Why Reclaim the Word “Queer”?

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As a woman, the word “gay” does not describe me. I’m told gay is meant to be all-encompassing but if that were so, why do we say “gays and lesbians”? Wouldn’t that be redundant? It is similar to how women are told the word “man” is meant to apply to all of *mankind, yet I still get surprised looks when I walk into the men’s room.

The next solution offered for describing queers is “LGBT.” First, let’s admit that “LGBT” is hella awkward. It’s hardly the catchy marketing hook you’d expect from a people known for being fashion-forward. More importantly the acronym LGBT goes to the heart of why there is a need for “queer.” We need a word that summarizes all the gender and sexuality misfits and tacking together a long string of letters is hardly the best way to do this. “Queer” does not state someone’s sexual preference or gender identity. It doesn’t say which letter they are to be categorized under. It merely asserts that one doesn’t fit into the norm.

I will staunchly defend whatever sexual identity an individual claims—who am I to say I know their loins better than they do? You know that limp-wristed straight guy who carries a man-purse and keeps his eyebrows meticulously groomed? In LGBT circles there’s an ongoing debate about when this fellow will accept who he is and come out. This is a shame because the whole point of this movement is to give people the freedom to be whatever they want to between the sheets. Not that I want to encourage closet cases, but pressuring people is not going to make them more comfortable coming out. The word “queer” gets around all that. I can say, “Sweetie, you may not be gay, but you are definitely a little queer,” where queer means what it has always meant—divergent from the norm. If he takes offense, then we can have a conversation about why it’s OK to be different—fun!

Perhaps what I love most about the Pride movement is that it teaches Johnny Hetero and Susie Vanilla that there’s more than one way to be sexual, and that that’s ok. When Johnny accepts that some boys like boys he can admit his own hetero fantasy of being dominated.  Recognizing the validity of queer desire can help Susie come to terms with the fact that she can only get excited when she’s being secretly watched. Thus even Mr. Hetero and Ms. Vanilla can see the personal value in the Pride movement. While ninety percent of folks are straight, there are very few people who harbor not a single kink in their desires. Deep down, we are all queers.

Reclaiming “queer” is more than a political statement, it can be tremendously helpful to the outliers. This includes not only the perpetually undecided adolescents but also the middle-aged bisexual woman who’s been married into a straight relationship for twenty years. “Queer” still describes the gay male who suddenly finds she is “straight” when she comes out as trans. “Queer” describes the intersexed and the hetero cross-dressers and the whole genderfuck lot. Adding more letters to LGBT is not the solution, because that way of thinking continues the idea that we know all the ways to be an outsider. It puts the emphasis on classifying when the truth is that so many of us came together because we are tired of being classified. In the past there has been in-fighting about whether these people are gay enough, whether they counted. I bet there wasn’t a single person at the Stonewall riot who would have turned away someone sincerely asking to join the fight and gain acceptance under the queer umbrella.

I say “queer” because I don’t want to get hung up on which box to tick. I say “queer” because it is more inclusive and in a game of Us Versus Them, we are stronger when Us is bigger, more diverse. I say “queer” because of all the beautiful people I have known who are not quite straight and not quite gay, but certainly part of this movement. I say “queer” because it reminds people that sexuality is as complicated and personal as the individuals it describes. I say “queer” because there are as many ways to diverge from the norm as their are colors in the rainbow.
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Queer Little Ponies pic thanks to Zak Hubbard.

*For example, does Oscar here describe all people, or only men? “What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.” –Oscar Wilde

Bay to Breakers II: This is How We Run A Footrace in San Francisco

If you like to see sweaty people wearing costumes and running shoes, boy are you in luck: here’s my second batch of photos from San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers race. There’s even more photos in this batch.

Here we have Towely, Elvis, Carmen Sandiego, Tellytubbies, Ghostbusters, (more)  Marios (and carts, actually saw a much better set of Mario Carts but didn’t get a picture), three Divo heads (the fourth was crossing the street), bathroom boy and girl,a boyscout, Jesus Christ and his two wenches, and a magic lamp that wins any contest for “most phallic costume.” And some other stuff…you can look at the pictures faster than I can list them.

Which ones are running to raise money for charity and which ones are just looking for an excuse to get very drunk early on a Sunday morning? I’ll leave that to you.

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RIP Gil Scott-Heron

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There was a time in my life when I only wanted to listen to political music. It was then that someone passed along to me a cassette of Gil Scott-Heron. This was around 1999; tape players were already hard to come by. But I managed to wear out that tape in several months.

