A few days ago, I pointed you to an ignorant fool out there in the world. For those of you too busy to click the link and view it for yourself, what you’re missing is the back of a pickup truck that has a number of bumper stickers on the back of it. They are all anti-Muslim, one of which says “Bomb Mecca”, and that’s probably the nicest one there. Presumably, he’s driving that around with no real hassles and being allowed to voice his opinion, no matter how ignorant he is. Of course, if you look at his plates, he’s in Kentucky, where he’s likely to be surrounded by others of his ilk. (No offense intended to any good Kentuckians out there… I was one for a short period of time myself. I know some of you are good people.)

Meanwhile, in Colorado, having a car with a bumper sticker that bears the slogan “Fuck Bush” was enough cause for a policeman to harrass a young lady. (Actually, it’s not quite clear if the bumper sticker in fact said “Fuck Bush” or “F— Bush”, since no regular daily newspaper has the balls to print the F word, even when reporting a story that centers on that word.)

McCrimmon, who had followed the officer into the store, said Karasek wrote down the woman’s license-plate number and then told her: “You take those bumper stickers off or I will come and find you and I will arrest you.”

Although I think the Kentuckian’s “Bomb Mecca” shows ignorance, and is in extremely poor taste (not to mention un-funny, as Chelle pointed out), I’m not saying he shouldn’t be able to have that on his truck, even though his statements could be construed as “hate speech” or intended to incite violence. “Fuck Bush” really is mostly harmless in comparison, I mean, what exactly does it mean when we say “Fuck (insert item/person here)” anyway? Perhaps it has nothing to do with our clueless leader; maybe she’s just saying that we all should be having sexual intercourse with women who do not shave their pubic hair completely.

On a related note, why do we put these sorts of stickers on our cars in the first place? Surely we don’t think that we’re selling our ideologies to others; I certainly hope no one ever saw a W sticker on someone’s car and thought, “Well, now I’ll vote for Dubya! That guy’s got a nice car, he must be purty smart.” So, what’s the rationale for uglying up our cars with stickers featuring political slogans and messages? I should disclose that this question is coming from someone who’s driving around with
“Let’s Not Vote For Him in 2004, Either”
and
“No More BU_ _ SH _ _”
on the back of her own car (merrily situated among the Angry Beavers, Gir, and HRC stickers)… though, I plan to remove those shortly and replace them with an “I Did NOT Vote 4 Bush” sticker instead. (And you don’t even *want* to know the number of stickers that covered the back windows of my first three cars.)

But *why* do I do this? I don’t know; I’m asking.

I will say that I almost didn’t go in to the mechanic’s shop I’d scheduled an appointment with this morning, because there were an awful lot of W stickers on the cars in the lot. I actually kind of worried about putting my car in their care - what if these people were fanatics that would decide that as a Kerry supporter my car should die a horrible death? It would seem my fears were unfounded (and quite probably completely irrational), or at least I made it from there to work today, after having them tinker with the inner workings of my car.

This appeals to the geek in me, as well as the girl who likes to wax nostalgic. Though I am not truly a member of the Cult Of Mac (I’m writing this from a PC), I am an admirer. Plus, this is just kind of cool, you know?

The unveiling of the very first Macintosh.

(you’re gonna need Quicktime, link found via MilkandCookies)

So we’ve established that I am indeed a fruit fly. Another thing I am is a rock child… cheesy hair metal, alternative rock, indie rock, classic rock, rock-n-roll. I’m devoted to the rock sound, and I live for my music. I’ve always found it a challenge to reconcile these two worlds.

Men who prefer men, if I may be so bold as to make a broad generalization, seem to have a simple rule for their taste in music: it’s gotta make you want to DANCE! From the silly pop these boys buy in the millions (Britney, Xtina, Kylie) to the 8 zillionth remix of Madonna’s “Vogue” or Cher’s “Believe” - this theme holds true. To be fair, there are exceptions - Dolly Parton does have a sizeable gay following, as do Tina Turner, Tori Amos, and Sarah Brightman, among a few others - but the majority of the music we sell has a good beat, and you can dance to it.

