How do readers find my blog? Let me count the ways. Here are some of the recent web searches that have led hapless victims to my parlor:
• daring cleavage
• john lennon bed peace hair peace
• berlin art hipster (my blog was #1!)
• dozens of “Fields of Gold/Sting/Studio 60/lute” combinations (my blog often came up #1. Go figure!)
Perhaps the creepiest discovery was that my blog was quoted at length, and disapprovingly, by someone who objected to my "silver-tongued" scofflaw-itis regarding my Alleged Lawless Hound. Sheesh.
The fun part of sleuthing out these searches is finding other bloggers with similar interests, like David E., who also blogged about Susan Sontag's journals. It's cool to find community in unexpected places.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Don’t tread on me!
Hurray for the New Jersey Supreme Court, which ruled that same-sex couples and their families are constitutionally entitled to the benefits and protections offered by marriage (although queer couples still don’t have access to over 1,000 federal marriage benefits). For the New York Times’ account of this historic move (don’t miss the audio slide show), go here.
The Times also posted a comments blog. (Unfortunately they don’t seem to be taking any more comments, but what’s there is plenty entertaining.) I loved reading these comments. I skimmed over the bigoted, stupid ones and was so heartened by the funny, thoughtful, heartfelt ones. It made me feel...actually...hopeful. And part of a fabulous community. To wit:
Joshua says: “I’m really tired of being treated as a second-rate American, especially because i’m totally first rate.”
Sarah Junker notes: “Interracial marriages were banned in some states up to as late as the 1980’s. I harken to this when I’m discouraged by the slow rate of social change in this country. It may take decades before state bans on homosexual marriages are viewed as morally outrageous and historically outdated, but the wall is falling one brick at a time.”
And my favorite, from Javier Galitó-Cava: “I have been with my partner for 12 years. I have helped him raise his bilogical son who just turned 23. My step-son is straight and a wonderful and well adjusted young man by the way. He never had any homosexual tendencies and, although he loves musical theatre, he is hopelessly straight. He doesn’t own one pair of Prada shoes and can leave the house without any product on his hair as if nothing was wrong.
“Maybe the statue of Liberty should have a new engraving, “Give me your tired, your poor, but keep your faggots and your other weirdoes, PLEASE!” Oh Javier, you are officially my new BFF.
From EAC_ Esq.: “Shame on all three branches of the federal government for passing and upholding the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). Never have I seen such a flagrant and embarrassing display of political pandering to the wealthy, conservative religious groups that helped buy the Oval Office for President Bush. I cannot fathom how such an act of legislated bigotry can withstand scrutiny in light of the full faith and credit clause of the U.S. Constitution.”
Daniel Cole asks: “Is having children a prerequisite to marry? Did I miss the “I promise to have children” form straight couples have to sign? Do heterosexual couples who choose not to have children have fakey, weirdo marriages?...First it’s the gays, then it’s the household furniture. As much as I’d love to marry my couch, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. My couch can’t even make a proper signature. It’s alright, Couchy – I still love you. The “slippery slope” argument gets a lot of play, maybe because it’s so funny. Marrying my cat? It’s just funny. Marrying all three of my cats? Now that’s just wrong.
“There are many wonderful gay and straight couples, and I’d love to have them all over for dinner and cocktails.” Call me – I'm in!
And from someone named Mark: “Basic, fundamental rights accrue to each of us by the very fact of our being. They are not “granted” by the government. They are inherently ours from the moment of birth. If, as a society, we pretend that those of us in the majority have the right to deny such rights to any minority segment of that society, then we deny those rights to ourselves as well. The Bill of Rights, in addition to protecting each of us from “the government”, is also designed to protect minorities from the tyranny of the majority - and vice versa.”
Don't people rock? Lest you think I’m letting total strangers hog today’s post, I wanted to add that I think it takes bravery to call one’s corporate employer, or spa, or cell phone company (all things that I or my Charming Girlfriend did today) and talk to a faceless customer service rep about one’s same-sex partner. These people might be big homophobes. They might be falling over themselves to be gay-friendly. We can't know. We just do it. Coming out is a continual process.
Finally, to see a totally adorable studio portrait of a young lesbian couple in 1967 (check out the beehive hair!), go here.
The Times also posted a comments blog. (Unfortunately they don’t seem to be taking any more comments, but what’s there is plenty entertaining.) I loved reading these comments. I skimmed over the bigoted, stupid ones and was so heartened by the funny, thoughtful, heartfelt ones. It made me feel...actually...hopeful. And part of a fabulous community. To wit:
Joshua says: “I’m really tired of being treated as a second-rate American, especially because i’m totally first rate.”
