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April 25, 2008
Crabby Putinesca
Crabby Putinesca
It is an amazing spring day here in New York City. Finally. The trees are leafing out, providing cover for the tattered, plastic Fairway bags lufting all winter in the bare tree branches. The yellow forsythia petals have given way to green leaf. The jonquils are past. But it is high bloom time for the flowering crab trees in Riverside Park. I wish I could freeze frame them, but their mutability is their poignant charm.
To reverse one of my favorite literature tropes, that old “pathetic fallacy” of the personification of inanimate objects, allow me to floral-ize myself. This long primary season, I am one flowering crab, but without the charm.
As the post-primary letdown sets in Pennsylvania and Keystone staters get back to actual bitterness, Indiana and North Carolina are now in the media spotlight. The big Good Sam Club RV map of where we’ve been will have the last magnetized states of West Virginia, Kentucky, Oregon, South Dakota and Montana all filled in by June 3. And then the gas-guzzling behemoth of the Democratic Party will trundle off to Colorado, the Rocky Mountain State and Denver.
Donner, party of one.
Unlike many of my friends, I am not cranky that the race goes on. I am not calling for Hillary to leave the race or for Bill to leave the human race. Okay, maybe the latter. I remind my impatient friends, this too is what democracy looks like. They haven’t seen it for seven and a half years, so they’re confused.
What I am most crabby appleton about is the media coverage. John King obsessively poking his military-inspired voting GPS system as Wolf looks on over his shoulder, slack-jawed, like a Cro-Magnon discovering fire.
Furrow-browed and deeply caring Rev. Bill Moyers hearing Jeremiah Wright’s confession.
Mary Matalin, not the one who can’t hear, the Matalin who doesn’t listen, tight-lipping her theory that the Democrats really don’t want to win the White House. They are more concerned with solidifying their hold on Congress. They could care less.
Well, I don’t care what Democrat wins the presidency; I just want her to appoint me as Media Czar. And I don’t mean the new nice kind of czar Bush appoints when he has no clue what to do. War Czar, for example. The place should be crawling with Katrina Czars, Gitmo Czars, Sub-Crime Mortgage Czar. I mean the old Russian crabby czars. Like Putin.
When the story broke that Putin was having an affair with a Russian Olympian, a gold medal gymnast in rhythmic gymnastics, he was asked about it at a press conference. His wife did not appear at his side. Putin, whose soul George had seen during a staring contest, waxed on creepily about how Russian women are the best, Italians second and then groused about people who with “infected noses” dig into other people’s private lives. Which was how he got his start.
The next day the reporter’s paper was shut down. The picture of the gymnast with the sole of her foot on the back of her head disappeared. No word on the poor guy who asked the question at the press conference.
That kind of Media Czar, but a little less gulagy. I would institute mandatory term limits on all pundits. I would make it illegal to use your own name in the title of a news show. I am hoping Rachel Maddow will agree to be my Deputy Czar.
April 21, 2008
If you were the new Democratic president in 2009, what would be your first presidential proclamation to signal "change"?
Kate wants to hear from you! The next question of the week, straight from Kate, is: If you were the new Democratic president in 2009, what would be your first presidential proclamation to signal "change"?
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April 15, 2008
Bitter? Moi?
Hold up, let me just get this gun back in my gun rack. I had it out after Church. No, not to go see the His Extreme Narrowmindedness in New York. I’m not the kind of gal.
I know it’s not fair to take Barack Obama’s words out of context. I actually agree with him about the dreary economic dead-endedness many Americans feel. Grocery-buying, tank-filling, tax paying American citizens, unlike our faith-based economists, are realists. Class resentment is a bitter pill whether you swallow it with rods or religion.
But it’s Pennsylvannia pre-primary pounce time and mountains will be made. It’s not like Obama was wind-surfing off Nantucket. Roll tape of pick-up basketball game. Ixnay on the bowling footage.
Okay, I’ll take back the thing about the gun rack and church.
But don’t you be going after my Annie Oakley! Have you no decency?
I was raised on Little Miss Sure Shot. In my impressionable single digits, I watched her on TV. Hence the photos of everyone in the family pictures posed in civvies, except me. I’m in the red and black, fringed cowgirl shirt with holster tied to my right thigh with a piece of rawhide. You can’t see the rawhide, but it’s there.
