Performance anxiety.

I have a few writer friends who regularly give readings in public. I used to do this a lot when I was involved in the performance poetry scene (though, as a matter of principle, I refused to adopt that over-the-top, self-important, I-am-a-serious-artist, I-am-DOWN-with-the-revolution, syncopated performance poetry cadence. You KNOW what I'm talkin' about). Yes, believe it or not, Pontifica is a poet. Or, rather, was. I've found that television and poetry do not mix. They inhabit entirely separate corners of the culture; they hang out in mutually exclusive parts of the brain and guard their turf jealously. There's only so much writing time, juice, territory. At least when you're holding down (however tenuously) a full-time job (what we like to refer to as a "support job.").

I do still write the occasional essay, and I think I should get out there again and read in public. Sometime. Some nice, free night when I have no writing class, no writing to do, no dinner to prepare with my girlfriend, no reading, no TV to watch (hey, it's work. I take notes).

Once I was at a lesbian holiday party at The Gauntlet (back when it catered to dykes one night a week, before it became The Eagle, which caters to the fags 24-7) and there was a whole slate of performance scheduled for the evening. Some of it went over well (the kissing contest was a real crowd pleaser). But I'll never forget the poor earnest writer gal who got up on stage to read an earnest essay about what it felt like to be Jewish at Christmastime.

The bar was packed. Hundreds of super-hot east-side art-school chicks were buying each other drinks and screaming into each other's ears above the din. The woman onstage was fighting an uphill battle. Nevertheless, I felt a glow of sisterhood. I wanted to support her. I wanted her to look out into the melee and meet at least one pair of understanding eyes.

But unfortunately, right in front of me there was a gay porn video playing on a giant TV screen, in which a man was being fisted, and peed on, by a whole posse of leather daddies.

I had never seen a man being fisted before. I was unable to drag my eyes away.

The writer kept reading doggedly, getting more and more flustered, more and more verklempt. Finally she screamed, "You all need to pay attention! I worked hard on this! I'm sharing something meaningful with you!"

Everyone ignored her. The racket continued unabated. Oh, the guilt. And yet she kept reading. I wanted to tell her, "just let it go. Get down off the stage and Be Here Now."

But I was too distracted.

Amo el Dia de los Muertos

My girlfriend and I went to the Day of the Dead celebration at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Saturday. It's the coolest cultural event in Los Angeles, if you ask me. I love the clouds of copal incense drifting through the darkness, the tall skinny palm trees leaning in rows below the half-moon, the festive live music, the tacos and margaritas, the hipsters and kids and regular folks in amazing costumes, and most of all the phenomenal altars. People invest so much effort and creativity in these memorials with their sugar skulls, loaves of bread, marigolds, flickering candles, photos and personal effects. They're beautiful, fantastical, sobering. What's not to love about grinning skeletons dressed as brides and grooms, friendly skeleton dogs, cats and even fish? Everyone's having a gay old time, treating death with humor as well as reverence. Yet there were angry political monuments too, shrines to the dead in Iraq, the murdered, and Mexico's desaparecidos – the disappeared. Who knew an appreciation of death could be so life-affirming? And who knew making out in a crypt could be so hot?

I finally did it: I got up the gumption to bang the door-knocker on the giant tomb in the middle of the lake. Then hightailed it across the bridge to safety. Better safe than clutched by ghostly, skeletal hands.

Newsflash!

"Sexualized images in media may harm girls, young women"

This is one of those headlines, trumpeted all over the media today, that merits a resounding "Duh!" The American Psychological Association has released a study decrying our culture’s overt sexual fetishization of females, pointing out that sexualization occurs when "a person’s value comes only from his or her sexual appeal or behavior, to the exclusion of other characteristics" and when "a person is sexually objectified—that is, made into a thing for others' sexual use, rather than seen as a person with the capacity for independent action and decision making." Look for earnest coverage next week in Time and Newsweek (always on journalism’s receding edge).

I mean, really. A full generation after the women’s movement? Three and a half decades since feminists started calling our attention to the effects of sexual objectification on tender female psyches? Even Reviving Ophelia came out, like, ten years ago, people!