Sarah Junker notes: “Interracial marriages were banned in some states up to as late as the 1980’s. I harken to this when I’m discouraged by the slow rate of social change in this country. It may take decades before state bans on homosexual marriages are viewed as morally outrageous and historically outdated, but the wall is falling one brick at a time.”
And my favorite, from Javier Galitó-Cava: “I have been with my partner for 12 years. I have helped him raise his bilogical son who just turned 23. My step-son is straight and a wonderful and well adjusted young man by the way. He never had any homosexual tendencies and, although he loves musical theatre, he is hopelessly straight. He doesn’t own one pair of Prada shoes and can leave the house without any product on his hair as if nothing was wrong.
“Maybe the statue of Liberty should have a new engraving, “Give me your tired, your poor, but keep your faggots and your other weirdoes, PLEASE!” Oh Javier, you are officially my new BFF.
From EAC_ Esq.: “Shame on all three branches of the federal government for passing and upholding the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). Never have I seen such a flagrant and embarrassing display of political pandering to the wealthy, conservative religious groups that helped buy the Oval Office for President Bush. I cannot fathom how such an act of legislated bigotry can withstand scrutiny in light of the full faith and credit clause of the U.S. Constitution.”
Daniel Cole asks: “Is having children a prerequisite to marry? Did I miss the “I promise to have children” form straight couples have to sign? Do heterosexual couples who choose not to have children have fakey, weirdo marriages?...First it’s the gays, then it’s the household furniture. As much as I’d love to marry my couch, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. My couch can’t even make a proper signature. It’s alright, Couchy – I still love you. The “slippery slope” argument gets a lot of play, maybe because it’s so funny. Marrying my cat? It’s just funny. Marrying all three of my cats? Now that’s just wrong.
“There are many wonderful gay and straight couples, and I’d love to have them all over for dinner and cocktails.” Call me – I'm in!
And from someone named Mark: “Basic, fundamental rights accrue to each of us by the very fact of our being. They are not “granted” by the government. They are inherently ours from the moment of birth. If, as a society, we pretend that those of us in the majority have the right to deny such rights to any minority segment of that society, then we deny those rights to ourselves as well. The Bill of Rights, in addition to protecting each of us from “the government”, is also designed to protect minorities from the tyranny of the majority - and vice versa.”
Don't people rock? Lest you think I’m letting total strangers hog today’s post, I wanted to add that I think it takes bravery to call one’s corporate employer, or spa, or cell phone company (all things that I or my Charming Girlfriend did today) and talk to a faceless customer service rep about one’s same-sex partner. These people might be big homophobes. They might be falling over themselves to be gay-friendly. We can't know. We just do it. Coming out is a continual process.
Finally, to see a totally adorable studio portrait of a young lesbian couple in 1967 (check out the beehive hair!), go here.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Fall TV Season Part 2.
More supremely biased primetime Pontification:
Heroes: Still smashing! The heroes are beginning to meet each other. Claire the cheerleader's nefarious "father" is showing his evil stripes – but it was pretty cool how he got revenge on her attacker. Hiro’s subtitled argument with his friend? A hoot. Hiro’s glee at watching Nathan fly? Hysterical. “Very nice to meet you, Flying Man. It’s okay, I keep secret. I bend time and space.” Wasn’t Nathan’s escape by zooming up into the clouds the Coolest Thing Ever? This show might, just possibly, be the next X-Files.
Dexter: I’m loving Dex’s eager, frustrated, downtrodden foster sister and his sly attempts to help her get promoted. That and the flashbacks with his foster dad display a mighty peculiar, yet somehow still believable set of family values.
And not forgetting our Sexiest Sophomore, Weeds: Consistently brilliant, disturbing and high-larious.
In development news, a shout-out to brave little 8-year-old Bindi "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin, who is going ahead with the nature series that she would have starred in with her dad Steve, before his bizarre, untimely sting-ray-to-the-heart death. I for one will be watching.
Heroes: Still smashing! The heroes are beginning to meet each other. Claire the cheerleader's nefarious "father" is showing his evil stripes – but it was pretty cool how he got revenge on her attacker. Hiro’s subtitled argument with his friend? A hoot. Hiro’s glee at watching Nathan fly? Hysterical. “Very nice to meet you, Flying Man. It’s okay, I keep secret. I bend time and space.” Wasn’t Nathan’s escape by zooming up into the clouds the Coolest Thing Ever? This show might, just possibly, be the next X-Files.
