World Wonderments

These have not been easy days, these past few. I don’t mean to say they’ve been bad days, just not easy ones. I wrote a few days ago, naming names, because the burden of having protected the worst offenses had finally gotten to be too much to bear. I expected fallout; I’m not a stupid man. I had a good idea of the caliber and tack of the responses, because those I named are as predictable as a cold day in a San Francisco July: I’ve reactivated a stalker, got Sam targeted by his “friends” for what I got off my chest, received oblique threats, gotten “anonymous” comments which only corroborated the cowardice I outlined, and just a little while ago, another comment…a classic “we all know what you really meant” mind-reader (Hi, Bob!)

It’s not easy to engage the shitters (hey, I read Christine, too), but sometimes ya gotta.

It’s also not easy to live a day where one is exposed to the past, the present, the future (or at least a hoped-for future), the quixotic, the exotic, the East and West, honor, faith, confidence, the implicit.

But such is a day in the Bay Area and the consequences of blogging.

I went to the Korean Herb Doctor today. She’s very Catholic—but the good kind of Catholic, not the ones who point fingers and aim put-downs, and quite progressive for a sixty-something who is culturally a Korean female.

She likes me a lot. She tells me I’m special as she feeds me after every treatment. Today I arrived a bit late, and there were two Korean Sisters (as in, Catholic nuns) sitting there in the waiting area at a table eating Jook soup and kimchee and thumbing through Korean-language fashion magazines.

I should say at this point that I have a special fondness for Catholic nuns. Probably because I didn’t go to Catholic school, but staying in the positive, growing up a Catholic—and an altar boy and Lector and Rectory office keeper and occasional back-filling sexton—I had nothing but glowing examples of Sisters showing kindness, decency, humility and dedication others not because those people needed help, but because it was the example of God’s/Christ’s love that was their charge. Oh, how I miss those days of leading by the example of meekly following.

But I digress. Back to my day.

Koreans aren’t big on names, which is an oddly effective and charming alternative to the name-first labelling system of interaction we westerners have. Not that Catholic Sisters are self-name-droppers, in favor of honorifics (i.e., addressing one as “Sister” is plenty), but there’s a warmth that wafts in when a wall of labels/names is absent. I sat down at the same table, finding neither women’s fashion nor inscrutable bubbles-and-lines Korean language text particularly interesting, and the Doctor put a bowl of almond Jook in front of me, along with a side dish of home-made kimchee (the Doctor’s kimchee is made without sugar and with lots of garlic…words cannot describe how spectacularly beautiful the taste is).

The meeker-looking of the two Sisters spoke first: you know what is Jook?

No, I replied, but if the Doctor made it, I’ll like it.

There’s something guileless about a mouth full of wide square teeth forming a smile that erases that which would keep any of us feeling too alone. It had its effect on me.

Through the smile, the Sister said, “It’s almond paste and rice—”

“—it’s good for you! Very healthy!” chimed in the Doctor, as she placed the kimchee on the table next to me.

“I believe you,” I snapped back. “In all things.”

Score! I made her blush!

Later, while I was face-down on the table with Fire Jars on my neck and acupuncture needles in my scalp and down the middle of my back, she talked to me about Holy People and the movie, The Host. I haven’t seen it, but it surprised me that she would enjoy a ‘scary’ movie.

The sun was warm today; the drive up 880 was pleasant (I have this habit of taking a different routes to and from a destination). Actually, I take 880 home because then I get to see San Francisco from the Bay Bridge, and seeing San Francisco always boosts my mood.

I also got myself to Flax and bought a set of sketching pencils, kneaded eraser and sharpener, a sketchpad, a set of watercolor paints, brushes and a tablet of watercolor paper.

This all may sound like throwing darts at a wall and seeing what sticks, but sometimes a bit of randomness goes a long way in restoring spiritual health.

Avoidance never restores anything, people. Avoidance lets fear—in all its forms—win the day.

And this day? This day belonged to me.

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Darling Buds of Maybe

I’ve never liked the song “The Greatest Love of All”. Too cloying. Too sugary. Too obvious. Accessible symbolism and aphorism for those in the cheap seats at the monster truck rally, those who’d wear bumperstickers on their asses if they weren’t so fearful of deviating from normality.