This is on a par with other "duh!" news headlines like "Study Indicates Smoking is Bad For You" and "Everybody Loves Money." (Come to think of it, I'm as guilty of sexualizing money as the next guy – I mean, gal.)

Still, I’m grateful that we’re having the conversation. The APA study lists some “Positive Alternatives to the Sexualization of Girls,” and blogging is applauded as a means of girl empowerment. Kewl!

Overall, I’m glad that this exceptionally self-evident concept is being hammered home to a new generation. I guess if you’re not a girl, or a parent, friend, husband, teacher, coach, or brother of girls, you might actually not have been aware.

Turncoat!

So now John McCain thinks Roe v. Wade should be overturned?

I always find it entertaining when men make sweeping declarations about whether women should be permitted to make decisions about their own bodies. I say, when men start rushing out en masse to buy pregnancy tests, enduring morning sickness and third-degree tears, and thrusting their cracked nipples into screaming infant mouths (while risking their lives, their promotions and their college scholarships), that’s when they can opine about abortion. Till then, they should shut their traps.

It’s really a shame. McCain until now represented that rarity, a quasi-cool Republican (I know, I know, a contradiction in terms) thanks to his "maverick" views and semi-Libertarian leanings (though his support for the Iraq debacle pretty much landed him in the enemy camp). Now, on the campaign trail, this grizzled vet has decided, late in the game, that the moment has finally come to pander to our great nation's illest common denominator: the charming folks who, gosh darn it, honestly don’t believe women deserve equal rights, agency, and full citizenship. All while fervently believing that if abortions are illegal, women will Just Stop Having Them! Hey, give ‘em a break – they’re probably too young or too drunk to remember back alleys, wire hangers, and dead sorority sisters.

It's the same kooky wingnut logic, willfully blind to human nature, that insists that withholding condoms and sex education will stop kids from getting it on and contracting HIV, and that Just Saying No will prevent kids from experimenting with pot. It ignores the fundamental fact that People Are Gonna Do It Anyway. As soon as you leave the room.

Wasn’t the GOP supposed to be all about individual liberties? But hey, this is the party that colluded with the right-leaning Supreme Court to appoint the current White House resident, in defiance of the popular vote. Hey, yeah, remember that, my fellow Americans? (Not to distract you from your nonstop Anna Nicole Smith-fest – may she strut her stuff in peace.)

Well, Senator McCain. Not that you were going to get my vote anyway, but I’m ashamed of you.

BFF!

I am loving Katherine Heigl, a member of the dizzyingly large, Golden Globe-winning cast of Grey's Anatomy, who is very publicly throwing down in defense of her gay best friend. As everyone with the slightest celebrity obsession (or a TV, or an internet connection) knows, the cuddly T.R. Knight, another member of said cast, was the target of not one, but two homophobic slurs from Isaiah Washington, yet another member of said cast. To wit (and I paraphrase): "I'm not a faggot like T.R." (off camera) and then (at the Golden Globes, no less) "Hell, no, I didn't call that faggot a faggot."

I'm so proud of how fiercely and courageously Katherine is defending her best friend, who has since come out (i.e., made the best of being outed). (Props to you, too, T.R.) "I will beat you up," Katherine vowed, if you mess with her boy. Not many people would go out on a limb, risking disapproval from her bosses and her network for publicly calling Washington out on his homophobia, when they would surely have preferred to just sweep everything under the red carpet. We all know how outraged Mr. Washington – and everyone else – would be if someone had used the "N" word disparagingly about him.

You go, Katherine. You're putting the fabulous back in f*g hag.

Me & Angelina, sittin' in a tree.

Last night I dreamed that I was Angelina Jolie's girlfriend. Sadly, in real life her mother just passed away. Evidently they were very close. In my dream, though, her mother was alive and delightful, and I played my violin for her. It occurred to me that I'd better get ready for an onslaught of paparazzi photos because I was going to be plastered all over Us magazine like Jenny Shimizu (only taller). Wow, maybe I should lose ten pounds, I thought, and get my hair done.

It was fun being Angelina's girlfriend. She seemed warm, smart and down-to-earth, and we would've made quite an entrance on the red carpet. Of course, I have an actual girlfriend who is Angelina's equal in every way, except for the paparazzi photos, and so I was not terribly disappointed when I woke up. I'm sure Brad and the kids were relieved.