Not that there’s anything wrong with dance music overall. I’ve been known to work up a sweat in a club full of hot gay men a few times in my life (though honestly, it’s been a few too many years), there are dance remixes I adore, and I can fully appreciate the work of artists like Venus Hum. But… there’s just so much more out there. Gay men of the world, I ask of you now: Why limit the scope of your musical horizons because of your sexual orientation? Be open, expose yourself to new sounds, new genres, new states of mind. Come join me in a tour of the Rock Hall of Fame!

This is not to say there aren’t any gay men into rock. Indeed, there are many (like jockohomo, and the one gay man I love more than any other), and many playing rock. And as much as I love and adore these boys, there just don’t seem to be enough of them out there. I want more. I want to build a much bigger bridge betwixt these two worlds in the hopes of making the earth a more diverse place. Ok, so really, I just want to be able to discuss music more often with my boys. But, come on, work with me here… it could lead to bigger things. I have visions of world peace through gay music education. Hedwig & The Angry Inch was only the beginning… (oh, but what a beautiful beginning…)

This has all come to mind because I met Zane today… a gay man who’s out there with me on the fringes of pop-culture. (If I may borrow a turn of phrase from him.) I could have talked to Zane for hours and hours (well, we kind of did talk for hours anyway, but I could’ve doubled it easily) about music, gender studies, politics, etc. etc. etc. (and after perusing his LJ, I have so much more to talk to him about! Yikes!) But what really stands out is the music part… I just don’t have enough occasions to discuss the quiet beauty and understated power of Elliott Smith’s voice in my beloved place of employment. When I do get the opportunity - when the rare gay rock boy comes in - I feel as though I badger the poor soul to death, and I probably come off as a half crazed loon, but I get so excited to be able to rhapsodize about Rufus Wainwright’s amazing live shows. (Rufus being a gay man himself, you’d think there would be more opportunities for this… but no! You’d be quite wrong.)

So Zane, if you are indeed reading this, my apologies for monopolizing your time. But do come see me again. Really, I honestly mean that. Just, you know, schedule a whole day off or something for the occasion.

Meanwhile, despite being completely ignorant, I’ll bet you this fellow has a job. Kripes.

(link via AAD)

Rule # 4 on busblog’s award nominated essay How To Blog is “cuss like a sailor”.

Anyone who knows me would naturally think that this would not be a problem for me at all, because this is exactly what I do when I’m talking. There is not an English language expletive imaginable that I have not uttered at some point in my life, and most of them have been repeated quite often. (I’ve never managed to master the curse words of other languages, though I’ve tried a few here and there.) I learned how to curse at an early age, as neither of my parents really held back their own potty-mouths in my presence, but I did manage to master the social skills that lead to one knowing when it is simply not appropriate.

As long as I’m comfortable talking with you, a conversation with me will be filled with fucks, shits, damns, etc. FILLED, I tell you.

And when you consider that I work somewhere that sells realistic cock dildos, butt plugs and movies with titles like “Wild Young Fuckers“, you just sort of know that I’m not uncomfortable with using words not heard among ‘polite’ society.

But for some reason, when I write - email, blog, comments, whatever - it just doesn’t come naturally. When I throw in a fuck here or there, it feels awkward and out of place. It seems gratuitous somehow, and I usually end up editing it out before I send or publish. I can’t really explain it.

All that being said, FUCKING HELL. Fuck the glass that I broke while washing dishes tonight, fuck the mess that I didn’t get a chance to clean up in here in my lair, and fuck the asshole that cut me off in traffic today. Most of all, fuck the company that my boyfriend used to work for.

Yes, used to.

After 9 months of working as a contractor for this company, after receiving praise for a job well done along with suggestions that a permanent hire might be coming down the road, after toughing it out and biting his tongue dealing with a co-worker who professed Fox News to be her favorite thing to watch on TV, my dear boyfriend was let go Friday. It wasn’t anything personal - the company purged half the contractors they had because of budget cuts, blah, blah, blah. That fact, however, does not make this any less painful, and doesn’t help me feel any less pissed. I just don’t get to blame him for it. Goddammit.

Fuck me.