He was more than a musician, he was a poet that happened to be a multi-instrumentalist. He was a radical agitator with piano and bongo to sweeten his message. He was a visionary, but then again, in some ways he wasn’t: It wasn’t his intention to foster the forthcoming genre of rap. He created poetry set to music, in the tradition of Bob Dylan. He created poetry infused with Jazz in the tradition of Amiri Baraka. His style was never pretensious but always bold. I couldn’t believe that this amazing and diverse poet was undiscovered by most of the people in my social circle. I tried to impose it on everyone with the fervor of a newfound love.

Well, time passes and new loves come to you.  I just found out that Gil died this week. I don’t know what to tell you except that I hope you can take some time out of your day to listen to some of his work.

I know he recently released an album but I want to share with you some of the songs that inspired me when I was a teenager. I’ve also included one of the recent songs that Kanye West sampled him on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gil_Scott_Heron_-_Whitey_on_the_Moon.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Gil_Scott_Heron_-_Whitey_on_the_Moon.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Kanye_West_-_lost_in_the_woods.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Posted via email from Like Dancing About Architecture

Bay to Breakers: This is How We Run A Footrace in San Francisco

Every city has their big charity race; in San Francisco it’s Bay to Breakers. Folks run from the beautiful Bay, through the city and all the way through Golden Gate Park. Unlike most cities, San Franciscans like to do it in costumes. And unlike other cities that get dressed up, these gold rush kids take their costumes seriously.

My first experience with Bay to Breakers was being handed a paper cup while running, the typical side-of-the-road refresher offered to runners, only to find out the cup was filled with beer. This year I decided to be lazy and wait at the finish line to get photos of some of the fantastic outfits. Nostalgia was in full force this year, with more Mario and Luigis than you can squeeze into a hidden green pipe and so many red-striped Waldos that the irony of finding so many of them was completely lost. There were also a ton of Smurfs, muppets and Angry Birds.

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TODAY IS TOWEL DAY!

Image thanks to http://markbult.com/2007/05/towel-day/

But why a towel? Because, as the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy informs us:

A towel, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have. Partly it has great practical value:

you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta;

you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours;

you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon;

use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth;

wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat;

wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal,
it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you — daft as a bush, but very ravenous);

you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course

dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc.

Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost”. What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth f the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

via havecoffeewillwrite.com but actually a quote from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Posted via email from Future is Fiction

Unexpected Songs for Your Rapture, End of the World Party Playlist

Fun with Jesus

I’m DJing an end-of-the-world party on Friday, so I’ve been looking for songs about the Rapture. I won’t use most of them, but I thought I’d share a bunch with you for your own playlists, mostly because I don’t want your set to consist of nothing but tired old Metallica, Black Sabbath and Dio (proudly, this site remains 100% Metallica free!).

Childish Gambino = Donald Glover = hot

The music bloggers are all excited about hippity-hopper Childish Gambino and the general consensus seems to be that he just “came out of nowhere.” Strange to me, because he is a well known actor on the hit NBC comedy Community. Sure, he goes by the name Donald Glover, but it’s not like this is all a secret. In his lyrics he talks about having a TV show and writing for 30 Rock when he was under 25. And Donald Glover is not a bit player on the show, he’s consistently the most charming and funny reason to watch Community.So what, he’s a rapper now. But here’s the thing: his rhymes are tight! Those same mad skills he uses writing and acting for NBC come out in the lyrics. It’s unapologetically middle class,with subjects like sex, race and hipster girls making frequent appearances. I’m not wild about his vocal style–it’s very fast, with a nervous energy. But the pop culture references keep me coming back. I was hooked first on the Jamie XX remix of Adele, where his “Freaks and Geeks is sampled, and he says, “Fuck Macaulay Culkin, I’m never going home alone.” All his songs have lines like that, ones that will jump out at you and make you smile for their clever turn of phrase.