Speaking of Charming Girlfriend, I am disconcerted to find out that her porn name (an amalgam of your first pet's name and your first street) is Tawny Blossom. How apt! Mine, however, is Tom Tom Wicopee.

That is just not fair.

Bye-bye, Tivo.

When I moved to my new hood, I decided to cancel my Tivo service. Don't get me wrong, I assured the customer service rep who was desperately trying to change my mind, I love my Tivo! I'm one of those freaky-ass Tivo-philes who gushes about my Tivo-love with my Tivo-having friends. But an upstart competitor who shall remain nameless* was offering me a FREE 100-hour DVR, with the ability to record two shows at once (always a bone of contention with my old-skool 40-hour Tivo box), plus FREE service for a year, and only $5.99 a month after that instead of Tivo's $12.95, plus $10 off my bill for 15 months, PLUS a free portable DVD player. In the battle between brand loyalty and the bottom line, filthy lucre won out.

So what am I recording on my shiny new DVR? What merits a season pass? What counts as no-appointment-necessary television?

Rome: I am totally hooked. Titus Pullo, Lucius Vorenus, Servilia, Brutus, Octavia and Octavian: these people and their world are utterly real and compelling to me. Someone said this second season will be the last. Please, say it ain't so!
House and Bones: old, good friends.
the L word: I talk back to my TV more during this show than any other. I jeer, I groan, I roll my eyes – and then there's a hilarious, hot, scandalous and gorgeously shot episode like this week's, which redeems it all.
Heroes: don't tell me, don't tell me – I haven't seen this week's episode yet.
American Idol: they're back and better than ever.
The Closer and Saved: when they come back, they'll be at the top of the list.

I'm looking forward to seeing more of Brothers & Sisters, a show I really want to love. I'm checking out Rescue Me and Criminal Minds, Grey's Anatomy and Medium, and a little Everybody Hates Chris because one of my new neighbors is on it.

To my shock and horror, for the first time in umpteen years I missed the Golden Globes – even after telling my dad how it's the best awards show because everyone's totally wasted – but the glorious Kyra Sedgwick won for The Closer, so all is (briefly, politics and global warming aside) right with the world.

*Unless you need me to hook you up, in which case I'll tell you.

I love Los Feliz.

Today I went home at lunch and lay on our new brown and cream zebra-striped rug, with its new woolly smell, in fat stripes of sunlight. I love being on the second floor with its views of sky, trees and rooftops, nothing to block the light streaming through the windows. The neighborhood was silent. Silent! No screaming, no horns playing La Cuca-fucking-racha. Only birds and breezes. My dog sighed and settled down beside me, and my cat rolled on her back and stretched in the sun on the porch outside the open door.

New year, new apartment.

Mere minutes after arriving home from my vacation, I resumed a frantic box-packing marathon that lasted late into the next night (despite all my pre-holiday efforts – dang!), and then for a few more hours the following morning before I absolutely had to go pick up my U-Haul truck or lose my reservation. Last time I moved, I hired three guys, day workers, to help with the heavy lifting, and my plan was to do the same this time around. I’d had a heinous experience with a professional moving company the time before that (they’d held my piano hostage in the pelting rain while extorting more money out of me; I later looked them up in the Better Business Bureau and found that they had a long history of consumer complaints. Lesson learned.)

So on my way to pick up the truck, I thought I’d swing by Home Depot, where I’d heard the day laborers were to be found. A block away, I noticed dozens of guys, who surged toward me in a body as soon as they noticed – almost before I noticed – that I was slowing down. They swarmed around my car, yanking the doors open and sliding in before I could even think. Here I’d thought it would be a sane, measured procedure: I’d find out who knew how to drive, who was experienced at moving. But there they were, three grinning guys in my car and more struggling to squeeze in, knocking on my window with pleading faces. I held up three fingers and shrugged helplessly: Solamente tres.

Hours of delays, frustration, and back-breaking labor ensued (though there were also a couple of angels who swooped in to help in my hour of panic). I valiantly resisted shrill screams of utter desperation. Sweat flew freely, especially when all three Guatemalan guys – and me – wrestled my giant sofabed up a steep, narrow flight of steps, almost toppling it over the railing to the pavement below.

