my renewed pledge on national coming out day

On National Coming Out Day, I renew my pledge to teach my son (and daughter) what I didn’t learn at home:

• That the greatest family value is valuing all families.
• That home is a safe place to be yourself.
• To embrace your identity and the identities of others.
• That there is no normal ... there’s who you are and that is wonderfully unique.
• To speak up for those who are afraid to use their voices.
• To stand up for those who feel powerless.
• To be a friend to those who feel alone and are most at-risk for checking out of this world.
• To fight for a world where there is no need for closets because there is no longer any reason to hide.
• That love is love, and that loving families come in many shapes and sizes.
• That they are loved by me and by their father, no matter what.

my renewed pledge on national coming out day

On National Coming Out Day, I renew my pledge to teach my son (and his little sister) what I didn’t learn at home:

• That the greatest family value is valuing all families.
• That home is a safe place to be yourself.
• To embrace your identity and the identities of others.
• That there is no normal ... there’s who you are and that is wonderfully unique.
• To speak up for those who are afraid to use their voices and to stand up for those who feel powerless.
• To befriend those who feel alone and are most at-risk for checking out of this world.
  
• To fight for a world where there is no need for closets because there is no longer any reason to hide.
• That they are loved by me and by their father, period.

quotable

How I love thee, Jon Stewart.

Via Prose Before Hos

revenge

homophobic chilean anti-domestic violence campaign

In societies where masculinity equals power and femininity is equated with weakness, it's no wonder that gay men and women are marginalized. It's frustrating to see women internalize that message and turn it against their gay bretheren. It's also not surprising in a culture where machismo dominates everything and everyone.

A recent Chilean ad has me deeply conflicted -- it's one step forward, two giant steps backward in dealing with societal attitudes about domestic violence. On the one hand, it's a campaign condemning violence against women, which is great and a huge step forward in a society where, on average, women wait 7 years to file a police report about domestic violence and 73% of women who die of domestic violence never even file a police report.

On the other hand, it's advocating calling men who are violent against women by a slur that demeans them as weak -- 'maricón' means 'faggot'. The rationale is that a man who demeans a woman is "poco hombre" -- barely a man.

"¿Es más macho el que maltrata, golpea o denigra a una mujer? La respuesta es clara: el que maltrata a una mujer es poco hombre", agregó la Ministra.

Gay groups are (justifably) pissed now backing the campaign. Clearly, a larger conversation needs to take place about what it means to be powerful and attitudes that marginalize the powerless.

En Chile llaman 'maricón' al que maltrate a una mujer
www.eltiempo.com
29 de Octubre del 2010
Es una campaña del Ministerio de la Mujer para reducir los índices de violencia contra ellas.

La ministra del Servicio Nacional de la Mujer, Carolina Schmidt Zaldívar, anunció que en Chile casi 2 millones de mujeres sufren violencia intrafamiliar y que una mujer es asesinada a la semana por su pareja o ex pareja.

La campaña, denominada 'Maricón es el que maltrata a una mujer', insiste en que la violencia intrafamiliar es un delito, pero invita a los agresores a informarse y a pedir ayuda.

"Esta campaña está dirigida al hombre. Es una campaña fuerte, potente, con una mirada nueva, habla claro y de manera frontal", dijo la Ministra al explicar que la violencia de género en Chile se basa en el abuso de poder y en una mala comprensión de la verdadera masculinidad.

"¿Es más macho el que maltrata, golpea o denigra a una mujer? La respuesta es clara: el que maltrata a una mujer es poco hombre", agregó la Ministra.

La campaña contará con los rostros del fotógrafo y presentador de televisión Jordi Castell, quien ha reconocido públicamente su condición homosexual.

"Cientos de veces me han gritado maricón y maricón es el que maltrata a una mujer. Digámoslo al que se lo merece", enfatizó Castell. De hecho, las organizaciones de homosexuales respaldaron la campaña.

La presentación de esta iniciativa coincidió con la entrada de la Ley de Femicidio, que tipifica el delito e impone mayores sanciones.

