Posts Tagged ‘gay’

Inside the Box

January 4, 2016

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1998

Zack is walking ahead of me talking to Zozee, a hairdresser from Martinique who owns five miniature dogs. We’re in his cave-like hair salon even though it’s a sunny day outside. I don’t want to hang around too long, but I understand the importance of seeing friends’ pets. Plus, Zozee’s partner-of-9-years just dumped him, abandoning him in the Gay Village like a dog in a city park.

We go into the undecorated storage half of Zozee’s huge double-roomed basement studio and in the futhest corner from the window, he opens the wooden door of a big, clunky armoir. From the deepest recesses of the armoir, Zozee pulls out a box where five tiny dogs live out their lives in complete darkness, with the rare exception of these occasional visits and daily feedings and  grooming.

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Entertainment

The dogs seem thrilled to see new life forms and to be able to wobble around aimlessly a bit.  I ask if they’re puppies, but no, they’re not. These adult dogs never leave the box. Their pathetic imprisonment and miserable life of darkness and isolation reminds me of my suburban childhood, and I need  to go outside and feel the sun on my skin.

Around other people.

Now.

I pull on Zack’s shirtsleeve, and when he looks at me, I sneer for a second and then look longingly at the window. Exasperated, Zack apologizes to Zozee and says that he needs to “take the boyfriend outside for a walk before he scratches me.”

For the rest of the afternoon, we argue about every aspect of this visit. It starts out being about how ownership and capitalism make us do unnatural things. Then this morphs into a debate about whether pethood is a form  of cruelty. And finally, it’s about whether a boring sex life is what causes most couples to break up.

I believe all these arguments we’ve been having lately are related in some way.

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Towards A Gay Homeland

July 31, 2009

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national anthem

gay homeland map

Why a homeland?

Gays have been discriminated against since the beginning of organized heterosexual religions. Forced to live scattered among the world’s violent heterosexualites, a diasporaed Gay Nation has nonetheless thrived by cultivating enriching international relationships and by setting up parallel societies within the hetero cultures in which the Gays find themselves trapped and repressed.

But if the Matthew Shepard Tragedy/Iranian Hangings have show us anything, it is that the time has finally come for a Gay Homeland – a nation-state where Gay culture and values can thrive and evolve with the needs and desires of its loyal Gay citizens.

Why this amazing piece of beachfront real estate?

The traditional Gay lands of Sodom and Gomorrah have been inhabited by members of the Gay community since before the age of religions and nation-states. Throughout the region, there are stone-age cave drawings depicting Gay acts which pre-date the Sodom/Gomorrah period by over 400,000 years. There have actually been Gays living in the area continuously for over 6 billion years, long before the Akadians, the Sumerians, the Arabs or the Zionists.

The biblical story of the tragic genocide of the Sodomites demonstrates the extent of state-sanctioned persecution the Gays have been subjected to since the beginning of heterocentric religions and nations. The events of the last few years in Wyoming and Iran point to a pressing need to provide a safe haven from homophobianism, and the Levant is the most significant region on earth for Gay History. With a thriving and successful Gay nation in the Holy Land, Gays all over the world will benefit from the presence of a pied-a-terre at the center of world politics and oil production.

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Our phones are standing by

It is time for the Gays to return to their Ancestral Homeland (as has been recently promised in an email signed by Barack Obama). The current heterosexualist “states” of Lebanon and Palestine are their ancestral home. The current inhabitants are opportunistic heterosexualites who could live comfortably in any other part of the world. There are over 200 heterosexualite nation states, and NOT ONE Gay state. The absence of a Gay political entity is the reason for Gay suffering, and the Gays will only know freedom when this situation has been remedied – when the earth has at least one rock-hard Gay nation state.

Lubeland and Phallus-stein (their original names) are the natural provinces of the Gay Homeland. Together, with Sodom and Gomorrah as their undivided capitals (one for gay men, the other for lesbians), this new state will be a beacon for Gay Culture that shines out all over the world – a safe place to live out the Gay Dream. It will also provide a model of what can be accomplished when the earth’s crust is divided into various thematic tribes, when some of them just have more fashion sense and irony than the others.

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It’s time for the Gay Nation to rise to the occasion in the beauty pageant that we sometimes call civilization! It’s time for the Gays to return to their Gay Homeland!

Bear Chaps

May 14, 2009

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Fast forward, a million years, you walk into a gay bar made of ice blocks…

“CJ, where can I get a fresh one of these?”