Dexter: I’m loving Dex’s eager, frustrated, downtrodden foster sister and his sly attempts to help her get promoted. That and the flashbacks with his foster dad display a mighty peculiar, yet somehow still believable set of family values.
And not forgetting our Sexiest Sophomore, Weeds: Consistently brilliant, disturbing and high-larious.
In development news, a shout-out to brave little 8-year-old Bindi "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin, who is going ahead with the nature series that she would have starred in with her dad Steve, before his bizarre, untimely sting-ray-to-the-heart death. I for one will be watching.
Even candy corn?
A long time ago, I stopped eating sugar for a whole month. This was because I was told I was hypoglycemic and needed to regulate my blood sugar. At first it was pure torment, but after the first hellish week or two I started to feel good. At the end of the month, I felt better than I ever had in my life. I had tons of energy, I woke up refreshed, I had amazing mental clarity. I felt so good that one day, I went to a bakery with my girlfriend and recklessly ate a delicious confection. The sugar hit suddenly, as if I’d shot up into a vein. (Not that I've ever shot up into a vein. What do I know?) Colors were brighter, all my senses were heightened. And it was all downhill from there. I haven't been able to fully cut out sugar again.
But I must. I’ve been eating sugar like there’s no tomorrow. In the office where I work, it’s everywhere! Halloween candy, cookies, brownies, birthday cakes with buttercream icing that (prepare yourself: full disclosure) becomes even more decadent after 15 seconds in the microwave. I’ve been eating so much sugar that I feel ill. Yet I can’t stop. I look at that KitKat and know that I will feel yucky after I eat it, but I eat it anyway. This must be how it feels to be addicted to alcohol or crack or cigarettes. That rush of simultaneous pleasure and disgust.
I remember when it was all pleasure: inhaling the intoxicating smell of a pillowcase bulging with Halloween plunder. Dumping it on my bedroom floor and organizing it by category, preparing for complicated barter negotiations with my sister and brothers: Smarties, DumDums, Tootsie Pops, SweetTarts, Bit-O-Honey, Necco wafers, M&Ms, Jolly Ranchers, Laffy Taffy, Lemonheads, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, 3 Musketeers, Mike & Ike, Red Hots, Dubble Bubble, Pixy Stix, waxy vampire teeth, candy necklaces, candy corn. Oh, candy corn!
It’s wack to contemplate going cold-turkey on sugar a week before Halloween.
But I must. I’ve been eating sugar like there’s no tomorrow. In the office where I work, it’s everywhere! Halloween candy, cookies, brownies, birthday cakes with buttercream icing that (prepare yourself: full disclosure) becomes even more decadent after 15 seconds in the microwave. I’ve been eating so much sugar that I feel ill. Yet I can’t stop. I look at that KitKat and know that I will feel yucky after I eat it, but I eat it anyway. This must be how it feels to be addicted to alcohol or crack or cigarettes. That rush of simultaneous pleasure and disgust.
I remember when it was all pleasure: inhaling the intoxicating smell of a pillowcase bulging with Halloween plunder. Dumping it on my bedroom floor and organizing it by category, preparing for complicated barter negotiations with my sister and brothers: Smarties, DumDums, Tootsie Pops, SweetTarts, Bit-O-Honey, Necco wafers, M&Ms, Jolly Ranchers, Laffy Taffy, Lemonheads, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, 3 Musketeers, Mike & Ike, Red Hots, Dubble Bubble, Pixy Stix, waxy vampire teeth, candy necklaces, candy corn. Oh, candy corn!
It’s wack to contemplate going cold-turkey on sugar a week before Halloween.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Power to the writers.
I’m irked. I was listening to KCRW, our local super-cool public radio station, when an annoying screenwriter named Rob Long came on to complain about the Writers Guild. He kvetched about his 16 years of Writers Guild membership and pooh-poohed the recent "unity rally" – the very notion of writers’ unity, even – "as if we writers don’t really secretly loathe each other," he drawled. He actually whined that the Guild provided good health insurance for him when he was so well-paid that he didn’t need it. Ingrate!
I can’t WAIT to be a member of the Writers Guild. I will happily pay my dues, wave signs at rallies, run for fucking treasurer. Whatever. Not just because it will mean that I’m making a living at what I love more than anything else, alongside people I respect, which is like winning the fucking lottery. Also because organized labor has done really important things for workers, like forcing employers to stop discriminating against women, ending child labor, and bringing us the 40-hour week (and, hello, the weekend). (Although the weekend is a misty, nostalgic concept for many of the TV writers I know.)
