t drinking and that, no, I didn’t have a reason. So what did I learn about myself in this abbreviated attempt at pointless temperance? Well, nothing really, but I think that the fact that I didn’t learn anything from the ordeal is the real lesson.

When I say I learned nothing from this experiment, I’m not being entirely honest. I did manage to go to a few art openings and parties and abstain from alcohol and still be charming. So I learned that I’m a fun person to be around even when sober, and by “learned” I mean “was reminded of something I already knew.” I guess that doesn’t count as learning anything.

Here’s something. During my three weeks of not drinking alcohol, I saw my consumption of soda skyrocket from my daily average of .05 sodas to a whopping 1-2 sodas. Now, I never drank alcohol with the frequency I was consuming soda yet my body was craving some sort of liquid novelty and soda fit the bill. So by avoiding the occasional drink here or there, I was now putting into my body hundreds of empty calories, tens of grams of extra carbohydrates, and more high fructose corn syrup than I usually consume in a week on a daily basis. If that’s what my brain tells me to do when I’m not getting a few weekly drinks, then fuck it. I’d much rather have beer or wine and suffer through all the positive health benefits that brings than putting diabetes juice straight into my system.

The whole soda realization made me start questioning my decision in the first place. After all, if my current soda consumption now greatly outweighed my prior alcohol consumption and I was drinking a number of sodas that the average fat American would view as conservative, then clearly alcohol was never really a problem for me. With the exception of buffalo wings, I am a relatively temperate person.

Here’s another thing. I don’t like going out somewhere like a bar and not spending any money. I don’t want to be that guy who sits at the table and tells the waiter “oh just a water for me.” So the options are either (a) buy some food (b) get some more sugar water (c) order a beer. The choice to me seems clear. During those three weeks, I found myself sitting at home because I didn’t want to go to a bar and not give them any money and I sure didn’t want to spend my time at a bar slurping down the unnecessary calories from endless Shirley Temples.

By the end of week two, I realized that this whole endeavor was pointless, but I insisted on finishing it in the name of writing a better blog post. By the end of week three, I realized that that was the worst reason possible. No one cares that you stopped drinking for a month. If gave it up for six months, sure, that might make an interesting read, but honestly, what kind of self-indulgent author writes about how amazing he is for not drinking for a full month?

So Saturday night rolled around, and after four hours of declining drink offers and having to deal with Atlanta’s persistent post-punk line-up, I decided to give in and have a PBR. And you know what? It was terrible. Awful. Honestly, if you’re going to fall off the wagon, do it with something better than that pisswater.

I think the lesson learned here is to not deny yourself things that you enjoy. If you don’t have a drinking problem, don’t abstain. If you don’t drink, give it a shot. Benjamin Franklin drank and he’s on the hundred dollar bill. Don’t let Ol’ Benji down. Pour yourself a pint and enjoy yourself, America. You only live once, and you sure as shit don’t want to be sober for it.

If you oppose gay marriage, your son will grow up to like techno music…

And we all know what that means, right?

Well, we’re almost a week into August and, thus, almost a week into my stupid pledge to not drink during the month of August. Naturally, without sweet fermented hops to quell the rage caused by my nation’s unstoppable stupidity, I’m reaching a boiling point. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, America, but lately, you been acting a li’l crazy, and I think it’s time we had a heart to heart. And let me assure you, it’s gonna be a long one so go grab a beer (on my behalf), find a comfy chair, and hit the jump.

Some sort of attempt at growth or some shit

I received word today that my client is not planning on signing a new contract until later this year which means that I am effectively laid off from GPB at this point. I’m not terribly bummed. My job at Georgia Tech starts up again at the end of August and I’ll still be working a li’l bit at Doc Chey’s so I won’t starve to death necessarily. Basically, I’m gonna look at this as a period of personal growth and reflection, with as much time writing by the pool as possible.

Last year, I suffered through an ongoing illness and some of the most painful heartbreak of my life. When I got healthier, I dove headfirst back into the dating world. Though my body had been healed, my mind was still wrecked from the thoughts that go through your head after months of seemingly incurable sickness, none of which were ameliorated by lingering thoughts of a relationship that I wanted to happen that just wasn’t going to. In May, I nearly got a job in New York City and when I didn’t, I was devastated. Later that week, it was my 25th birthday, and I found myself in the same city I’ve lived in my whole life with no prospects of a better job or any sort of engaging relationship or any way to see that M.I.A./Die Antwoord concert on Governors Island.

Obviously, I still have some issues I need to work out so I’m gonna use August as a month to get back in touch with who I am, reigniting the bitter core deep inside of me so that I can get those defenses back up to full. Support from friends would be great (read: pools). I’m laying down some ground rules for myself so that I can try and keep myself on track:

1 – No dating
2 – No booze
3 – Pools
4 – Write for at least an hour a day.