Out of the blue a couple days ago, I got an email from a friend I used to work with about 10 years ago. We’ve kept in touch sporadically over the years, but the last time I’d spoken with her was about four years ago, when I was still in LA. Because I was rushed for time a bit in my initial reply, I jokingly gave a quick summary of what I’ve been up to by saying, “I’ve moved to Cleveland, OH, and I sell gay porn for a living.”

Her response? “The Ohio surprises me, the gay porn doesn’t.”

I am the butchest straight girl I know. I am often so tomboy-ish that sometimes even I wonder how much longer it will be until I come out.

I wear little jewelry other than the nose ring and some stud earrings that are really just there to save me from having to re-pierce my ears on the uber-rare occasion that I should want to wear flashier stuff. I own maybe 3 pairs of shoes that I actually wear, every pair black and low-heeled for simplicity and comfort. The only time I have donned a skirt in the last year was a month ago when I used a slinky skirt and bustier combo to lure my boyfriend away from his video game for a little while. I didn’t wear the skirt for very long, obviously. (And so much for my coming out.) My winter wardrobe mostly consists of jeans and hoodies, though I do switch it up some for summer with jeans and t-shirts.

My idea of decorating is a few rock posters and movie posters, and the furniture in our place all came with my boyfriend. I have no taste for that sort of thing. (Neither does he really, but he at least owned a sofa and bed.) There are very few “chick flicks” that I can even tolerate; “chick lit” is even less appealing to me. My physical form is un-girly to some extent - I’ve got broad shoulders, big hands and feet, and I’m as graceless as a human being can get. (I do have curves though, and a fairly nice rack.) Even my brain is in on the act - I’ve long been better at understanding guys than I have girls. Even before I discovered my place in the world as a fruit fly, I found that many of my closest friends were guys. I do NOT understand “typical” girls at all.

But then… show me a cat, any cat, any time, any place, especially a kitten - and my estrogen levels spike. Babytalk will dribble out in a shrill voice, and my cold un-girly heart will instantly melt into a quivering pile of mushy girl goo. So, I present to you the one that did that to me just moments ago. It even keeps with my fruity theme here.

We will now resume our regularly scheduled butchdom.

My friend Greg (one of the handful or so straight men that I’ve been good friends with over the years) lived in LA for about a year before I got there. Due to having the worst credit known to mankind, Greg was living in a little place that called itself a hotel, but was more like teeny-weeny horribly overpriced apartments that he paid for weekly. The plan was that I would arrive and we would find a new apartment together to save him from this place. But of course, this meant for at least a period of time I would be a guest in his “hotel room”. (Armed with an air mattress, this hadn’t seemed like that bad of an idea when I was packing up in Charlotte. )
(more…)

They’re advertising procrastination with action phrases… “Register For Free!” It could be so much funnier if it said “Register today!”

I only have one kind of procrastination, not a huge selection, but really, I think it’s enough. In fact, I’m willing to give away some of mine. Just let me know how much and where to send it… and I’ll get around to sending it out to you one day.

This happens frequently, and I can not find a reasonable explanation for it except that humans truly possess a herd mentality.

In the evenings, just after “regular” work hours and just before what most people consider dinner time, City Dweller (the store that isn’t the gay store) will start to fill up. The common scenario is this: People trickle in, a couple here, one lady a few minutes later, a group of three young women 10 or 15 minutes after that. They’re all browsing leisurely, taking it all in, the group of three reading the coFFee staiN cards aloud to one another and having a grand old time. Twenty minutes after that last group, one guy comes in who knows exactly what he’s there for, picks it up and comes to the counter.

Suddenly, all of the browsers, who have been there for half an hour or more, need to leave AT THE SAME TIME. I’ll look up from wrapping the vase that the quick shopper has decided on, and everyone else has lined up on the other side of the counter. After 30 - 45 minutes of me just kind of hanging around waiting for folks to be ready to go, I have to scramble to get everyone rung up and out the door, because they all need to go NOW.

That last guy in the door, he’s a signal of some sort. Herd mentality activate - ok all of you, time to head ‘em up and move ‘em out, get along little doggies.

This amuses and mystifies me.