What would this Long guy have writers do? Keep our heads down at our insular laptops, submitting meekly to the studios’ "no-residuals-for-DVD-and-online-sales" larceny? Lest we forget, without the writer There Is No Story. No characters, no actors to hire (not to mention costume designers, composers, set decorators, editors, Teamsters, gaffers, grips, Best Boys and craft services people). No locations to scout, no DVDs to sell, no online episodes to stream. Even most so-called reality series need storytellers. And we need to band together, like members of proud guilds have done since medieval times. (Listen to me – as if I’m already a card-carrying member. The hubris!) Well, writers are my people. And they’re yours too, Rob Long.
I can’t WAIT to be a member of the Writers Guild. I will happily pay my dues, wave signs at rallies, run for fucking treasurer. Whatever. Not just because it will mean that I’m making a living at what I love more than anything else, alongside people I respect, which is like winning the fucking lottery. Also because organized labor has done really important things for workers, like forcing employers to stop discriminating against women, ending child labor, and bringing us the 40-hour week (and, hello, the weekend). (Although the weekend is a misty, nostalgic concept for many of the TV writers I know.)
What would this Long guy have writers do? Keep our heads down at our insular laptops, submitting meekly to the studios’ "no-residuals-for-DVD-and-online-sales" larceny? Lest we forget, without the writer There Is No Story. No characters, no actors to hire (not to mention costume designers, composers, set decorators, editors, Teamsters, gaffers, grips, Best Boys and craft services people). No locations to scout, no DVDs to sell, no online episodes to stream. Even most so-called reality series need storytellers. And we need to band together, like members of proud guilds have done since medieval times. (Listen to me – as if I’m already a card-carrying member. The hubris!) Well, writers are my people. And they’re yours too, Rob Long.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Parlor vs. Salon
I've always wanted my own salon. Not the beauty-school-dropout kind, no, the witty-and-urbane-expatriate-living-in-Paris kind. Salons are edgy! Salons are smart! But I was firmly cautioned against using the word "salon" anywhere near my blog by the ever-perspicacious Leslie Lange, on the grounds that it would be pretentious.
Hence, Pontifica's Parlor. Alliterative, school-marmish, genteel, some might even say quaint.
Yes, I'm bitter.
Hence, Pontifica's Parlor. Alliterative, school-marmish, genteel, some might even say quaint.
Yes, I'm bitter.
Just call me Lady of the Manor of Tallantire.
This is where I want to live. I ache, I burn to live in this 27-bedroom estate (I'd be happy with just a wing, really), complete with walled garden and "mature woodland." Check out that front lawn. Now that's a front lawn, my friends. Frisbee heaven! And all for a mere $4.6 million! Hell, you could spend that on a 3-bedroom McMansion in Los Feliz. And get this: "the Manor of Tallantire was granted in 1080 by Waldeof, whose descendants took the name of Tallantire until 1578, when the seat transferred to the Fletchers of Cockermouth." You don't say.I blame my formative teen years at music school in England, a school that was really two old stone mansions side by side, complete with tea break at 11 (hot milky tea and homemade shortbread, mmm), rose garden, orchard, sweeping lawns and...mature woodland...it's etched into my soul. I...must...go...back...
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Krazee Baby Names, Part 2
Ever have one of those days when you’re not feeling particularly creative, when you couldn't write a line of zingy dialogue to save your ass? Yeah, me too. Fortunately other people’s kre8ivity fills the sucking void with guaranteed entertainment. Herewith, another neatly categorized installment of New Parents Gone Wild:
Just Plain Awd:
Awdly Junior Stanley
Shcolvick
Shafungus (you read that right)
Shun R. Bonds (someone's bitter)
Trendarious
Stryder Entropy
Ja'Larry
Yes, We Get It:
Pashients
Cylence
Xistenz
Syxx
Marvelis
Earnest Lee
WYSIWYG:
Coal
Cola
Strait Cash
Free
Thanks, Gramps:
Alpha Betty (klever!)
Hunny Angel
Classie Mae
Fancy Mae
Dunkn
Little Miss
Say What?:
Kourtlyn-Neglorious
N'Ascent Mi'Princess D'Zyre Heavenly
Vandayvion Vandale
Zuh'Quaryon Ty'Rail
Xsavoiryawn
Onchorynchus Horatio (come again?)
(Disclaimer: These are all honest-to-god names. Really. This is the kind of dry, unproductive day I’d probably name my kid Female.)