Hopefully I can do this. In the meantime, can we just watch this and reflect?

We’re Here; We’re Queer; We’re Making A Movie About Those Two Previous Sentences

Several weeks ago, I found myself up on a platform standing behind a camera, filming as one our nation’s greatest drag performers took to the stage, showing off her tits to a crowd of ravenous gay men as Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” blared over the speakers. Though I’d seen drag performers before, this was the first time I had attended a full-fledged drag show, complete with a bitchy emcee and a drag queen who thinks it’s cool to look like Pink (newsflash: it isn’t). How did I, a happy resident of the margins of any culture to which I belong in the slightest, end up here?

Months ago, I was contacted by Heather, a eager lover of gay performance art trying to find an editor to help stitch together various pieces of footage she had shot for a documentary about gay performers in the city of Atlanta and surrounding metro area. Though our professional relationship got off to a rocky start, things eventually stabilized when we reached an agreement that I would help her film more footage in exchange for not having to edit. I’ve always found editing rather dull and felt more comfortable behind the obscuring lens of the video camera.

The entire arrangement was somewhat bizarre as Heather’s enthusiasm for the subject was matched only by my apathy towards it. I had never even been to a drag show before and yet here I was, conscripted to go on a video tour of metro Atlanta’s queerest shit ever. Plopping me down backstage at a drag show would be the equivalent of me heading out to an orthodox synagogue for Yom Kippur. I exist on the margins of these cultures, eschewing their tradition and cultural keystones in favor of developing my own little world. It’s a decision I’m mostly happy with and yet, I would soon be confronted with the full otherness of the gay community I never really paid much attention to.

Rare is the man who sees a drag queen duct tape his dick into his ass crack before ever sitting through a full drag show, and yet there I was, camera in hand, backstage at a gay bar in Marietta of all places as a six-foot-three female impersonator took a strip of grey adhesive tape and tucked his junk. Throughout the filming process, I met numerous queer performers throughout the city, from puppeteers to bluegrass musicians to drag queens to poets. However, when it comes to gay people doing something gay on stage for money, drag is the top of the mountain. I quickly learned that Atlanta is a city rich with men in women’s clothing, women in men’s clothing, and men-women in women-men’s clothing, and that there will always be some sad drag queen out there performing as Shania Twain, despite the fact that nobody gives a shit anymore.

One of the performers we profiled–Bianca–provides a particularly interesting look into the life of one of these performers. A male-to-female transexual, Bianca already has boobs and is just waiting for that final psychiatric permission slip to get her manjunk inverted into ladyjunk. For those of you not in the know, before you can get that done, you need to be evaluated by not one, not two, but THREE separate psychiatrists so they can make sure that switching genders would be beneficial for your mental well-being and that you’re not just trying to turn into a reasonable facsimile of Michelle Obama so you can infiltrate the White House to further some nefarious scheme.

Bianca has led an interesting life, first having to come out to her parents as a gay man back in her late teens. Later, she realized that she wanted to live as a woman and had to come out to her parents as a straight woman in a man’s body. Currently, she is dating a lesbian. Her parents have not been informed yet.

But what’s really interesting about Bianca is her attitude towards performing. She’s been a fixture in the drag world for quite some time now, having won National Entertainer of the Year in 2009 (you’ll have to look that up for more details; I’m a lazy blogger). And now, at the top her game, she’s getting out of the business for a nine-to-five and a chance to go back to school. She recently got a job working at the makeup counter at a department store somewhere in the north metro area. It’s a perfect job for a woman who’s had to use cosmetics to disguise herself for more than ten years, but she still laments that she makes less money working forty hours a week at this so-called legitimate job than she does doing a few shows a week at clubs around the city. She’s a compelling performer for sure, so definitively feminine and beautiful that you wouldn’t know she was born with a penis unless someone told you. When I saw her come out on stage, pasties delicately attached to the nipples of her real fake boobs, the audience erupted in the second-most riotous outburst gay men have ever been responsible for since 1969.

But when you talk to her at her home, when she’s not trying to work a crowd, you can see how tired she is. The drag world is a tough one, full of behind-your-back trash-talking from your fellow performers, not to mention the fact that you can only work from ten at night to three in the morning for so long before the exhaustion catches up with you. Add to that the fact that many new faces on the drag scene are willing to work for free when you’re trying to make a living off of it and you can see why she’s trying to get out now while she’s still young.