Adele – Rolling in the Deep feat. Childish Gambino.mp3

Here’s the original track that Jamie of The XX samples above

Childish Gambino – Freaks and Geeks

The production on his mixtape isn’t top notch but you can certainly hear the promise. My favorite track from the mixtape has little to do with the lyrics and all to do with his choice to rap over Sleigh Bells. The gent has taste I tell you. Just the same it still has choice lyrics like “Only time I’m worried is when I’m the no-fly zone, ‘Cause I’m so fly…”

Childish Gambino – New Prince (Sleigh Bells – Crown On the Ground).mp3

Here’s a pretty one that shows he can sing

Childish Gambino – These Girls (ft. Garfunkel and Oates).mp3

Because of the low production values on his mixtape and the fact that he raps over low BPM indie rock half the time, I prefer remixes. Like I said, it’s about the rhymes not the beats anyway. Here’s two preferred remixes of “Let Me Dope You.” I especially like the first because that Body Language song (“You Can”) is another of my recent obsessions. The stand-out lyric for me is “I don’t fit in like–my penis in these tiny girls.” Tight indeed.

Childish Gambino – Let Me Dope You (Cheap Thrills Remix Feat. Body Language).mp3
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Finally I can’t leave you without a little sample of some of his work on Community. So adorable!

A Feminist Click Moment

Or: How Feminism and A Love of Drink

Saved Me From the Perils of the Devil

I was a teenage satanist. Under the tutelage of Anton LeVay's The Satanic Witch, I didn't think women needed equal rights. Women were already the most powerful creatures in the world because they could get whatever they wanted through the subtle, irresistible guile of a woman's sexuality. You could not convince me that men got all the jobs and the money because Satanism had taught me that for one sniff of a woman's musk a man would change his mind about foreign policy and hand over the keys to his Porsche. We didn't need to be in charge, at least not officially. Of course by this view, the men immune to the stuff between a woman's legs, gay men, should've been at the pinnacle of the power pyramid. Nor did this view take into consideration how complicated sexuality and attraction are, nor numerous other aspects of inequality like vaginal mutilation, domestic abuse, etc. Satanism didn't address the subtle messages that young girls receive telling them they are princesses in need of rescue. Doubtless the message that all I needed to succeed was a cunning mind and a short skirt was ripe fodder for a cherry bomb raised on fairy tales. If Marilyn Monroe didn't need feminism why would I?

Going to Women's Center meetings in college didn't shake the feminism into me. On the contrary, the women present were all extremist stereotypes and I relished disagreeing with them. They told me women were silenced but so far no one had managed to shut me up. They spoke of empowerment but I didn't need to be reminded that women could be capable and strong because my mother told me I was these things and I was still only a girl.

No, the feminist seed was watered by copious alcohol. Specifically the game Asshole. If you haven't played it, a key aspect is that the winner of the previous game could tell anyone else to drink whenever they wanted to for the entire next round. As a Freshman at one of the leading party schools, I'd become an adept and frequent President, dishing out sips to jolly drunks. Many men who could game amiably threw temper tantrums when I came to the President position. It had happened enough times to become predictable, til it got to the point that I avoided playing the game with any man I was dating.

Back in class we were studying the feminist implications of M. Butterfly and Ibsen's A Doll's House. My feminist “click” moment came during one of those discussions where it was theorized that abusers were actually, deep-down-inside, insecure. I was rolling my eyes because that particular reversal of thinking has always struck me as a stinking cliché. It was right up there with “bullies are just scared” and “he pulls your hair because he likes you.” As if cruelty were perpetuated by helpless cute puppies. Such claims were brought with no evidence save wishful thinking. Yet where was I left but without any lunch money and an aching scalp? I'd seen domestic abuse up close and if those guys were insecure, they weren't any more so than plenty of other guys that don't beat the shit out of people.

We read an essay on the topic. It was either by Judith Butler or it began with a quote by Judith Butler (I regret that my googling was not able to come up with the essay or quote). It surmised that the insecure abuser has been taught that he is inherently superior to all women. What does a man do in this position when a woman bests him? How does it make him feel? It wouldn't be the same as being bested by a man. If you believed that women were inferior to all men then to be outwitted by a woman was in essence to be put not only beneath her but beneath all men. Either she was not truly a woman (or she couldn't have surpassed you) or he was not truly a man—and cognitive dissonance would lead most men to the former conclusion.

This rang true for me. It explained why otherwise ordinary men couldn't handle losing at Asshole. They were acting out the same seething rage the essay described. It wasn't merely that they didn't like being told what to do by a woman, it was that the orders were coming about because they had lost to one. I actually played with one guy who, gaining the presidency in a later round, insisted I shotgun an entire beer for every penalty sip. Of course I'm not suggesting this gent was a wife-beater, but his anger was real, tangible. He wanted to punish me for winning.