Just Plain Awd:
Awdly Junior Stanley
Shcolvick
Shafungus (you read that right)
Shun R. Bonds (someone's bitter)
Trendarious
Stryder Entropy
Ja'Larry
Yes, We Get It:
Pashients
Cylence
Xistenz
Syxx
Marvelis
Earnest Lee
WYSIWYG:
Coal
Cola
Strait Cash
Free
Thanks, Gramps:
Alpha Betty (klever!)
Hunny Angel
Classie Mae
Fancy Mae
Dunkn
Little Miss
Say What?:
Kourtlyn-Neglorious
N'Ascent Mi'Princess D'Zyre Heavenly
Vandayvion Vandale
Zuh'Quaryon Ty'Rail
Xsavoiryawn
Onchorynchus Horatio (come again?)
(Disclaimer: These are all honest-to-god names. Really. This is the kind of dry, unproductive day I’d probably name my kid Female.)
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Watch Bleak House!
I resisted the impulse to call it "a Dickens of a show." Whew. That would've been too precious, even for me. But in case you missed Part 1 last Saturday night, it's not too late to get sucked into this dark (I'm not kidding; you can barely see anything) yet compelling saga about the wealthy, the would-be wealthy and the ne'er-to-be-wealthy in 19th-century England.
I'm always a sucker for costume drama. Masterpiece Theatre, take me away! Yet this isn't your typical period piece. Full of inventive editing and percussive sound effects, it's as packed with nefarious scheming, ill-advised romance, youthful folly, crazy stalkers, country manors, untimely death, graveyard rendezvous and amusing facial hair as one might wish. There's even that mainstay of costume drama, a penniless girl with a heart of gold whose birth is shrouded in mystery. Plus, Gillian Anderson. Need I say more?
Watch it! Tonight on PBS.
I'm always a sucker for costume drama. Masterpiece Theatre, take me away! Yet this isn't your typical period piece. Full of inventive editing and percussive sound effects, it's as packed with nefarious scheming, ill-advised romance, youthful folly, crazy stalkers, country manors, untimely death, graveyard rendezvous and amusing facial hair as one might wish. There's even that mainstay of costume drama, a penniless girl with a heart of gold whose birth is shrouded in mystery. Plus, Gillian Anderson. Need I say more?
Watch it! Tonight on PBS.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Imagine the difference 20 million women would make.
I was living in Paris. I made an effort to get to the American Embassy and stand in line with the other expatriates. It was one of the few times during that year abroad that I felt proud to be American. Not so long ago, women fought hard, risked everything, and went to jail to win the right to vote. We can't take it for granted. Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Come on down!
Inspired by the divine Leslie Lange, and with her gracious permission, I present Pontifica’s own Wacky Search of the Week. My site meter allows me to see how visitors found my blog, plus other cool stuff like what cities they’re from (but not who they are – curses!). Some of the intriguing Google searches that have led my gentle readers to this site include:
• chinese state circus contortionists (Sorry to disappoint!)
• "park ranger" ticket (My blog was at the very top of the list!)
• what is a moon metaphor (Uh-oh – plagiarism alert!)
• hipster alternative bowl cut hair (Please write back and let me know how it went!)
This week’s winner, though, is “orgasm blogger.” I’m mystified. I feel a little dirty. I swear, I’ve never used the word “orgasm” in this blog. Or have I?
• chinese state circus contortionists (Sorry to disappoint!)
• "park ranger" ticket (My blog was at the very top of the list!)
• what is a moon metaphor (Uh-oh – plagiarism alert!)
• hipster alternative bowl cut hair (Please write back and let me know how it went!)
This week’s winner, though, is “orgasm blogger.” I’m mystified. I feel a little dirty. I swear, I’ve never used the word “orgasm” in this blog. Or have I?
Friday, October 06, 2006
Separate but equal, my ass.
From today’s New York Times: “A state appeals court ruled Thursday that California's ban on gay marriage does not violate the constitutional rights of gays and lesbians.”
My blood pressure just SKYROCKETED. But wait, there’s more.
“‘We conclude California's historical definition of marriage does not deprive individuals of a vested fundamental right or discriminate against a suspect class,’ the court said.”
Just like the “historical definition of marriage" used to bar blacks and whites from tying the knot, huh? Just like the “historical definition of citizen with voting rights" didn’t used to include “person of color” or “woman.” Haven’t we realized that hiding behind historical precedent is notoriously wrongheaded? That a pernicious imbalance of power is fond of masquerading as the status quo?