En Chile una mujer tarda, en promedio, 7 años en denunciar a su agresor y el 73 por ciento de las chilenas que murieron por violencia familiar nunca pusieron una denuncia.

SANTIAGO
Efe

my pledge on national coming out day

On National Coming Out Day, I pledge to teach my son what I didn’t learn at home:

• That the greatest family value is valuing all families.
• That home is a safe place to be himself.
  
• To embrace his identity and the identities of others.
  
• That there is no normal, no different ... there’s who you are and that is unique.
  
• To speak up for those who are afraid to use their voices and to stand up for those who feel powerless.
• To fight for a world where there is no need for closets because there is no longer any reason to hide.

danny & annie

The most moving romance you'll ever see (in five minutes, no less).

Danny Perasa and his wife, Annie, came to StoryCorps to recount their twenty-seven-year romance. As they remember their life together from their first date to Danny’s final days with terminal cancer, these remarkable Brooklynites personify the eloquence, grace, and poetry that can be found in the voices of everyday people when we take the time to listen.

quotable

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.
- Mark Twain

i came to sell you this chick magnet of a couch

Today, Leo and I decided to tackle a biggie on the "to-do-before-the-baby-arrives" list: finding a bigger couch for our new house. Naturally, we checked out Craigslist, Yelp, and a few other online resources to adjust our price expectations, see what was out there, and come to a decision.

Although we didn't purchase this gentleman's "seven foot black leather scream of manliness," we did find just what we wanted. The nice part is that we bought it two blocks away, at a mom and pop mattress/ furniture store where I bought a bed frame 10+ yeas ago. Having said that, I still want to share what has to be one of the funniest ads for used furniture I've ever encountered. Enjoy.

I came to sell you this chick magnet of a couch. - $150 (Mira Mesa 92126)
Date: 2010-06-20, 1:34PM PDT
Reply to: sale-nugvs-1801870182@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

This thing is a seven foot black leather scream of manliness. That's right bitches.

The only way it could be any more freakin' hardcore is if it had Harley Davidson incised in the leather.
A rare black narwhal gave it's life to provide the perfect baby soft buttery leather it wraps you in.

This big bastard shakes off beer spills and ugly chicks like the smartest horse any cowboy ever rode.
And after a long night of doing blow off the butts of the hookers lounging across its arms, it's a comfy dream to pass out on.
Sleep in it's leathery goodness, and you will wake up with a game controller in one hand, and a bacon sandwich in the other.

Perfect for guests. Just pull out the bed for them, and they will never want to sleep on it again. If Torquemada designed a bed this would be it.
It's like you ripped its skeleton out, then tried to organize the bones into something comfortable to sleep on. Maybe with six inches of air mattress.
So if you actually want your guest to stay another night, leave this thing folded up into it's optimum comfy configuration.

Don't even think about getting this couch if you're married. Your wife will take one look at it and know it's hottie attraction powers instantly.
And it will end up sitting in the garage, hidden from her insane jealousy until you move, and she insists you sell it.

Really. I know. Wayne -

Black. Leather. Sleeper. Sofa. Couch. Conversion.
You came here because you were looking for one or more of the above words.

* Location: Mira Mesa 92126
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

image 1801870182-0 image 1801870182-1

PostingID: 1801870182

why old dogs are the best dogs

It's been almost 2 years to the day since my Golden Retriever Casey went to the giant dog park in the sky. Although we've welcomed Ruby, a sassy Flat-Coated Retriever, into our home and hearts, there are still many times when I find myself missing Casey.

The last word: Why old dogs are the best dogs
By Gene Weingarten
Friday, October 17, 2008
They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.