But the sentiment of that, when stripped of sugar and caramel and cheapening saccharine, is somehow sweeter, and more palatably so at that.

It seems the world runs around the world looking. For love, to be loved. To give love. Running, always running. Towards or away? They’re the same thing, you see. Seeks or is sought. For another. An other.

“Self love” elicits giggles. Yes, even from me at times. The masses may not understand irony or anything that floats above and taunts at literalism, but euphemism is used to strong—if sad—effect. “Swings both ways”. “Going at it.” “Making Love” (when really you just mean having a fuck). “Playing with yourself” when you really mean self-pleasuring.

We hide myriad special, subtle and primal things behind cartoons and pastel colors and far too much wasteful packaging—sort of like cookies and candies from Japan and Korea. We bury those special intimacies deep down, so that we can have non-inciteful, uninsightful conversations, a thin gruel of safe context we gobble up when there’s a banquet of treasures there for the taking if we’re willing to be the first one to walk across the room to the Big People’s Table.

I spent a long time having a conversation with my mom today on the phone—it’s her birthday today—and it’s been a rough few months for our family. Some think they have a “cool” relationship with their parents because they can say “fuck” and “shit” around them, but quality interaction is more about what’s not avoided rather than what’s simply overlooked. Etiquette, like politesse, has no place among families, friends and true lovers.

There were important things to talk about and we managed the uphill climb to those difficult places where truth speaks all on its own and mutual respect is a naturally emergent property. Differences of opinion are not easy, but respect makes them possible while keeping a family whole. And intactness is a good indicator that productive work is being done.

All that said though, sometimes aphorisms live up to their hype. Here’s one: “take care of your own oxygen needs first, then assist the one next to you”. My mom has been a fan of that one for a long time and frankly, so have I. It’s effortlessly easy to see the non-obvious wisdom in its pragmatism. Idea touches down, leaving a footprint. And the ground swells.

The longer I live, especially my life during that years-long stint trapped in a cellblock with a set of “humans” I would have otherwise dismissed out of hand for lack of simpatico, the more I notice that people don’t seem to like themselves very much.

Here goes one of those silly, self-referential paradoxes of which the religious are so fond (don’t say I didn’t warn you): people in general are less quiet about themselves. Good deeds never go unmarketed. Bad deeds never appear unescorted by the wink-and-nod of having been “adventuresome”. More marketing.

On balance, I am also certain that those who do good deeds and contribute to the betterment of the general instead of the personally advantageous are legion. Them I put in places of honor because they’d never assume such a mantle themselves.

I am a bottom. A top. A master. An owner. A slave. A dog. A 3rd. A cutter. A cuttee. The flow of blood adds so much to the proceedings, don’t you think? We’re monogamous, except when we’re not. We’re open, but we follow the agreed upon rules, at least most of the time because isn’t it hot to be bad and cheat? I’m into leather. It’s a life. Cockrings. Harnesses. Rubber (except on the cock). PVC. Moderation is a waste of time. Quietude means you’re out of the loop.

So much frippery thrown up around how progressive each of us is. We festoon our lives with ostentation and those things whose mere presence speaks for us so we don’t have to risk language—there are traps in speech. So much of so much, that too much isn’t a so much a judgment as a goal.

Catholics seem little more than Papal serfs these latter days, and Protestants protest biblical variance in bread & circuses. Israel has forgotten the value of a proportional response. Mission Accomplished says the banner on that cart before the horse.

People who don’t like themselves, who don’t care about or love themselves, typically feel incomplete. Lacking. Here in San Francisco, I have yet to encounter an open relationship that doesn’t have the stink of the something-lacking to it.

But then there are some people learn to abide the lack and set out to alter their expectations—either lower them or make them more abiding—in order to create the space and time that allows an act of will or creation.

And I do love myself, who I am. I am complete unto myself. I am no island, but I don’t need a Someone in order to feel complete. I don’t even need to take from someone else that which I lack. Those whom I have loved and been in love with were with open heart and brightness of person.