So it’s not discrimination to withhold from me and my girlfriend the legal rights and protections enjoyed by, say, my brother and his wife? I’m really less worthy? Huh. Tell that to my mom.
Hearteningly, the strongly worded dissent argued that "the inescapable effect of the analysis the majority adopts is to diminish the humanity of the lesbians and gay men whose rights are defeated. The right to marry is of fundamental importance for all individuals."
Last year, a Superior Court judge in San Francisco got this whole glittery gay disco ball rolling by saying the same thing, that denying marriage to same-sex couples violates a fundamental right and amounts to unconstitutional gender-based discrimination. (A judge in Hawaii said the same thing ten years ago. Remember?)
Polls show that a majority of young people agree. So it's only a matter of time before the dinosaurs die off. (If we manage to survive that long. Have you seen An Inconvenient Truth? Better sell that beachfront property. And buy a hybrid, for the love of god!)
The entire raging gay marriage debate hinges on binary oppositions that are specious to begin with: male and female, hetero and homo. Sex and gender – not to mention religion, politics and law – are constructions, after all. It’s hard, though, not to get sucked into this sort of polarized thinking in our current red vs. blue color wars. And ultimately, even if gay marriage is a normative idea that doesn't disrupt false binary oppositions underpinning constructed identities, I still want one, thank you very much.
From my early days agitating with Queer Nation and the Lesbian Avengers (I bet there’s an FBI file with my name on it), I’ve believed that gay rights, like any civil rights, are won via the grass-roots: workplaces and kitchen tables (and, yes, living rooms – unbiased TV portrayals matter). The more people realize that they know and love queers, trannies and dog-crazy dykes, the more they will join the good fight. Hence the importance of coming out. Hence the political significance of walking down the street holding my lover’s hand, displaying her picture in my office, taking her home for the holidays. I categorically refuse to be a second-class citizen.
California Supreme Court, here we come.
My blood pressure just SKYROCKETED. But wait, there’s more.
“‘We conclude California's historical definition of marriage does not deprive individuals of a vested fundamental right or discriminate against a suspect class,’ the court said.”
Just like the “historical definition of marriage" used to bar blacks and whites from tying the knot, huh? Just like the “historical definition of citizen with voting rights" didn’t used to include “person of color” or “woman.” Haven’t we realized that hiding behind historical precedent is notoriously wrongheaded? That a pernicious imbalance of power is fond of masquerading as the status quo?
So it’s not discrimination to withhold from me and my girlfriend the legal rights and protections enjoyed by, say, my brother and his wife? I’m really less worthy? Huh. Tell that to my mom.
Hearteningly, the strongly worded dissent argued that "the inescapable effect of the analysis the majority adopts is to diminish the humanity of the lesbians and gay men whose rights are defeated. The right to marry is of fundamental importance for all individuals."
Last year, a Superior Court judge in San Francisco got this whole glittery gay disco ball rolling by saying the same thing, that denying marriage to same-sex couples violates a fundamental right and amounts to unconstitutional gender-based discrimination. (A judge in Hawaii said the same thing ten years ago. Remember?)
Polls show that a majority of young people agree. So it's only a matter of time before the dinosaurs die off. (If we manage to survive that long. Have you seen An Inconvenient Truth? Better sell that beachfront property. And buy a hybrid, for the love of god!)
The entire raging gay marriage debate hinges on binary oppositions that are specious to begin with: male and female, hetero and homo. Sex and gender – not to mention religion, politics and law – are constructions, after all. It’s hard, though, not to get sucked into this sort of polarized thinking in our current red vs. blue color wars. And ultimately, even if gay marriage is a normative idea that doesn't disrupt false binary oppositions underpinning constructed identities, I still want one, thank you very much.
From my early days agitating with Queer Nation and the Lesbian Avengers (I bet there’s an FBI file with my name on it), I’ve believed that gay rights, like any civil rights, are won via the grass-roots: workplaces and kitchen tables (and, yes, living rooms – unbiased TV portrayals matter). The more people realize that they know and love queers, trannies and dog-crazy dykes, the more they will join the good fight. Hence the importance of coming out. Hence the political significance of walking down the street holding my lover’s hand, displaying her picture in my office, taking her home for the holidays. I categorically refuse to be a second-class citizen.
