January 22, 2007 by
At first I was really excited about Our Chart, the social networking venture touted on the L-Word season premiere. But after a week when George announced that he’s decided it’s okay to open people’s private mail, I’m nervous. What’s to keep him and his pencil necked little pal at the “Justice” Department from hacking in and getting a copy of where the girls are and handing it off to some Ex-Gay Ministry. “Here’s your project for the next couple years. Get back to me.” I’m trying to remain optimistic here.
I’m not just a Stonehenge Lesbian, I’m an Old Testament lesbian. These guys really don’t like women. You can watch it roll out in their demeaning coverage of Nancy Pelosi. No one ever said Dennis Hastert looked like a fat slab of a junior high football coach, but he did. Their coverage of Hillary Clinton. How dare she? Well, I for one hope she dares to, hope she gets the nomination and becomes president. I’ve already had fights with my friends, men and women. She’s a centrist, a hawk, a carpetbagger. Puleez. Now is the time.
As we approach another contested national election, it’s like people are playing fantasy football with their dream match-ups. Mine is Hillary and Obama, which actually equals Condoleeza in Republican circles. The old white guys and the guys from my boomer generation are done, time to get out of the way, go be a literacy volunteer, make a Habitat house for Angelina and Brad in New Orleans, but make way for some new ideas. If this is the best you can do, and it’s the worst, have the decency to get out of the way.
For days, the New York Times covered the story of the young man shot leaving a stag party. Fifty bullets were fired by the police. The Times should have covered the story. Mayor Bloomberg was on it immediately. I remembered Giuliani, who would not have showed up, sniping about certain communities. At the same time however, the story rolled out of four young prostitutes found murdered in Atlantic City. The story lasted two news cycles.
You know this but there is actually a movie called Perfume about a young brilliant perfumiere who makes a fragrance out of eleven parts dead virgin and one part something prostitute. I was railing about it at a party, and the man I was talking to wanted to talk about how the book was better! I might just start taking my bra off in such situations and firing it up with a bic lighter and wave it around the room.
For days the media has been fixated on a video of some young teenage girls beating up another girl. Would that they put the same energy into analyzing the war.
You want a surge? I’ll give you a surge. We’re way past surge protectors.