Not long before his death, Harry and I headed out for a walk that proved eventful. He was nearly 13, old for a big dog. Walks were no longer the slap-happy Iditarods of his youth, frenzies of purposeless pulling in which we would cast madly off in all directions, fighting for command. Nor were they the exuberant archaeological expeditions of his middle years, when every other tree or hydrant or blade of grass held tantalizing secrets about his neighbors. In his old age, Harry had transformed his walk into a simple process of elimination—a dutiful, utilitarian, head-down trudge. When finished, he would shuffle home to his ratty old bed, which graced our living room because Harry could no longer ascend the stairs. On these walks, Harry seemed oblivious to his surroundings, absorbed in the arduous responsibility of placing foot before foot before foot before foot. But this time, on the edge of a small urban park, he stopped to watch something. A man was throwing a Frisbee to his dog. The dog, about Harry’s size, was tracking the flight expertly, as Harry had once done, anticipating hooks and slices by watching the pitch and roll and yaw of the disc, as Harry had done, then catching it with a joyful, punctuating leap, as Harry had once done, too.

Harry sat. For 10 minutes, he watched the fling and catch, fling and catch, his face contented, his eyes alight, his tail a-twitch. Our walk
home was almost … jaunty.

Some years ago, The Washington Post invited readers to come up with a midlife list of goals for an underachiever. The first-runner-up prize went to: “Win the admiration of my dog.”

It’s no big deal to love a dog; they make it so easy for you. They find you brilliant, even if you are a witling. You fascinate them, even if you are as dull as a butter knife. They are fond of you, even if you are a genocidal maniac. Hitler loved his dogs, and they loved him.

Puppies are incomparably cute and incomparably entertaining, and, best of all, they smell exactly like puppies. At middle age, a dog has settled into the knuckleheaded matrix of behavior we find so appealing—his unquestioning loyalty, his irrepressible willingness to please, his infectious happiness. But it is not until a dog gets old that his most important virtues ripen and coalesce. Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy, and lumpy. But to anyone who has ever known an old dog, these flaws are of little consequence. Old dogs are vulnerable. They show exorbitant gratitude and limitless trust. They are without artifice. They are funny in new and unexpected ways. But, above all, they seem at peace.

Kafka wrote that the meaning of life is that it ends. He meant that our lives are shaped and shaded by the existential terror of knowing that all is finite. This anxiety informs poetry, literature, the monuments we build, the wars we wage—all of it. Kafka was talking, of course, about people. Among animals, only humans are said to be self-aware enough to comprehend the passage of time and the grim truth of mortality. How, then, to explain old Harry at the edge of that park, gray and lame, just days from the end, experiencing what can only be called wistfulness and nostalgia? I have lived with eight dogs, watched six of them grow old and infirm with grace and dignity, and die with what seemed to be acceptance. I have seen old dogs grieve at the loss of their friends. I have come to believe that as they age, dogs comprehend the passage of time, and, if not the inevitability of death, certainly the relentlessness of the onset of their frailties. They understand that what’s gone is gone.

What dogs do not have is an abstract sense of fear, or a feeling of injustice or entitlement. They do not see themselves, as we do, as tragic heroes, battling ceaselessly against the merciless onslaught of time. Unlike us, old dogs lack the audacity to mythologize their lives. You’ve got to love them for that.

The product of a Kansas puppy mill, Harry was sold to us as a yellow Labrador retriever. I suppose it was technically true, but only in the sense that Tic Tacs are technically “food.” Harry’s lineage was suspect. He wasn’t the square-headed, elegant type of Labrador you can envision in the wilds of Canada hunting for ducks. He was the shape of a baked potato, with the color and luster of an interoffice envelope. You could envision him in the wilds of suburban Toledo, hunting for nuggets of dried food in a carpet.

His full name was Harry S Truman, and once he’d reached middle age, he had indeed developed the unassuming soul of a haberdasher. We sometimes called him Tru, which fit his loyalty but was in other ways a misnomer: Harry was a bit of an eccentric, a few bubbles off plumb. Though he had never experienced an electrical shock, whenever he encountered a wire on the floor—say, a power cord leading from a laptop to a wall socket—Harry would stop and refuse to proceed. To him, this barrier was as impassable as the Himalayas. He’d stand there, waiting for someone to move it. Also, he was afraid of wind.