California Supreme Court, here we come.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Fall TV Season: Part 1
Since I am a TV writer, even if Not Quite Yet Employed As Such, it's high time I opined – Pontificated, even – about the new television season. My observations, forthwith:
(Well, not quite forthwith: lest anyone reading this be of the "I don't own a TV; TV is a waste of my valuable time" ilk, you've come to the wrong blog. TV is Art. A glorious mongrel fusion of the high and the lowbrow. Some of the smartest people alive today are making great TV – TV for the ages. I bow down before them. Fear Factor, I'm not talking about you.)
Best New Series: Ugly Betty. An utter delight for the senses and the sensibilities.
Grossest New Series: Dexter. Gore aplenty. I wonder, though, how the audience can invest emotionally in a guy with no emotions. His plucky foster sister deserves better. And I know they call it "acting," but it'll take a minute to buy Michael C. Hall as a straight man after he rocked 6FU's tormented David for years.
Coolest New Series: Heroes. An impending nuclear apocalypse. A bunch of unlikely superheroes in a race against the clock. I must admit, I can't wait for the next episode.
Best Returning Series: Weeds (also wins for Most Babelicious Leading Lady – that skin! those eyes!). Honorable Mentions: House and Bones.
Oh, how I miss Six Feet Under. That, my friends, was Appointment Television. As was the dearly departed Huff, often for the over-the-top Oliver Platt alone. Is it too late for a Save Huff campaign? I await with bated breath the return of the brilliant The Closer and Saved. I’m even kind of looking forward to a new bout of dyke drama on The L Word. Excuse me, I mean the l word. Let’s just hope that they’ve ditched the World’s Worst Theme Song.
And to take a leaf from Jane Espenson's estimable book, I will now digress and talk about my lunch. I was all set to force down a frozen Lean Cuisine, but something in me rebelled. As Lisa memorably exclaimed in an episode of Six Feet Under, "My humanity just rose up!" Instead I ate a juicy turkey burger oozing with ketchup, mayo, pickles and avocado, with a side of giant, hot steak fries and a large, icy diet coke. A four-napkin lunch. I'm telling ya. Human beings will never settle for swallowing pellets, no matter what those sci-fi freaks say.
(Well, not quite forthwith: lest anyone reading this be of the "I don't own a TV; TV is a waste of my valuable time" ilk, you've come to the wrong blog. TV is Art. A glorious mongrel fusion of the high and the lowbrow. Some of the smartest people alive today are making great TV – TV for the ages. I bow down before them. Fear Factor, I'm not talking about you.)
Best New Series: Ugly Betty. An utter delight for the senses and the sensibilities.
Grossest New Series: Dexter. Gore aplenty. I wonder, though, how the audience can invest emotionally in a guy with no emotions. His plucky foster sister deserves better. And I know they call it "acting," but it'll take a minute to buy Michael C. Hall as a straight man after he rocked 6FU's tormented David for years.
Coolest New Series: Heroes. An impending nuclear apocalypse. A bunch of unlikely superheroes in a race against the clock. I must admit, I can't wait for the next episode.
Best Returning Series: Weeds (also wins for Most Babelicious Leading Lady – that skin! those eyes!). Honorable Mentions: House and Bones.
Oh, how I miss Six Feet Under. That, my friends, was Appointment Television. As was the dearly departed Huff, often for the over-the-top Oliver Platt alone. Is it too late for a Save Huff campaign? I await with bated breath the return of the brilliant The Closer and Saved. I’m even kind of looking forward to a new bout of dyke drama on The L Word. Excuse me, I mean the l word. Let’s just hope that they’ve ditched the World’s Worst Theme Song.
And to take a leaf from Jane Espenson's estimable book, I will now digress and talk about my lunch. I was all set to force down a frozen Lean Cuisine, but something in me rebelled. As Lisa memorably exclaimed in an episode of Six Feet Under, "My humanity just rose up!" Instead I ate a juicy turkey burger oozing with ketchup, mayo, pickles and avocado, with a side of giant, hot steak fries and a large, icy diet coke. A four-napkin lunch. I'm telling ya. Human beings will never settle for swallowing pellets, no matter what those sci-fi freaks say.
D'oh!
I should've known better than to brag on my mojo. Pride goeth before a fall and all that. I left work yesterday to find two (two!) parking tickets on my car. In the glow of the mojo, I forgot that I'd parked in a 2-hour zone and left the wheels there all day.
Can they even do that? You can bet I'm going to find out.
Can they even do that? You can bet I'm going to find out.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Got my mojo workin’.
There’s almost nothing I hate more than unyielding bureaucratic authority. Blame it on early childhood trauma, or maybe the fact that I am accustomed to Always Getting My Way (to the point that when I don’t, I am usually Reduced To Tears). It’s an inherited character flaw: my dad is affectionately known as the Billdozer and my brothers and I were schooled in Bending Rules at his knee. (But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who sheds vexed tears when thwarted.)