But when she comes out on stage, the exhaustion of the past ten years disappears. The crowd goes wild for her. And that’s another thing that’s unique to the drag world. What I didn’t realize is that, in many ways, drag performance is sort of a queer reimagining of strip club culture, with one key difference. Gay men line up politely to give the dancer money and then return to their seats without trying to get anything out of it. There’s no expectation that a drag performer will rub his or her crotch in your face in exchange for a few singles. Here are men giving their earnings to performers who are super sexualized despite the fact that it’s not getting anyone off. It’s queer as shit and it’s a extremely bizarre situation that only happens at a drag show. There’s something beautiful and uplifting about it, unless you’re trying to make a living as a Shania Twain impersonator and spend your nights crawling around picking up a few spare dollar bills here and there. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter how gay you are, nobody gives a shit about Shania Twain anymore.

Edit: Despite the fact that the subject matter doesn’t really scratch my scrote, I should mention that the stuff we are getting is so interesting, that it’s at least piquing my interest. The documentary should come along nicely so if any of you know any higher ups at Logo, lemme know.

You Got Served 2: You Literally Got Served, Like, Food and Drinks and Stuff

Good news, loyal readers! My carefree bourgeois lifestyle has finally come to an end. I am officially–and for the first time in my life–a waiter! Yes, my days of sitting behind a desk tap-tap-tappin’ away at a keyboard are over, except for those days when I have to go in and do that for money. But let me assure you, I’m giving this serving thing my full 110…thousand percent! Do the math and go to Hell. Or come to my restaurant, and experience Heaven.

I’m going to be so good with my customers. They’re gonna be all like “Can I have a straw?” and I’m gonna whip one out of my apron because THAT’S HOW WELL PREPARED I’M GOING TO BE. Let’s go over some of the tools of the trade that I’ll be using in my new career.

Of Apples, Big or Otherwise

Thank you for your interest in opportunities with Apple Retail. As you can imagine we received a large number of qualified applicants for this role. At this time we have chosen to move forward with other candidates that meet the needs of today. I want to personally thank you for your interest and for investing the time to speak with us about this opportunity.

Thank you again for your time and interest in Apple. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Apple Retail Staffing

The past two weeks have been an absolute tempest of activity in Modugnoland as I’ve traveled from Atlanta to New York and back, then to DC, back to New York, back to DC and then back to Atlanta in a quest to obtain an elusive job at the flagship store for Apple Computers in Manhattan. I had hoped to land the job and move to the city of my dreams with 40 hours a week and benefits, but I got an e-mail today from Apple telling me that they had decided not to hire me. I’m not quite as destroyed by the news as I had imagined I would be. There are certainly benefits to not having to abandon the life I have spent the past 25 years building over the course of two weeks. I am nonetheless bummed, but am recommitting myself to my original goal of moving up in May 2011.

I had a wonderful time in the city regardless. I spent the first few days there staying with my cousins, David and Jacqueline, and their kids, Felix and Spencer. It was wonderful spending time with them without the rest of my family around. It gave me a chance to authentically connect with family members on a personal level. Plus, they move in circles I’m not used to so it was exciting, especially getting to visit that club from some episode of Sex and the City I’ve never seen.

I finally got to spend some time in Brooklyn, which was the Promised Land I thought it would be. From all the awesome bars like Brooklyn Bowl (Cosmic Bowling sans frat boys) to Surf Bar (beach bar sans frat boys) to Barcade (video games sans frat boys) to all the great shops and restaurants, Brooklyn was like miles and miles of East Atlanta. Plus, the bitches got it going on in Williamsburg. By which I mean the men. Are they gay? Everyone’s gay in New York!

I also got about fifty pages in to a short story about a young writer who moves to New York City. It was going to have a depressing ending anyway and now I have a little extra fuel for the fire. Honestly though, I haven’t written that prolifically in a long time and I hope the inspiration stays with me.

I also got to bring my friend Germain with me to New York. It was his very first time in the city and I was happy to do my best to guide him around. I tried to let him take the lead and just be in charge of subway mapping and it worked out pretty well. We had a great time and I know that that particular road trip will always be one of the high points of my life. I also got to catch up with my friends, Rachael, Keiko and Meaghan and got to hang out with Gabe, Sandy, Ben and Cherry at various points during my trip. It’s good to know that people I love will always be up in that city when I do eventually move there.

So yeah, it looks like I’ll be going back to Plan A, which was to move to New York in 2011. I’ll be able to leave Atlanta on my own terms and make peace with this city and all the wonderful people in it. I love you Atlanta. I love you New York.

I went to take a piss in the Central Park bathroom and there was this one guy standing at another urinal. As soon as I started peeing, he started masturbating! I finished as quickly as possible and got the fuck out of there. I just wanted to share that.

Turn up your speakers as loud as they can go and play it one last time, people.