turnabout's fair play
If one of my customers gets to proselytize at my register, handing me a card with Bible quotes and a little metal cross, then I get to put this (pdf) on his SUV windshield.
I'm not a pretty girl. That's not what I do.
If one of my customers gets to proselytize at my register, handing me a card with Bible quotes and a little metal cross, then I get to put this (pdf) on his SUV windshield.
This one's actually fairly interesting.
before I begin, let me just say that blogger sucks blue baboon ass. I'd switch to something else, but that would be like work. Which means instead of pictures, you'll just have to rely on my painterly prose.
Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses.It's not, any more; it's a glorified strip mall, which was disheartening. California may be mythic but it's not the promised land. It displays the sins of American culture rather brutally, maybe just out of sheer contrast with the beauty of the land, the greatness of its writers and artists. Still, the Monterey Aquarium is a treat, sea otters and jellyfish and all sorts of cool stuff.
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
What's your road, man?
-holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. On The Road
because when you mistake the beginning of a recipe for chicken saltimbocca as the instructions for ritual spellwork:
(what, y'all weren't into my axe-grinding thealogical rants? Sheesh, tough crowd.)
and now that I've got my bitching done, I really, seriously, totally am going to do another California post.
Mmmm, brain food! Yum. Warning: Long, nerdy post ahead.
Instead of swallowing her anger, choking back the words forming in her throat, she rises and cries out, "What happened to the mothers, the daughters, and the sisters? How can we give allegiance to a tradition of fathers and sons? Where is the woman of God who could aid our quest? Where are the Goddesses?...By your very existence as male, you legitimatize the patriarchal order in which I cannot fully exist. How could you, God? You promise to abolish the bow, the sword and war from the land, but you yourself are called a man of war. How can you ever fulfill the promises you have made to us?"(24)Yeah, how dare you, you asshole? There's something so empowering about having your anger validated. In expressing my anger at God I run the risk of being seen as reactionary, turning to paganism to piss off my parents, if you will. Which isn't true, but that's a whole 'nother post. In expressing my rage and pain, I could also be accused of being "intolerant" towards Christianity, engaging in reverse prejudice or bigotry. Frankly, respect is a two-way street in my book, and I'll respect Christianity when it starts respecting me. But I won't hold my breath.
When I loved the God of Hosea, whose love was defined against a backdrop of the slaughter of sons and the dashing of mothers with their children into pieces, was I not accepting brutal punishment as one of the faces of love? (100)The reference is to Hosea chapters 9 and 10, where the people of Israel fuck up once again, as humans are wont to do, and God decides to dish out one of his cosmic spankings: "Ephraim must lead forth his sons to slaugter...I will slay their beloved children" (Hos 9:13-16) I became an agnostic long before I understood and accepted my sexuality; all the good, decent, loving Christians I know, the liberal nuns who educated me, none of it was enough, none of it could compensate for the fact that the God they followed was an asshole.
It is easy to dismiss these men as mad. Indeed, they seem to have lost touch with reality. But they are not aberrations within Western civilization. They are its products, and their visions of reality are considered sane within a culture founded on the denial of finitude and death, a culture that clings to ideas about life, to ideologies, rather than to life itself. I am not suggesting that Platonic dualism as represented in theology and philosophy is the sole cause of these views. But the cultural habit of denying finitude and death, which is deeply embedded in Western thought, makes it easier to deny that nuclear war could destroy almost all the life on this planet. (221)Death and life, she argues, are inseperable. It's one of the few widely held tenets of modern paganism, in all its myriad forms, that death and life are connected in a cycle of birth, decay, and regeneration. To deny death is to deny life. To aim for transcendence of death, rather than acceptence and understanding of it, is to miss the point, and is ultimately futile anyway. No one gets out of here alive. It's a dangerous concept as well, because to "avoid" death you must destroy all evidence of your mortality, of your corporeal nature. I believe that Western society operates on a profound terror of embodiment. Throw in Platonic dualistic thinking and you've got a toxic mix: anything associated with embodiment, physicality, life--women, nature, sexuality, food, pregnancy, aging--is evil. It's all terribly juvenile and fucked up. Christ insists that for humanity to survive the destruction we wreak on ourselves and the planet, we must embrace death, our finite nature, the existence of change. "We must learn to love this life that ends in death...our task is here." (215) Paganism teaches me how to do that. Other people will probably find other ways of accomplishing it. But it's got to be done. Change or die is the rule of nature, and since we're already dying in droves, it's time to change.