Annie Oakley, whose offspring went on to make a fortune in high-price, sporty sunglasses, and the very sexually ambiguous fly-girl, Mary/Peter Martin/Pan, were my early role models. I never warmed up to the lives of the young Christian martyrs which were bedtime stories for the tween Ratzinger. To me, the stories of girl-martyrs having their eyes gouged out in early abstinence-only programs or boy-martyrs asking to be turned on the barbie for Jesus, were more unsettling than inspiring.
But Annie Oakley! She was one sharpshooter! She could split a playing card edge at 90 feet with a .22 caliber rifle. And put five or six more holes in it before it touched the ground. And dodge sniper fire from Wild Bill at the same time. And she never shot anyone in the face. I’m not sure about the last two.
Could our darling Dems please hold their fire at each other? I’m much more interested in how they intend to set their sights on John McCain who each day girds himself in more media-made Reagan Teflon than any Iraqi soldier was ever issued.
Enough with the sappy Compassion Forums. It’s time to get out to the target-practice range of our nation’s Rod and Gun Club and show us some sharp shooting. Whoever hits the most skeets wins all the super-delegates. Pull!
April 14, 2008
Big Fun in Chicago
In what we like to think of as “personal time” my dear partner and I went together to Chicago for some almost simultaneous gigs. Luckily we were scheduled to fly United to Chicago. Oops, I thought you were checking the electronic wiring in the wheel wells.
Urvashi spoke at the Race, Sex and Power Conference at Illinois University’s gorgeous new Forum Building. Her panel on “Sexual Citizenship” followed the opening plenary talk given by the indefatigable Dr. Jocylen Elders.
Dr. Elders had been Surgeon General in the first Clinton Presidency but was fired when she said that masturbation is a healthy part of safe sex. Bill did not stand by his woman. It’s his male-pattern badness. In the question and answer period after her wonderful talk, she remarked that more vows of abstinence have been broken than condoms.
I always wanted to make a bumper sticker that said, “I Masturbate and I Vote.” It gives a whole new meaning to “pulling the lever.”
After Urvashi spoke, she flew on to Minneapolis to address nine hundred attendess at the ninth annual “Rainbow Families” Conference. I stuck around and enjoyed the April lake effect snow in Chicago and emceed the 19th Annual LGBT Center Dinner at the gorgeous old Chicago Hilton Hotel.
On the morning of the dinner, the Center Board Chair, Robert Kohl and board member Vickie Raymont gave me a tour of The Center, opened just this year to serve the LGBT community. I thanked them for their time on such a busy day, but they said they love to show off their dream become reality. I soon saw what they meant.
The Center on Halsted is a stunning, welcoming, exciting space and even at 11a it was hopping. A cyber center, a gym, a counseling center, expandable meeting rooms, a theater, a community kitchen are all beautifully designed for the needs of the Chicago LGBT community.
A beautiful new Whole Foods Market rents space from the Center and they share a common café space. It’s a genius, innovative win-win situation. Other organizations should take note: GLAAD linked with Blockbuster, HRC with a Prada Store, The National Black Justice Coalition with Restoration Hardware, NGLTF with Cinnabon. Everybody loves Cinnabon.
The dinner was a real celebration of the opening of the Center. I introduced Lorna Luft. A friend at the Race, Sex and Gender Conference asked if it was the real Lorna Luft or a drag Lorna Luft. She was mighty real. After a great dinner, the dance band “Big Fun” cranked it up and Chicago got down.
I couldn’t wait to get back home to tell my friend, Richard Burns what I’d seen. Richard, who runs the NYC GLBT Center and is in the middle of a Capital campaign for an addition to the Center, was way ahead of me. He and his board already visited and stolen plenty of ideas!!
April 09, 2008
P.B.T.S.D.
The Pope is coming to Manhattan and we don’t have congestion pricing. It’s going to be hell.
I can’t focus on the news, but near as I can figure The Widow Ratzinger is carrying an Olympic torch for Cardinal Egan of the Diocese of New York. He’s come a-courtin! Antiques Roadshow says it’s the original torch! Benny the Dict will be saying a mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and at Yankee Stadium. Cardinal Egan will throw out the first host.
Though I used to be a conscientious Designated Bush Watcher, these days I watch the news distractedly. I don’t think I’m alone. The New York Times has accommodated by becoming news Cliff Notes. I’m dissociative. I pretend that HBO’s John Adams is the breaking news. I went to the very helpful WhatTheHellisWrongwithMe website and self-diagnosed what ails me. I believe I have early onset PBTSD, Post-Bush-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
My presenting symptoms of lethargy, distraction and dissociation are compounded by Clinton Fatigue. And I am one. What IS Hillary Clinton’s sleep number? I’m tired for her. But why does she have to have an exit strategy and Petraeus doesn’t?