Today I’m bone-tired and I ache in every muscle, including my hands and feet, and I have hundreds of boxes to unpack. But when I opened my door this morning in my beautiful new Los Feliz neighborhood, I heard birdsong and smelled the delicate fragance of the flowers that twine up that very same railing.

Moving takes forever. I went back to the old place at lunch to clean and deal with all the leftover stuff: framed pictures, curtains, curtain rods, all the random detritus that we abandoned yesterday when the truck got full. I’ll be back there tonight loading my car and doing one last, nostalgic load of laundry in my trusty old washer and dryer. (There’s nowhere to put them at the new place. Hello, laundromat.)

P.S. The water pressure in my new shower is amazing.

Visions of resort vacations dancing in my head.

At my company holiday party last night, on top of delicately nibbling coconut shrimp and imbibing bad Chardonnay (why does everyone in California insist on drinking Chardonnay? Ugh. They were also serving bad Merlot. Californians and Merlot! What is everyone thinking?), I also won a prize in the gift raffle. I'm sure my proximity to the big tree decorated with little penguins had something to do with it.

Oh, the thrill of hearing my ticket number called. (From the shrieks and hollers when people's numbers were called, and the boos and hisses from everyone else, you'd think they were giving away glamorous resort vacations! They did give away a PSP, whatever that is. Everyone else thought it was pretty cool.)

And what did I win? Two nights at a hotel. Pretty sweet, you may be thinking. I see a romantic weekend getaway in your future.

But...the hotel is the Holiday Inn.

In Burbank.

When I told this to my coworker this morning, he burst out laughing. He thought I was telling a joke.

In other news, I have no credible explanation for my long, long, long-ass absence from my own blog. Something about moving and packing and stressing about leaving my huge apartment for a tiny garret, albeit in a better neighborhood. It's pretty cute, as garrets go. And it's all in service of my longterm goal, which is to buy a house next year. My girlfriend has whispered the word "condo" to me a couple of times, but so far I have shuddered at the very thought. She says it could be the first step toward being a real-estate mogul. Does that mean I could quit my job?

Frogtown.

Tonight I came closer than I ever have to the LA River. I went to the Frogtown Artwalk (Frogtown: something to do with a plague of frogs many years ago; a little snip of land between the 5 and the river). Tonight is one of those nights when all LA has an overlay of magic. I love LA in the winter. It's 64 degrees and almost chilly. I walked along the LA River footpath and followed glowing green balloons through the dark down to the sandy water's edge. The river was probably 50 feet across, the widest I've ever seen it. Fringed by bamboo and other leafy things, gurgling and flowing like any river should.

I really love connecting with the LA art scene. All of us wandering around looking at art and architecture, and each other, could have been in Brooklyn, Chicago, San Francisco, anyplace where people put out cheese and crackers and sangria in their fabulous beamed lofts where the smell of oil paint, dust and turpentine mingle most bewitchingly. I met an elderly dalmatian the same age as mine and a large white pit bull with brown spots. I saw some transcendent oversize color photographs of the Mexico/U.S. border. I looked longingly into people's spare industrial loft living spaces. I drove back through Silverlake and Los Feliz. I've been househunting lately and I'm getting the feeling that my house is out there, much like the feeling that one's true love is out there in the world before that fateful meeting occurs. My house-to-be, I believe, is in the 90026 area code.

Romance is so not dead.

OMG!

Trolling craigslist today for writing gigs, I came across this gem:

NEED AN ONLINE DATING PERSONAL ASSISTANT

Reply to: i'mtoosexy@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-10-30, 5:09AM PST

I'm seeking an individualo to work about 12 hours/wk primarily from home w/ flexible hours at $10/hr to manage my online dating accounts, send out emails, reply to emails, etc. this is steady ongoing work with cash pay.

Perfer mid 20's to 30's man or woman with significant experience dating online. Email us your resume with a brief cover letter describing extent of knowledge of teh various popular dating websites.