CJ dangles a long empty beer bottle in front of his Dodge Power belt buckle, taunting Rusty with a dumb smirk.

Rusty and CJ have been buds for years. They met while attending an Ice Flow Regeneration seminar here in Iqualuit a dozen years earlier. And now, here they are at their tenth seminar on the same subject, still swinging empty bottles.

They’re both husky and strong-looking bears, so neither one of them suspects the other one of being a furry piston, and they both have the professional grace of inventing absentee girlfriends to fill in gaps in personal conversations. Rusty calculates, incorrectly, that CJ is just being a man-pig right now, and not a flirt.

“CJ, are you sure you want another beer? You’re going to go extinct tonight – if you know what I mean.”

“I know my limits…”  CJ stumbles against the white leather bar as he fails to finish his sentence, forgetting that he is in the middle of one.

“That’s it, Ceej. You’re coming back to the hotel right now.”

Rusty calls a taxi with his cell.

When the cab arrives, it’s a pink Cadillac driven by a model wearing green plastic spiked heels.

“Hey, since when does Barbie drive a cab?” CJ asks as they’re whisked off to the Conference Center at the Royal Kinderlesse Hotel.

Aqua Phoenicia vs. FMJ

March 10, 2009

Phoenician Water B

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Stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette on the wall, the judge reads aloud the first charge:

Judge: “Free Market Jesus, you and your mother corporation – 107844 Nazareth Inc. – are accused of polluting the groundwater in Central Phoenicia with waste products from your organ-disposal installations. This is a class-action suit being filed by Aqua Phoenicia on behalf of a million Phoenician plaintiffs. How do you plead?”

Jesus has just applied organic aloe-hazelnut moisturizer to his hands and is in no hurry to answer. This particular charge seems like a trivial affair better suited to non-designer-wearing working-class lawyers – in the kinds of no-holds-barred trials that the families of murdered labor organizers are always staging to spin their insignificant stories into conspiracy theories.

FMJ: “Your Honor, before I answer this proletariat lawyer’s questions, I’d like to have five minutes to consult my astrologists and color consultants.”

As far as FMJ is concerned, it’s always the right time to look your best, and that means astrologers and the right colors. His new collagen lip injections aren’t going to go unnoticed at his own celebrity trial.

The prosecuting attorney – Abdul Bouq Emmisayar – furrows his brow and flares his nostrils as he crosses the court to approach a nonplussed Jesus, grinning with his already-open Versace cellphone clamped to his surgically-enhanced ear.

Abdul: “Your Honor, I would ask the defendant to please put down his cellphone.”

He turns toward FMJ and his attorney:

“I would like to remind Ms. Popovic and her client that this is a very serious charge. There have been over 1000 deaths directly attributed to one of Mr. Christ’s organ-disposal factories in Sidon. And this is to say nothing of the various cases pending against him for suspicious organ purchases involving children as young as three.”

The glamorous courtroom goes silent and Moe Silverberg – sitting behind the huge pink wig of a drag queen to hide from arch-nemesis FMJ – types something into a no-name laptop with a library sticker on the back.

Blinking for half a second, Jesus rolls his eyes, and crosses his legs as he begins:

FMJ: “Oh please. Those selfish orphans all signed legally-binding contracts. Those who couldn’t write their names were assisted free-of-charge by my legal staff. It’s all perfectly legitimate.

And Phoenicia’s water problem is a government problem, nothing to do with me and the Free Market, may it continue to thrive. I pay my corporate taxes to the Phoenician government just like any other respectable numbered corporation.

If Aqua Phoenicia can’t keep its water clean, then they are the ones who need to change. Not me. Passover Organs has been around longer than most of the plaintiffs have. Your Honor, my representation and I feel that Aqua Phoenicia is just another citizen action committee looking to make a quick buck by attacking a celebrity.”

Abdul leans into the judge and speaks to the entire courtroom:

Addul: “But didn’t another one of the defendant’s affiliates – 87553 Nazareth Inc. – buy the government in a hostile takeover only a few months before the organ-disposal site was approved?”

FMJ stops filing his nails and asks an ungrateful world a little question:

FMJ: “And how am I supposed to know what all my little baby Free Market children are doing? The big picture: they got a lot of jobs out of the deal, and I contribute hundreds of shekels in taxes. Even more than I collect in subsidies, some years. It’s win-win for everyone, and trickles down like mercy from the market’s rain gutters.”