Those incomplete people, though? They have honed their ability to spot wholeness in others and then attempt a forced transplant. The act isn’t like secretly siphoning enough gasoline from guy’s tank in order to get them to the next gas station, it’s more like stealing an arm—you’ll miss it more, and there’s no replacing it once it’s gone. It’s body-thiefing.

It’s in how the rest of us react, abide, reject, castigate, punish, coddle these vampires, these body thieves. Starve the bitter cold and feed the feverish frenzy? Sympathy for the devil in the details, or prosecutorial and heartless moxie?

Mostly, I throw my hands up in the air for the confusion of it all, frustrated with my indecision. I am a victim of my own susceptibility to that eternal bugaboo, “plausible deniability”.

That goes hand in hand with optimism, I think. Preferring the more noble side. Would that we actually were the paragon of animals, but paragons don’t have sides.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Maybe forces a decision and not all of us are up to decision-making. If there were rules for it, there’d be no Maybe’s at all. Apply the rule and go home.

Like the rest of life, you only get there by getting there. One instance does nothing but add to the litany of instances until there are enough that we fool ourselves into believing in a common wisdom.

In the end, though, I’d rather be right about human decency than right about a soulless society. I’d rather be wrong on the side of rightness.

And sometimes, I’d just rather see Ann Droid zap the fuck out of a Dalek.

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Positivity

Lovesexy If you’ve never heard “Lovesexy” by Prince, you’ve missed the chance to experience emotional LFEs and ultrasounds, ultraviolet edges and infrared imagery. “What world exists around us that our senses cannot detect?” If you want an answer to that question, ask yourself another question first: “Do I want to know the answer?”

If you answered NO, then leave and don’t come back. You won’t ever be interested in the content I generate. If you’re still with me, get that album and listen.

Snarky little hot-assed bitch that Prince is, the original CD is formated as one track, that lasts 45:03. In other words, the album is all one song, which it kind of is anyway.

The album/song is one portrait after another, one act after another which culminates (to me) in the song/section called “Positivity”. As is usually the case, lyrics alone provide precious little of the true experience of a song, because the magic emanates from fusion of word and melody. But I have to give you something. So here goes:

Shall the court sing together?

In every man’s life there will be a hang-up
A whirlwind designed 2 slow U down
It cuts like a knife and tries 2 get in U
This Spooky Electric sound
Give up if U want 2 and all is lost
Spooky Electric will be your boss


Call People magazine, Rolling Stone
Call your next of kin, cuz your ass is gone
He’s got a 57 mag with the price tag still on the side
Cuzzin’ when Spooky say dead, U better say died
Or U can fly high right by Spooky and all that he crawls 4
Spooky and all that he crawls 4

Don’t kiss the beast
We need love & honesty, peace & harmony
Positivity
Love & honesty, peace & harmony
I said, hold on 2 your soul, U got a long way 2 go

Don’t kiss the beast
Be superior at least

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Spring Cleaning

It’s been a helluva couple of years for me. And I mean that largely in a bad way. I can recall the accident on my Vespa on December 30, 2005, with a final (?) tally of 8 days in hospital, 3 fractured ribs—healed badly, deformed and “ununited”, 5 1/2 months out of work. Headaches pretty much constant since August or so—again away from work for months at at time. An extraordinarily painful history to a personally costly relationship. Loss—perhaps temporary—of the primary faculty which fuels my identity: an outsized intellect.

We of my family have been imbued with a resilience that only now I’m coming to understand can be as blinding as it is brilliant. The sense of abundance I had historically kept close to hearth and home, while not gone, has certainly left the larder emptier than it’s ever been. Not a time for panic, nor is the hunger in any way life-threatening, but it’s a new experience for sure.

Tactics and strategy. What do others do when there seems to be little left but dregs and crumbs? The Dutch make stroopwafels. Depend on cabbage: Kimchee if you’re Korean, Halushi if you’re a bunyak, cabbage soup if you’re just about anyone.

Maybe that’s why these are comfort foods: because they rescue you by creating something almost out of nothing, defying law and logic.