Why was this the “click” moment for me? Why did this essay linger with me and transform me into the totally bad-ass feminist writing here before you today? I think mainly, it felt fair in a way none of the Women's Center rhetoric had. Most of the feminist arguments I had previously heard made men out to be villains. It was easier for me to believe that women were secret satanic goddesses than to believe that half the population consisted of dickheads going out of their way to fuck over the other half. Besides, I'd met some dudes in my two decades and they weren't terribly menacing. Compared to my own foreboding demeanor, most of them were downright pansies.

But it was the quote that stuck in my brain. Again, regrettably I cannot reproduce it, but the gist of it was this: simply because men are the enforcers of oppression doesn't mean they aren't subject to its rules. Maybe men didn't want to be better than women. Just because they were born into the role didn't mean they had any desire to perpetuate it. Superiority is a lot of work, especially when it is a lie. And there were so many incompetent men out there! How exhausting must it be to be forced to interact with woman after superior woman? Here we satanic sex goddesses come along, minding our own business but being awesome all the same, and this guy has to feel like dirt just because it is so painfully obvious that he's our intellectual inferior. Surely it wasn't too unreasonable to think some of these guys would get angry at some of these women eventually. It was all very sad for all parties and the only cure I could see was for the men to somehow learn that it was OK for a woman to be better than a man. I had to recognize that as an inherently feminist position.

What is striking to me about the epiphany that led to me to entering the fight for women's rights was an interest in what is best for men. Perhaps the truth in the argument appealed to my sense of integrity (e.g. it was not about my self interest as a woman gaining something for women). The basic idea that men may not relish their role could be applied to many circumstances besides the domestic abuser. What of men who wanted to stay home with the kids? What of men who wanted to knit and sew? What of men who wanted to be pursued, protected, nurtured? Which is not to say that they had it worse than women—anyone could plainly see they got the sweet end of the candied apple. And if the system wasn't even in the best interest of men, who was it working for? The musky supermodels, turning themselves inside out to fit a generic high-impact sexuality? Hardly. When the final piece clicked into place, I could see that the whole framework of gender rules was at best unnecessary. Ah-ha and then some: feminism will liberate everybody.

Posted via email from Subversive Soapbox

One Hundred Year Anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire

By Bain News Service photograph / George Grantham Bain Collection (Library of Congress). [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
When we think of desperate people holding hands on a flaming building and leaping to their death, Americans are not generally thinking of the history of labor unions. But on March 24th, 1911, one couple held hands and lept to their deaths, to be followed by some 140 others, in the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire. Bystanders watched helplessly:

Down below on the street, people started to notice the smoke billowing from the 8th floor. One of the bystanders observed a bolt of cloth come flying out the window and hit the pavement. Instinctively, he remarked that Harris was trying to save his best material. As the people on the street moved closer, out flew another bolt. It was then that the realization hit them that it wasn’t bolts of cloth at all but bodies plummeting to the pavement below.

The thousands who watched as the workers jumped flaming to their deaths were instrumental in changing support in favor of labor unions and building codes in New York City. Years before the fire, the women who worked there went on strike to fight for better working conditions, little things like a 52-hour work week and unlocked doors on the factory floor. At the time, the concern about locked doors was that the foreman did so to prevent women from using the bathroom. After a month of striking, the women at the Triangle factory were not able to agree with the bosses on the important sticking points of having a closed shop and collective bargaining. They returned to work, still locked in the building from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. every day.

A bit more about the fire, so that we can appreciate the tragedy that occurred a hundred years ago today:

Within three minutes, the Greene Street stairway became unusable in both directions.Terrified employees crowded onto the single exterior fire escape, a flimsy and poorly-anchored iron structure which may have been broken before the fire. It soon twisted and collapsed from the heat and overload, spilling victims nearly 100 feet (30 m) to their deaths on the concrete pavement below.

Continue reading One Hundred Year Anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire

The Day Of the Tsunami

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My mom awoke me at seven this morning. The first thing she said was, “I just want to hear your voice before you die.” She was a theater major in college so she has a flair for drama. She explained about the terrible earthquake in Japan and that CNN said a tsunami was likely to hit the West Coast in the next fifteen minutes.

What to do? At that point I was thoroughly awake, so I said, “fuck it.” We got in @Mirrorshade’s car and we drove to Lawrence Berkeley Lab, high in the Berkeley hills. There wasn’t a wave in site, but the vista made me realize something: even if there’s a hundred aftershocks and I die under the crash of a terrible wave, I will never regret moving to California.

I wish this photo taken with my camera could capture the beauty.