In any case, last month I got a ticket for not having my dog on a leash in Griffith Park. I was on a favorite hike with Charming Girlfriend and said Lawless Hound, when said CG spied a Park Ranger up ahead in his Ranger Vehicle. Despite my quick sleight-of-hand, despite my wide-eyed protestations of innocence, said Heartless Ranger issued me a citation and told me to show up in court. I guess sending a check is not enough penance; they feel we scofflaws need a talking-to in person.
The last time I ignored such a summons (same dog, same lack of leash, different park) I got slapped with a fine exceeding one thousand dollars (which the Understanding Judge reduced to a mere $300). So this morning I was first in line at the Hollywood courthouse.
There is something about courthouses that is designed to demoralize people. First the metal detectors with their unsmiling guards, then the long lines of similarly intimidated lawbreakers. Even the courtrooms themselves, which (even if nicely wood-paneled) are set up like classrooms with swinging doors to keep the great unwashed away from the judge and the lawyers.
And hoo boy, do those lawyers have some skanky-ass fashion sense! Today, for instance, I couldn’t help staring at a ruddy, pockmarked attorney with an out-of-control Ronald McDonald ‘do (which failed to hide his bald spot), giant smoky blue Paris Hilton sunglasses, a startlingly loud tie and snakeskin cowboy boots.
I know something about the inside of courthouses because I have successfully used my mojo to get out of two Very Expensive speeding tickets (and avoid the dread Traffic School) in the past six months. Also a few parking tickets. Did I mention I really hate authority?
After a short but instructive wait in the courtroom this morning, I spoke with a pleasant young City Attorney, who gave me the expected talking-to but then – presto – dismissed my ticket and sent me on my way. Viva la mojo!*
Okay, I lied a little. I said the Ranger was too far away to see whether my dog was leashed, and babbled on about how responsible I am after eleven years of dog-ownership. I might have even said that She Is Always On A Leash In The Park. Which is a big lie. She is Very (er, mostly) Well-Behaved and gets to run free whenever possible, especially at the beach. (That sound you hear is me knocking on wood).
(*To give credit where credit is due, on at least two occasions the mojo was directly attributable to Beloved Girlfriend.)
In any case, last month I got a ticket for not having my dog on a leash in Griffith Park. I was on a favorite hike with Charming Girlfriend and said Lawless Hound, when said CG spied a Park Ranger up ahead in his Ranger Vehicle. Despite my quick sleight-of-hand, despite my wide-eyed protestations of innocence, said Heartless Ranger issued me a citation and told me to show up in court. I guess sending a check is not enough penance; they feel we scofflaws need a talking-to in person.
The last time I ignored such a summons (same dog, same lack of leash, different park) I got slapped with a fine exceeding one thousand dollars (which the Understanding Judge reduced to a mere $300). So this morning I was first in line at the Hollywood courthouse.
There is something about courthouses that is designed to demoralize people. First the metal detectors with their unsmiling guards, then the long lines of similarly intimidated lawbreakers. Even the courtrooms themselves, which (even if nicely wood-paneled) are set up like classrooms with swinging doors to keep the great unwashed away from the judge and the lawyers.
And hoo boy, do those lawyers have some skanky-ass fashion sense! Today, for instance, I couldn’t help staring at a ruddy, pockmarked attorney with an out-of-control Ronald McDonald ‘do (which failed to hide his bald spot), giant smoky blue Paris Hilton sunglasses, a startlingly loud tie and snakeskin cowboy boots.
I know something about the inside of courthouses because I have successfully used my mojo to get out of two Very Expensive speeding tickets (and avoid the dread Traffic School) in the past six months. Also a few parking tickets. Did I mention I really hate authority?
After a short but instructive wait in the courtroom this morning, I spoke with a pleasant young City Attorney, who gave me the expected talking-to but then – presto – dismissed my ticket and sent me on my way. Viva la mojo!*
Okay, I lied a little. I said the Ranger was too far away to see whether my dog was leashed, and babbled on about how responsible I am after eleven years of dog-ownership. I might have even said that She Is Always On A Leash In The Park. Which is a big lie. She is Very (er, mostly) Well-Behaved and gets to run free whenever possible, especially at the beach. (That sound you hear is me knocking on wood).
(*To give credit where credit is due, on at least two occasions the mojo was directly attributable to Beloved Girlfriend.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