When presented with adversity, it’s been my way to add energy to the situation thus hopefully finding something new, get something productive. Again, that sense of abundance provided the luxury to give without thinking and, ominously, without negative consequence.

Only now, for now, I am in no condition to add to the overall good will around me. Maybe it’s a function of age (soon I will be “The Answer To the Universe” + 1) or it has to do with the trying, near-debilitating experience. Neither of these is a completely satisfying explanation. Experiencing something brand new—if you’re lucky enough to have avoided the jaded mindset of “Nothing New Under the Sun”—is like being lost in the desert: when you’re unsure of where you are, one direction is as good as any other. Intellectual caprice is a thing to which I’ve never been accustomed.

In other words, it may just be that meeting New with New is the right answer. Its symmetry and reflexivity have their appeal.

So instead of the facilitator or diplomat, I’ll be this time the Trickster and act solely for my own benefit and see how that goes: bring one world into another, let the chips fall where they may, and relegate body count to a mere statistical scrap of information.

In Frank Herbert’s seminal work, Dune, there is a scene where Paul Atreides is tested to discover whether he is human or just an animal. It involves, ironically, pain. The difference between an animal and a human in this scene is simply this: an animal in a trap will chew its own leg off to escape, whereas a human might remain in the trap for the chance to kill the trapper, thus removing a threat to his own kind.

In the so-called gay culture here in San Francisco (and I suspect, but cannot verify, in most other cities as well), there are far too few Herbert-esque humans and far, far, far too many animals. We know those who threaten the well-being of others—those who sell or feed drugs to addicts, those who prey on others’ insecurities, those whose irresponsibility and dissembling can literally rob someone of his life—quality-of or quantity-of.

But do we say anything? Mostly not.

And this is where I’d typically spend a considerable amount of time and energy—and research—in offering theories or explanations or even educated or wild-ass guesses about these failures to do the right thing.

I’m too exhausted and too impaired, though, to work that angle.

I’ll just do the right thing myself. No excuses and no apologies. I’ll be my own example. Don’t think, just do.

Sam knows what he has done and I know what he’d done. He’s come clean about plenty (I won’t assume all), but enough. He knows where he has failed me, us, and most importantly himself. Suffice it to say, peace has been made, apologies offered and accepted, and I have a certain confidence he’s out to do the right thing or at the least, avoid the wrongs of his past.

The same cannot be said of Wil Baker, a man who time and time again told me how glad he was that we were friends, and that there was no one he respected more in all of San Francisco. So I’m about to earn his respect, in that ironic sense. Wil is a British man here in this country by the charity of others, a man who so lacks a basic humanity that he revels in reducing others, sometimes nearly literally, to lesser species in order to control and self-delude and most of all, take from them. He has offered addicts plentiful access to drugs in order to own others, even to the point of requesting drug-use histories of his future-ex-“pups”, is a source of recreational drugs to others, all as a guest of this country. I have often considered contacting the appropriate authorities to have him deported in order to remove the danger from our midst, but I’d be as guilty as the Catholic Church merely transferring a real threat from one locale to the next, and as I have nothing against the Brits, I could not bring myself to simply make him their problem instead of my own. Wil’s ex-partner Steve, could not be bothered to stop ostriching himself in order to do the right thing. Inaction is as dangerous as malevolence, but more insidious and difficult to recognize.

The icing on this dysfunctional, poisonous Baker’s confection had to be when Sam spent the night in hospital in March 2005 after swallowing 180 pills in a moment of desperation. After an overnight in the ER with Sam until his vitals were stabilized, they transferred him to another area in the hospital and sent me home for a couple of hours. I would be contacted when they were ready for me to return. I got to the house and just let myself go. Composure is a thing for the benefit of those around you; when you are alone, composure is stifling and cowardly. After the worst of the hysterics, I picked up my cellphone and dialed Wil Baker—his phone number was in my addressbook, such good friends were we—and demanded he tell me what went on that led my partner to try to end his own life. “Jeff,” he said, stiffly and formally, “none of this is any of my business. This is between you and Sam. I have nothing to do with this.” If at first you don’t succeed, right, try again. Again I demanded, “I know you were involved in this. I need answers. You’ve said you’re my friend, even though fucking my boyfriend doesn’t usually fall into that category, but you will tell me what led to this happening!” “Jeff,” he said, a virtual replay of the first time said it, “I am not involved in this. This has nothing to do with me. Goodbye.”