I have a wicked case of Oblahblahma Cynicism which prevents me from seeing the magic of another guy with no experience, known for his talking skills, good or bad. He weenied out with timetable babble when questioning Petraeus.
With my PBTSD, I wouldn’t know a revolution of the human spirit if I fell over one. No, I can’t. I can’t stomach another story of pathetic boomer parents bonding with their darling children by taking cooking classes, snowboarding and switching from Clinton to Obama. Yet another reason not to have children.
With a pre-existing condition of Pre-Collision Intelligence, I have profound disbelief that the disaster that is John McCain is an actual presidential contender. Two words: George Bush. How can Republicans say that they will vote their pocketbook, which has been so thoroughly picked?
At night I am plagued by rational fears that Condi Rice is going to spring fully formed as a vice-presidential running mate out of the giant wen on McCain’s cheek.
Condi’s been giving signals that he hasn’t been picking up – there’s a great start. McCain’s wife, Republican Spice, has been scrambling them and will snap Condi’s neck if she gets an inch closer.
Instead of going to therapy, I’ve been watching HBO’s In Treatment with Gabriel Byrne and my favorite, Dianne Wiest. Not really. I can’t watch. I’m too restless, but my friends who watch say he never discusses insurance coverage, co-pay or prescription prices. Or that hour sessions are fifty minutes long.
April 08, 2008
K8T Asks: If you could earmark where your taxes went, where would you specify?
Kate wants to hear from you! The next question of the week, straight from Kate, is: If you could earmark where your taxes went, where would you specify?
To get your voice heard, simply hit the Comment link below and tell her what you think! No registration is necessary, and you can post anonymously if you want.
April 07, 2008
Amuse Bouche
Those gals from Boston know how to throw a party! It’s not just about tea anymore. Oh it hasn’t been for years. Have you been to a Red Sox World Series Parade? The Annual Women’s Dinner to benefit the Fenway Community Health Center was held in the Westin Copley and the ladies were out!!
At the special donor cocktail party before dinner, I ran into lots of wonderful galpals. Byllye Avery and Ngina Lythcott, New York pals who have moved to Boston, and pioneers in black women’s health were there, giving me a hard time about Hillary. Dr. Jane Petro, just back with lots of dish from Dubai later bid to have lunch with me this summer at Ptown’s Karoo Café. We’ll catch up especially on her strategy of going to work in Bermuda shorts under her burkha. Alix Ritchie and Marty Davis, longtime supporters of women and women in journalism brought stories of Ptown transplants to Fort Lauderdale. It was also great to meet new supporters of the historical work of Fenway. Especially the dames from Southie who offered to be my bodyguards if the jokes didn’t go well.
Again, I was honored to be the amuse bouche, the ordained emcee for the evening’s dinner and reminded everyone that this was the last supper – under the Bush Regime.
Boston Mayor Tom Menino and his great wife Angela came to the dinner as they always have. Denise Simmons, a long and strong supporter of Fenway was there too – but this time as the first African-American, out lesbian Mayor of the city of Cambridge! I want her to run for president.
Through the hard work of co-chairs and table captains, a not-very-silent auction, a pledge drive with a match from Dr. Susan Love, a pioneer in women and breast cancer, [who told me once she used my “Thanks for the Mammaries” story on an early record for her lesbian patients] and a live auction, lots more money was raised to reach the capital campaign goals.
One fabulous table captain had made goodie bags filled with favors for the friends she’d wrangled into coming to the dinner. One table had made an actual captain’s hat for their friend. As I was passing a table of Fenway revelers, one woman waved me over and handed me photos of me from the Jamesville-Dewitt H.S. yearbook of 1977! And thus I met a former student!
The fun of the evening helped me get through and over my mourning for my Rutgers Scarlet Knights.
April 02, 2008
Mourning In America
Today I am wearing a large black armband for my beloved Rutgers Scarlet Knights.
I sat Shiva all night after their loss to U Conn.
My eyes are downcast. I am despondent.
No more Epiphanies. No more joie de C. Viv.
Join me in demanding that Pat Summit leave the race.
And why does no one demand that George Bush leave?
Another time, now I must resume my mourning in America.
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