Preferred also: College degree

Compensation: $10/hr, Performance-based bonus

Could I be the “individualo” to take on this unique challenge? I mean, this poor guy clearly needs help. Swamped, overwhelmed by so many online dating accounts that he needs to hire me, a total stranger, to manage his social life. (No more dangerous double bookings!) Get paid to email sweet nothings, innuendos and brazen propositions to chicks? (Hell, I know a thing or two about that.) And on a “steady ongoing” basis too. Doesn’t sound like he’s looking for true love, does it?

But what if all this college-educated, vicarious online flirting leads to a Cyrano-esque mistaken-identity crisis? What if the guy (or gal) he hires just happens to fall for that saucy redhead who was lucky enough to get sucked in by one of those multiple ghostwritten profiles? Oops!

But hey, courtship and marriage and fatherhood are so freaking labor-intensive. Maybe our busy Mr. Outsource-My-Love-Life would dig this time-saving way to outsource the whole shebang! At very reasonable rates!

And how ‘bout that “performance-based bonus"? I love that. I guess that’s in case, against all odds, our Lothario ends up actually falling in love – or even tying the knot. Thanks to my – MY – online wooing! The nerve!

Now I'm going to think about other areas of my life that deserve a performance-based bonus.

Serendipity in Los Feliz.

Tonight after work, I took my watch to get fixed at the home of a charming, grandfatherly Bulgarian/Armenian watchmaker. He was kicked out of his shop after 23 years, along with all the other tenants (to make room for a giant new Hollywood nightclub, I suspect), and is mending watches on his balcony in Los Feliz while he looks around for a new shop.

As soon as I stepped into his cozy apartment, his wife Mary asked if I'd had dinner. Whatever was cooking smelled divine. I sat down, their grandson brought me a cold Corona, and I ate Lebanese flatbreads covered in ground meat, tomatoes and parsley, drizzled with fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Never mind that I don't usually eat meat. My new friends were kind and hospitable and I wasn't about to say no. (Was it lamb? Don't ask, don't tell! Anyway, it was yummy.) We talked about our travels as we ate, then we went out onto the balcony and Mr. Haig took apart my watch.

While he tinkered, he talked about how lucky he is to live so close to his kids and grandkids, and what it was like to leave his country during the Communist era and make a new life somewhere else. Then he looked straight at me and said, "It's very hard to build your life. You have to have power. You need to have someone behind you."

Wow. It was as if suddenly a celestial messenger were speaking directly to my own roiling personal angst. I felt a blinding awareness, like connecting with the source of all wisdom and compassion. Did he have any idea how much I needed to hear those words?

Then he offered me Turkish Delight, rose and orange-flavored, and Mary brought out strong, sweet Armenian coffee and her own homemade pastry. So much for my sugar fast! But if there was ever a reason to break it, this was it.

A woman's place.

In keeping with yesterday's theme of making time for the important stuff, and with a nod to Nancy Pelosi's new job, here's another shout out to a NY Times OpEd columnist, this time Judith Warner, who in her memorial to Texas governor and all-around hell-raiser Ann Richards writes:

You can’t clean house and make it to “the dome” too. You can’t bake cookies and make it to the Senate. And that’s not just because there isn’t enough time. More profoundly, it’s because it just isn’t human to do all that. With all of our spouting off these days about the glorious variety of women’s Choice, there is one basic choice that we are not humanly able to make: we cannot choose what kind of people we are or what we are driven, drawn, destined to do. The best we can do is be ourselves – and stand up for what it takes to bring our self into being.

It's hard enough trying to find time and energy for writing while holding down a full-time job. Cleaning house on top of it? Always good for bad procrastination, as any writer will attest. I recently decided to just run all the errands on my list (Paul Graham's "small stuff") and get it over with: buy a printer cable and ink, get the dog's nails clipped, buy groceries at Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and Ralphs, restock my hair products, get a haircut, change the oil in my car and get it washed, get the sim card in my cell phone replaced, go to the post office, pay bills, sort a mountain of papers, blah blah blah. Factor in West Hollywood traffic, and it took me almost TWO DAYS.

Last weekend I bought flour and yeast so I could try this recipe for super-easy, supposedly amazing bread that doesn't require kneading. The only problem is, it has to sit for 18 hours. Then two more hours before it goes in the oven. Plus it turns out I have to find, then buy, a special lidded container in which to bake it. Figuring out how to fit all this into my schedule requires a complex mathematical formula that still eludes me.