Distraught “friend” gets hung up on by lying loser.

Justin Green is another of these dangerous ones. Obsessive in a boiled-pet-rabbit-in-a-soup-pot kind of way, he plays everyone. He fixates on a thing (usually a person who possesses some quality he lacks) and drains its life-blood. Only he’ll never notice when a victim’s tank is on Empty, because self-obsession prevents a view of the world outside himself. Not coincidentally, he’s yet another one with an ostriching partner so afraid of conflict and change that he’s rather remain with someone who’s always looking elsewhere. He didn’t flinch when his life-partner (Justin Green, remember) wanted to create a bona fide family with Sam and me, a cartoonish and warped and perverse family, replete with me as the cartoon dad in the cartoon world where sex with parents and brothers (and “dogs”) is a perfectly apt substitute for genuine familial bonds.

Then there’s Matt Rooney, who, while also professing to be my friend, someone whom I made effort after effort to welcome into my house and our lives simply because he was Sam’s friend, also hopped on the “pup” train, ignoring any sense of decency and having sex with his “friend’s” partner. When confronted, he replied, “you should have known this kind of stuff happening”, not only implying it was my fault he had no boundaries, but that I was clearly stupid on top if it.

Then there’s another Matt, Matt Consola. He’s another who called me stupid for not noticing substance abuse problems. Another one who promised me he “had my back” if I ever wanted to go after Wil Baker to bring some justice to the situation. One who professed he was in love with my partner, even though he failed to mention that to me ever. Spineless as they come—oh, and also partnered, by the way—he hopped on the now-infamous “pup” bandwagon because everyone else was doing so.

All of these animals (not one has yet to exhibit any signs of genuine humanity to my witness) have each and together accused me of being the cause of Sam’s attempt to end his own life. My fault because I didn’t turn the other cheek. My fault because I somehow had some control over his life (ironic, if you think about that one for a bit). My fault because I’m just plain stupid. Well, all except for Wil Baker. He never accused me of being at fault—at least not to my face—because if I were to have relied solely on Wil’s testimony, that overnight in the hospital never happened, the phone call to him for explanation was misguided, and there is no culpability.

I ask you, how many people have gotten away with hurting or damaging others because no one would speak up about it for fear of being ostracized or in pissing someone else off or, heaven forfend! lose out on the chance to sleep with the accused “because he’s so hot”?

There are so much better people out there, if you know how to spot them. There are just so many more spineless, damaged goods who lack the sense to either seek help or at least seek to minimize inflicting themselves onto others.

Justin? Wil? Matt? Matt? Steve? Nathan? You’re never going to find what you think you need by taking it from others. Find it in yourself, or learn to live with less.

Goddess knows you’ve all forced me to live with less, for all you’ve taken from me and my life.

I have very little hope that this may spur others to warn their friends or even just acquaintances about known dangers, but then this isn’t an act of altruism, it’s a personal catharsis and all about just me for a change.

And the rest of you. If you meet any of these people and they show even the slightest or most benign interest in you, run far away. You’ll thank me for it.

Remember kids, libel is only libel when it’s not true.

•••

*for the record, no names needed to be changed after all

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Kramer vs Crammer

Love him or hate him…hell, love him and hate him, Larry Kramer is one of the most moral people I know. Not that I know him personally, but I did exchange words with him through a go-between, my good friend Dottie Rex Wockner. It was back when I lived in Chicagoland, so it would have been either late 1992 or first half of 1993.

I was at Rex’s apartment when Larry called him. I don’t recall what they were talking about, but I could tell from Rex’s expression that it was a good-natured and entertaining call. He got around to telling Larry that we had been talking about him.

Rex, to Larry: “My friend, Jeff. He’s here. He just finished reading Faggots [a novel written by Kramer].”

Then Rex, to me: “What did you think of it?”