While Harry lacked the wiliness and cunning of some dogs, I did watch one day as he figured out a basic principle of physics. He was playing with a water bottle in our backyard—it was one of those 5-gallon cylindrical plastic jugs from the top of a water cooler. At one point, it rolled down a hill, which surprised and delighted him. He retrieved it, brought it back up and tried to make it go down again. It wouldn’t. I watched him nudge it around until he discovered that for the bottle to roll, its long axis had to be perpendicular to the slope of the hill. You could see the understanding dawn on his face; it was Archimedes in his bath, Helen Keller at the water spigot.

That was probably the intellectual achievement of Harry’s life, tarnished only slightly by the fact that he spent the next two hours insipidly entranced, rolling the bottle down and hauling it back up. He did not come inside until it grew too dark for him to see.

I believe I know exactly when Harry became an old dog. He was about 9 years old. It happened at 10:15 on the evening of June 21, 2001, the day my family moved from the suburbs to the city. The move took longer than we’d anticipated. Inexcusably, Harry had been left alone in the vacated house—eerie, echoing, empty of furniture and of all belongings except Harry and his bed—for eight hours. When I arrived to pick him up, he was beyond frantic.

He met me at the door and embraced me around the waist in a way that is not immediately reconcilable with the musculature and skeleton of a dog’s front legs. I could not extricate myself from his grasp. We walked out of that house like a slow-dancing couple, and Harry did not let go until I opened the car door.

He wasn’t barking at me in reprimand, as he once might have done. He hadn’t fouled the house in spite. That night, Harry was simply scared and vulnerable, impossibly sweet and needy and grateful. He had lost something of himself, but he had gained something more touching and more valuable. He had entered old age.

In the year after our move, Harry began to age visibly, and he did it the way most dogs do. First his muzzle began to whiten, and then the white slowly crept backward to swallow his entire head. As he became more sedentary, he thickened a bit, too.

On walks, he would no longer bother to scout and circle for a place to relieve himself. He would simply do it in mid-plod, like a horse, leaving the difficult logistics of drive-by cleanup to me. Sometimes, while crossing a busy street, with cars whizzing by, he would plop down to scratch his ear. Sometimes, he would forget where he was and why he was there. To the amusement of passersby, I would have to hunker down beside him and say, “Harry, we’re on a walk, and we’re going home now. Home is this way, okay?” On these dutiful walks, Harry ignored almost everything he passed. The most notable exception was an old, barrel-chested female pit bull named Honey, whom he loved. This was surprising, both because other dogs had long ago ceased to interest Harry at all, and because even back when they did, Harry’s tastes were for the guys.

Still, when we met Honey on walks, Harry perked up. Honey was younger by five years and heartier by a mile, but she liked Harry and slowed her gait when he was around. They waddled together for blocks, eyes forward, hardly interacting but content in each other’s company. I will forever be grateful to Honey for sweetening Harry’s last days.

Some people who seem unmoved by the deaths of tens of thousands through war or natural disaster will nonetheless grieve inconsolably over the loss of the family dog. People who find this behavior distasteful are often the ones without pets. It is hard to understand, in the abstract, the degree to which a companion animal, particularly after a long life, becomes a part of you. I believe I’ve figured out what this is all about. It is not as noble as I’d like it to be, but it is not anything of which to be ashamed, either.

In our dogs, we see ourselves. Dogs exhibit almost all of our emotions; if you think a dog cannot register envy or pity or pride or melancholia, you have never lived with one for any length of time. What dogs lack is our ability to dissimulate. They wear their emotions nakedly, and so, in watching them, we see ourselves as we would be if we were stripped of posture and pretense. Their innocence is enormously appealing. When we watch a dog progress from puppy­hood to old age, we are watching our own lives in microcosm. Our dogs become old, frail, crotchety, and vulnerable, just as Grandma did, just as we surely will, come the day. When we grieve for them, we grieve for ourselves.

From the book Old Dogs, text by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson, based on a longer excerpt that originally appeared in The Washington Post. ©2008 by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson.
Via Sharon

today's speakeasies

The speakeasy of today has little in common with those of the Prohibition era, but the allure of the illicit remains.