A final word on Ann Richards: she was a hero of mine, and I'm sad she's gone.

Procrastination can be fun.

My friend Ron turned me on to this fabulous essay by writer and computer genius Paul Graham, about finding and doing the work that you love:

Whichever route you take, expect a struggle. Finding work you love is very difficult. Most people fail. Even if you succeed, it's rare to be free to work on what you want till your thirties or forties. But if you have the destination in sight you'll be more likely to arrive at it. If you know you can love work, you're in the home stretch, and if you know what work you love, you're practically there.

Another of Mr. Graham's essays, which talks about good and bad procrastination, should be required reading for writers, artists, scientists and all kinds of ambitious folk who are trying to Accomplish Big Things:

The most impressive people I know are all procrastinators...they put off working on small stuff to work on big stuff. What's "small stuff?" Roughly, work that has zero chance of being mentioned in your obituary.

Which reminds me of an exercise I did once in one of those self-actualization workshops: writing my own obituary. It was fun! Kind of like starting to write a script at the end, and working backward to find out how it all happened. Go on: list all your accomplishments, awards, and significant relationships as of the day you die.

Hallelujah!

This feeling of joy and disbelief reminds me of waking up the morning that Bill Clinton had first been elected President. A Democratic House and Senate! A female Speaker of the House! All this glory and righteousness takes a little getting used to.

I really saw the election and the weeks leading up to it as an epic battle in the clash of good vs. evil. I thought about all the ways we can be freedom fighters: by being artists, musicians, politicians with integrity, good parents, philanthropists, teachers, environmental activists, child advocates, civil rights workers. I feel a renewed sense of community with my countrymen and women.

Bob Herbert, my new hero.

Who's Bob Herbert? He’s a contributor to the New York Times’ OpEd page. I just discovered Bob because of his recent kickass feminist columns about the mass murder of little girls in an Amish schoolhouse, which should be called what it was – a hate crime – and the UN report on worldwide violence against women. Then I read his archives and was floored at such a brave, trenchant voice coming from, not The Nation or the HuffingtonPost, but the venerable Grey Lady herself (though let’s face it, the NYT is pretty liberal for a mainstream paper).

A Pontificator after my own heart, Bob Herbert writes passionately, angrily and articulately about racism, poverty, political corruption, and misogyny in all its forms, including certain Abercrombie t-shirts, genital mutilation, mass rape as a weapon of war, bride burnings, honor killings, female infanticide, etc. ad nauseam. Here’s a sample:

“The disrespectful, degrading, contemptuous treatment of women is so pervasive and so mainstream that it has just about lost its ability to shock.

“In a misogynistic culture, it's never too early to drill into the minds of girls that what really matters is their appearance and their ability to please men sexually.”

“We're all implicated in this carnage because the relentless violence against women and girls is linked at its core to the wider society's casual willingness to dehumanize women and girls, to see them first and foremost as sexual vessels – objects – and never, ever as the equals of men.” 10/16/06

He’s bracingly, outspokenly anti-Bush:

“His breathtaking arrogance is exceeded only by his incompetence…he is the worst president in memory, and one of the worst of all time.” (1/26/06)

Testify!

He’s a voice crying out in the wilderness, calling for an end to the Iraq war and for making our entire nation bear the burden, not just the troops.

“You never want to say that brave troops in Iraq died for the mindless fantasies spun by a gang of inept politicians. But what else did they die for?” 10/3/05

He reminds us what patriotism really is:

“A lot of Americans are like spoiled rich kids who take their wealth for granted. Too many of us have forgotten – or never learned – the real value of the great American ideals. Too many are standing silently by as Mr. Bush and his cronies engage in the kind of tyrannical and uncivilized behavior that has brought so much misery – and ultimately ruin – to previous societies.” 7/17/06

Bob has a new column today about Nancy Pelosi, the first female Speaker of the House (second in line to the presidency after the VP! Just in case something were to mysteriously happen to Public Enemies #1 and #2!) Most of Bob’s columns are only accessible if you’re a TimesSelect member – in other words, you have to pay a fee. But you can sign up for a 2-week free trial and read all his columns, then cancel your membership if you must. Do it!

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

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.

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.

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.