“Loved it,” I said, feeling extraordinarily nervous, my blushing face on fire.

Rex relayed it to Larry.

“Larry says he’s glad, and thank you.”

Rex had told me plenty of stories about Larry, about his impressions of Larry as a person and a friend. Relatively new to gay life, I didn’t know much about Kramer except as him being a man that Rex liked very much, and as the author of a novel that made a huge impression. So when I see Larry now, like in his recent speech for the 20th anniversary of ACT UP—which you should go watch and listen to, and then recall (if you’re old enough) how much of the positive change in gay rights and perceptions of gay people and AIDS has occurred in large part due to the insanely brave efforts of Larry and all of ACT UP—when I see the outrage Larry has never lost, I always compare it to the Larry of my first impressions. The kind, sweet man who wrote a book that figured fundamentally into my then-emergent gay life.

It makes the outrage all that more impressive, all that more (dare I say) moral.

Then there’s Matt Sanchez, a Marine whiner closet-case gay porn “actor” facerciser “activist” Republican butt-boy who’s soon going to end up with whiplash from all the contortion he’s doing trying to keep his story (ahem) straight. It’s all such a mess that I have had serious trouble sorting through all of shit-storms swirling around his surgically-modified facercised face.

Rightly, NGLTF and the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network insist that Sanchez not be discharged from the military for being acting gay. That one’s an easy call. No one should be penalized simply for being gay. The rest? Not so easy.

Conservatives—at least the ones who previously associated with Sanchez for at least a photo-op or two are falling all over themselves to paint Sanchez’s past as a gay porn actor as a failing of morality and one that he’s well-past. Hell, Sanchez does it himself. Though one might think he’d have gotten his impressions after just one video, Sanchez stayed in it for long enough that he had two or three different noms d’pénis—my favorite being “Rod Majors”. Apparently he was playing white, too.

The Left is shouting hypocrisy! and frankly, more often than not, I’m right there with him.

This man had the gall to complain about students exercising their own rights to free speech on the Columbia campus while he was there whoring himself (yet again) for those defenders of freedom, the US Military. He finds it “ironic” that the protestors that were shouting at him were all “white”: See, they were (rightly or wrongly) accusing the military of taking advantage of minorities and implying that Sanchez (and the other two “minority” folks) with him were ignorant or stupid for espousing an organization that uses them. He said this while he was on O’Reilly’s show, just one of many tricks he turned for FOXNEWS over the last few weeks. And he doesn’t find it ironic that he’s happily sobbing his stories to a bunch of white men who say they’re pro-military but really aren’t at all pro-soldier, unless it helps their ratings to be so.

Then we have the right blogosphere calling the Progressives hypocrites because they’re/we’re apparently trying to squash the free speech of the US Military on the Columbia campus. Well, whatever happened to local politics deciding what’s right for them, Righties? Columbia, along with most universities these days, have a strict policy against those organizations which violate their own code of ethics, and often US Military recruiters are the target of such because of their anti-gay policies. The government, in turn, has often rescinded federal funding to those schools in a hissy fit.

So the Right calls the Left hypocrites because they protested or supported the protest of the US Military on Columbia’s campus. Many on the Left want Sanchez punished for his obvious inconsistencies and hypocritical hubris, and they don’t care if that means that he gets a dishonorable discharge for being gay. The Conservatives are both embracing (hips apart) Sanchez as a good guy who “made mistakes” even while they distance themselves from anything gay-related by calling it all depraved and a huge mistake and pushing it to some “distant” past.

As I said, there’ so much wrong going on that it’s hard to tackle any one aspect of it without the rest of it spinning out of control.

In better days, intellectually speaking, I would have long ago spotted the meta-consistency that umbrellas all this meshuga finger-pointing. It is simply this: Sanchez is playing off of everyone. Not consciously, because frankly he has never given me any indication that he’s smart enough to orchestrate something on this scale purposively, but rather that he’s one of those vampiric souls who drains everyone around him, often playing one set of people against another and soaking up all the free energy that bursts forth in conflict.