The jury are awestruck by the beauty of his prose as his hair glistens with the special celebrity lighting that was a pre-condition of his personal appearance at the trial

Click for more FMJ

O Quarante

March 10, 2009

le O-40 2

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Hot liquids melt his fur into skin as Rusty eases into the swirling water of the massive jacuzzi. His small, pert backside brushes a water jet that parts the fine white hairs between his cheeks.

He thinks silently to himself as a cloud of artificial fog comes out of one of the disco boxes near the bar:

Someone ought to throw some ice in there once in a while so the mist doesn’t burn your flesh.

Rusty closes his eyes and fantasizes about being the quirky and high strung spokesmodel for Le O Quarante.

“Is there any better way to temporarily forget the decline of our species and the gray misery outside than with a quick fix of steam and flesh at le O Quarante health club and slushee bar?”

This mix of chlorine, the other patrons’ cologne and the pot he voluntarily ingested before the sauna are mixing together to make Rusty feel dizzy and unfocused. Which is exactly what he needs.

Am I stoned? Of course, I’m stoned!  Why wouldn’t I be. Sitting here in this sauna wasted and breathing in chlorinated mist and soap products. After all, I’m a polar bear. What have I go to look forward to? Extinction?

After working in an office all day, role-playing comes easy. But now comes the hard part for after-work Rusty – relaxing. How to relax your polar bear muscles when the fate of the entire world seems to hang on every adjective of every sentence of every conversation. ‘You snooze, you lose,’ is why he drinks so many espressos.

Visualizing Antarctic penguins, he spreads his toes and concentrates on unwinding the nerve endings in his chest and upper thighs as he exhales slowly, like a Buddhist monk creaming his smock.

Rusty’s mind changes gears suddenly:

Hey, isn’t that a grizzly wading into the pool? What the…

I have a major soft spot  – I don’t know why it’s called soft – for bears from other lands. I remember I heard some smart bears at college say something about how this was my way of avoiding intimacy.

But is that really why I chase after gorgeous and healthy brown bears? I mean, I really love being intimate with bears from other lands. If I wanted to avoid intimacy, wouldn’t I stay home instead of seeking this kind of intimacy?

The grizzly emerges from the cold water of the pool and walks right over to the jacuzzi where Rusty is now trying to relax. One of his muscles gets really tense as the small but well-built brown bear submerges his lower abdomen in the chlorinated cauldron and breaks the sauna code of silence.

“Hey, do you know what time this place closes?”

Aaah, a country bear.

Rusty will be sleeping well in a few hours.

Gay Nationalism

March 6, 2009

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pink money

The heterosexual is not really your friend.

Sure, you may have heterosexual cohorts at work, get along well with your straight family members, and even connect better (or so you think) with your hetero friends than you do with the other homos you know.

But these people would never really defend you if they were forced to choose between helping you and enjoying a comfortable life under a gay-bashing tyranny. They would throw you away like a discarded toy from their childhood.

Even though gay people appear to blend in and receive the reluctant “acceptance” or “tolerance” of the hetero majority, we must never think for a second that we are part of their culture or societies.

For reasons of instinct and adaptability, the heterosexual is our competitor, not our partner. The charade of gays integrating into straight societies will end just as soon as economic conditions worsen.

So in the meantime, we must always be ready for the worst from our heterosexual neigbors.

Mullahs in the Stock Exchange

March 5, 2009

Mullahs B

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“Jesus, the graphic designers are here.”

Free Market Jesus has been waiting for his secretary – Free Market Judas – to come back from his power-lunch with the marketing department of their fashion-distribution corporation – Passover Textiles.

“Well  Judy, send them in!”

Two Greek weight-lifters walk in wearing leather shirts open down to the waist. One of them is carrying a large portfolio bag with an oversized blue plastic rose sticking out of it.

As the masculine designers begin the multimedia presentation, Free Market Jesus dozes off. He has been spending too many late nights at the Year Zero health club and juice spa. When he wakes up an hour into the presentation, he can see the powerpoint has begun; there is a picture of a large crucifix on the screen with a cone-breasted drag queen hanging off it wearing a portable head microphone. The text in front of the image says, “Making It Work; Closure and the Aesthetics of Perfection.”

Jesus clears his throat, and picks a piece of glitter off of the manicured end of a long, gorgeous strand of hair: “Well, if we’re going to be bought out by the Gnostic Corporation, we can at least brand ourselves on the way out the door. It’s all about legacy… And finding shoes that match the legacy.” FMJ smiles. He is known all over suburban Nazareth for his divine taste in accessories.