For me Goddess has always been more than a symbol of female power. Goddess symbolizes my profound conviction that this earth, our source and ground, is holy. I have always known this. I will never know anything with stronger conviction. (209)
When I was reading Regency romances and historical romances, I kept thinking, this would be great if only the hero had a boyfriend.From our local indie rag's interview with Ann Herendeen on her novel Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander: A Bisexual Regency Romance. SomedayWhenI'mIndependentlyWealthyI'llBuyIt, it's not every day you come across a book that combines my two favorite things: queerness and Regency soap operas.
So, I quit my job today. The environmental one that I've only been at three days. "Never work on commission, Andy" my dad told me, and he ought to know, having held a couple door-to-door type jobs himself. I need a more regular, more immediate pay than this can give me. It sucks because I really believe in this organization and their mission, and it felt so good to be doing something relatively proactive about global warming, but nobility won't pay my bills. Especially since I suck at it. I'm not aggressive enough; I'm not a salesman. I worked from 2-10 yesterday and raised $0. Which means I get paid $0. It's all based on quotas and percentages and it's a great job for a college student living with their parents over the summer. Which I am not.
The thoroughly heterosexual Mr.--er, Captain, sorry--Sparrow at San Francisco Pride.
I just got back from Dead Man's Chest--don't worry, no spoilers--with an old friend and had a awesome time.
Until we got into the car.
We were swooning over Johnny Depp (come on, who doesn't want to do Johnny Depp? There was one scene where I didn't know who to be jealous of, him or Keira Knightley) and I said something to the effect of "Only Johnny Depp could pull off a gay pirate anti-hero!"
My friend was totally appalled. "JACK SPARROW IS NOT GAY!!!"
And we proceeded to go ten rounds on this issue all the way home. I kept trying to explain that Johnny Depp is a genius for incorporating gay male stereotypes--the swishy hands, mincing walk, fey diva attitude, and hello, eyeliner!--into the macho role of pirate-inspired-by-drugged-out-rock-star. And I'm not the only one of this opinion, I've read tons of comments on the internet and elsewhere who've said similar things. It's not that Jack Sparrow is gay, but that Johnny Depp is riffing on those coded behaviors. That's not the whole of his characterization but that's a brilliant part of it.
My friend totally blew a gasket. She kept going on about how he's only doing Keith Richards and Keith Richards always acts like that and anyway those aren't gay mannerisms, all drunk stoners act like that, and that she totally resents "certain groups of people" trying to make him a political statement and always trying to take everything thats ours by claiming it's gay and I just want to have fun summer entertainment that's not promoting a cause and if people go around saying Jack Sparrow is gay that totally ruins it and I can't enjoy it anymore!!!!
I wasn't sure what dumbfounded me more, the waves of knee-jerk homophobia pouring out of her mouth or the fact that she was so pissed off by the notion, taking it so personally. What do I know, maybe Keith Richards does act swishy, but anybody who saw Depp's character with no prior knowledge or context would think "That pirate acts kinda gay!" not "That pirate acts like Keith Richards!"
I mean, I'm totally okay with being wrong on this idea too, it just astounds me that for her any implication that Sparrow incorporates gay, effeminate behaviors totally destroys any pleasure in his performance. And that even suggesting such a thing is totally politically motivated and is a direct result of all these malicious gay people running around deliberately trying to ruin everybody else's fun, they have their own stuff, why can't they let our stuff alone? Us gay people, always in people's faces, controlling all the media, dictating the nation's culture!!
Oh, I'm out to her, by the way.
She's an old school friend and we hadn't seen each other in years, but frankly I'm not sure I'm willing to put up with more "tolerant" straights of the "as long as they don't flaunt it and stay inconspicuous" variety. Jeez louise. I hope nobody's told her about Rock Hudson...
Anyway, I think it's time to add some Patrick O'Brian to my efforts at self-medication reading list.
It's gone fucking retrograde and it's causing me to use the f-word a lot.
I may land a job tomorrow, so cross your fingers. I'll spend the rest of my broke-ass, carefree, parentally-subsidized free time by indulging in a little comic book geekiness.
Matilda: What is it about you that Maya finds so special anyway?
Hopey: A tongue faster than Mohammed Ali and sweeter than Dolly Parton...in their twenties! ("Wig Wam Bam Part 2")
I have plenty more California stories and photos (if I can ever get Blogger to work), but I thought I'd start something new: posting the Witches Weekly.
I was this close to writing a whole big rant about how much I loathe Independence Day, how the blinding hypocritical stupidity of the "celebrations" always make me want to puke, about how I don't salut the flag or recite the Pledge of Allegiance (maybe I'll write about that later), how I usually spend this day watching the annual Twilight Zone marathon, since that seems to be the most appropriate thing to do.
Sitting in a park in Paris, France