There’s no clear way to describe it because Sanchez himself has no clear defense of himself and his past. He obviously lies about some things (he’s clearly had plastic surgery, but claims it was merely “facercise” that has so changed his appearance), he demurs in answering the most basic of questions by asking questions of the interviewer—an obvious and pathetic attempt at avoidance. He bitches that the Columbia administration didn’t shut the protesters up even as he claimed his right to free speech on the campus.

No, Matt “horse-hung” Sanchez is climbing on the backs (no pun intended) of everyone in his path just to keep himself bathed in other people’s energy. He’s happy to just kick back and let both sides fight for him, as he says just enough, nebulously enough, to continue to sow doubt and provide fodder to others.

He’s the least moral person in the news these days, because there’s no there there behind his lifted eyebrows and forehead. He’s one of those people who is little more than the sum of his actions, a drone who hitches his wagon to whoever or whatever will help him keep distance between himself and his ever-gaining-on-him past.

He’s pathetic.

While Larry Kramer can stand tall, raised higher still when he stands upon all the good he’s done for himself and for so many others, Sanchez is little more than the 11“ which got him a gig back in the day.

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Ann Coulter Improves

The blogs are abuzz with Ann Coulter, that walking, talking shitstain ok, shitstain of a human being.

Poor Ann is upset that she can’t say the word “faggot” in the context of insulting and belittling and trivializing a married man with children for whom there is no indication of anything but painfully average heterosexuality.

So let’s think about this. If she’s not calling him gay, what could she possibly be up to when calling John Edwards a “faggot”? Wait. One aside: She didn’t actually say the words, ‘John Edwards is a faggot’. She was being coy—well, what she thinks is coy—by first mentioning John Edwards, then saying “it turns out that you have to go into rehab if you use the word ‘faggot’”.

Ow, my sides from laughter. Who’s writing her material, Paul Haggis?

This is what comes of a Republican trying to be snarky. Give it up, folks, just like you gave up on trying to understand irony so very long ago.

So where’s the improvement, you ask? She’s being direct instead of circumspect. How can someone that’s been such a soulless cunt for so long not have been direct all along? I’d ask you to go read some of her columns, but I don’t hate you that much. Hell, I don’t hate her enough to ask her to read her own effluvia, so you’ll have to trust me. Her typical pattern is to hang something that’s so painfully obvious out there as if she’s walking you down Hell’s Garden Path™ and then ooo! Pounce! She just nails you (ew) with the point you (and by “you” I mean, her typical learning-impaired reader) with the point of her tirade. Forgiveness for the imagery of Ann Coulter pouncing on you and nailing you.

So, that improvement. It’s in the economy of words she can expect to employ in her columns from here on forward. She just has to write “We Republicans are better than faggots, niggers, ragheads, chinks, dykes, gooks and Liberals” and she’s done with anything she’ll ever have to say again.

As a woman who espouses “family values” but has never been married nor had children and a heterosexual who’s never seen with male companionship, she’s finally out of the closet. Or at least her hate is.

The beauty of this is that hate, when exposed to the bright glare of other human beings, tends to transform itself into something else. At one end of the spectrum of possible results, the hater learns what’s wrong with the hating. At the other end, that person is destroyed.

I’ll leave it to the reader to decide which is the better fate for Ann.

I’ll also leave it to the reader to simply watch Ann in action at CPAC (and to listen for the cautiously gleeful tittering of the crowd when she says the f-word):

You realize, don’t you, that Ann doesn’t really believe John Edwards is a ‘faggot’? This is Ann desperately trying to remain topical and—cough, cough—relevant by circumspectly commenting on all the high profile anti-gay statements of late. Ann “if you can’t think of anything hateful to say, don’t say anything” Coulter always has to say something, so she shoehorned John Edwards into it. That’s really all there is to it.

We can cut her head off—she has no productive use for it—but I expect the Asian American Michelle “In Defense of Interment Camps” Malkin’s head would only grow in its place.

It’s difficult to watch anything die slowly, unless you’re Ann. Now it’s the Conservative movement that’s dying, and there’s pain and throes and writhing. It’s not easy to watch and there is no glee. But I will be happy when its destructive power is gone.

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