The sweating, virile graphic designers explain how the cross logo will help maintain a strong visual link long after the hostile takeover by Gnostic Phallustine S.A.. Jesus is unconvinced, but sees no harm in investing in marketing to raise Passover’s stock value before selling. And even if he does know that Passover is being leveraged out of existence beforehand, no one could call this “inside” trading since FMJ can find out anything he wants to know about virtually anything anyways. FMJ is the ultimate insider because of his family connections with the invisible hand. And that’s okay, because Free Market Jesus is both God and the CEO of a marketing and design firm!

As the powerpoint presentation cuts to a photo of blue-eyed children buying crucifixes at an idealized mall, one of Free Market Jesus’s receptionists – John – walks in holding a large, saphire-encrusted Princess cellphone.

“That was Free Market Marcia calling from in front of the stock exchange, Jesus. The sale is being postponed – maybe even canceled. A gang of radical mullahs has broken into the stock market building and they’re trying to close it down and turn it into some kind of radical mosque. Anyway – long-story short – Gnostic S.A. thinks this might not be a good time to invest in textile companies with blasphemous names. Our stock sunk 46% in one hour, Mare. Looks like the mean old bear has popped our falsies.”

Jesus’s jaw drops onto the colorful-but-tasteful office-quality short-pile carpet. “Those mullah bitches are really starting to pick my ass. Tell Marcia that I’ll be over there in an hour with a taser and the appropriate leather chaps. Damn it, maybe a little free-market girl power is just the thing to get those vicious mullahs out of that stock market.”

John cuts in again: “Mary, Marcia says that it’s just a gang of teenage mullahs holding a sit in. You don’t really need a taser. Though the chaps are probably a good idea.”

Free Market Jesus looks down at his Birkenstocks and smiles – he has a pair of ass-less chaps the exact same color. He turns to the rest of the board of directors and, still beaming, says: “I’ll be back in three days, ladies.”

He hops onto his pink scooter and zips over to the stock exchange building, hair shimmering in the metal-laden traffic breeze. The vibration from the tiny 200cc engine gets FMJ increasingly excited as he gets closer to the young mullah demo. When he finally gets to the stock exchange, he changes into his leather chaps and, in a display of brutish masculinity, flips over all their folding tables and massage chairs, sending pamphlets and Qurans flying all over the marble floor. Girl, was Free Market Jesus ever ticked.

When one of the young mullahs tells him that he really needs to chill out, he confesses that he’s a bit of a drama queen, and the other mullahs all laugh and offer him mint tea. FMJ helps them pick up all of their stuff (“mythological capital,” Jesus calls it), and they kiss and make up. And after a few bongs of Moroccan consolation hash – it turns into the most exciting sleepover any of them has ever been to.

Momentarily, at least, the Year Zero health club and juice spa is a remnant of a former Jesus.

Click for more FMJ

 

The F and B Curves

March 4, 2009

Curves B

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Free Market Jesus has a bit of a dilemma: soon there will be 5,000 gay men looking for sushi and croissants, but the caterers have only delivered five emaciated  salmon and a kilo of French pastry flour. What is a girl to do?

He turns to Free Market Mark for advice and consolation.

“Marky, what the hell are we supposed to do now? The drag queens are here, the lights and dessert-themed stage have been paid for, we’re 75,000 Shekels in the hole, and I’ve got no finger food for these top-dollar gay tourists!! I could pull my muff-hair out right about now, Marcia my sweet.”

Free Market Jesus and Free Market Mark like to call each other by girl names, and they also refer to each other as “she” and “her” when in the company of other disciples.

Mark pats Jesus softly on his freshly talcum-powdered back: “Oh Mary, I just know there’s a free market solution here somewhere.”

FMJ likes it when Mark calls him Mary. In fact, he likes it when everyone calls him Mary – it makes him sound creative and benevolent, and his PR people are always telling him that this type of association works.

As the lineup in front of the club grows bitchier and bitchier, Jesus opens up the Business section of the Nazareth Times and skims the Page 3 stock market results for inspiration.

“Marcia! I’ve got it. Supply and Demand! We’ll let Supply and Demand fill the paper party plates of all those leather and euro-bronzed queens. Supply and Demand!”

And Jesus does five holy-rave pills and stays up all night dancing to house music as he sways and flexes to the beat of Supply and Demand, and all the gay dancers go home and tell them what an amazing time they had at the circuit party.

Jesus wakes up briefly from his drug-induced coma: “That Elisha bitch is gonna be so jealous.” He smiles and falls back into his yellow boa-draped futon.

Click for more FMJ


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