Bar? What Bar?
By WILLIAM GRIMES
June 3, 2009

ON a nondescript block in Williamsburg, not far from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, a new bar and restaurant called Rye opened last week.

Try to find it.

There’s no sign out front. The facade, an artfully casual assemblage of old wooden slats, gives the place a boarded-up, abandoned look. It does have a street number, painted discreetly on a glass panel above the front doors, but that’s it. Like a suspect in a lineup, it seems to shrink back when observed.

There are a lot of bars like this right now. They can be found all over the United States, skulking in the shadows. Obtrusively furtive, they represent one of the strangest exercises in nostalgia ever to grip the public, an infatuation with the good old days of Prohibition.

Their name is legion: the Varnish in Los Angeles; Bourbon & Branch in San Francisco; Speakeasy in Cleveland; the Violet Hour in Chicago; Manifesto in Kansas City, Mo.; Tavern Law in Seattle (scheduled to open later this month). Everywhere, it seems, fancy cocktails are being shaken in murky surroundings.

New York has fallen hard for this fad. Sasha Petraske, the cocktail artist behind Milk & Honey, has just opened Dutch Kills on a bleak commercial strip in Long Island City, Queens. A small sign that says “BAR” is the only tip-off to its existence.

At the Hideout, in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, aspiring customers ring the bell at a forbidding-looking garage door and then stand there as a pair of eyes scrutinize them through a 1920s-style peephole.

The ultimate in speakeasy mystification takes place at PDT (Please Don’t Tell) on St. Marks Place in the East Village. Patrons have to enter through Crif Dogs, the hip hot dog place, then step into a phone booth and identify themselves by speaking into the receiver. A buzzer opens a secret door, revealing a strange, twilight world where artisanal cocktails are consumed under the watchful eyes of a stuffed jackelope and raccoon, and a bear wearing a bowler hat.

Whoopee!

“Speakeasy is a funny term, since the business is legal,” said Eric Alperin, a partner and head bartender at the Varnish. “What people are referring to is the allure, almost like an opium den.”

Brian Sheehy, an owner of Bourbon & Branch, agreed. “People have an affection for this period of American history, and they want the mystery,” he said. To enhance the backroom ambience, Bourbon & Branch assigns customers a password, to be spoken into an intercom, when they make a reservation. Once inside the bar, customers are expected to abide by house rules. “Speak easy,” is one of them, enforced by bartenders when necessary.

Password or no password, deluxe or down-low, all these bars have something in common. None of them really resemble an actual speakeasy from the 1920s, although Bourbon & Branch, oddly enough, sits on top of one, reached through a trap door leading to the basement.

A little history, please.

Prohibition, which took effect in January 1920 and finally ended in December 1933, was the worst cocktail era in the history of the United States, for obvious reasons. Half the liquor was homemade or adulterated, forcing the great classic drinks of the early 20th century to exit the stage. In their places appeared cocktails designed to mask poor ingredients, like rye and ginger ale, or the Alexander, a repellent mixture of gin, crème de cacao and cream.

“The basic raw materials then available, and I use the term raw advisedly, made it imperative that they be polished or doctored or decorated,” Frank Shay wrote in a 1934 Esquire article bidding farewell to the Great Experiment. “Also it was essential that their rougher edges be smoothed down in order that they might pass to their true goal without too great distress to the drinker.”

The Alexander merited a place of honor on Esquire’s list of “the pansies,” the worst drinks of the Prohibition era. These included long-forgotten abominations like the Sweetheart, the Fluffy Ruffles, the Pom Pom and the Cream Fizz.

Real cocktails fled the country, along with a lot of professional bartenders, who took up residence at American bars in Havana, London and Paris. In these civilized outposts, the serious work of cocktail invention continued, reflected in books like “The Savoy Cocktail Book,” while Americans made do with “Wet Drinks for Dry People,” subtitled “A Book of Drinks Based on the Ordinary Home Supplies.”

Bad-tasting cocktails were the least of it. Some of the drinks could kill. During the 1926 holiday season in New York, 47 people died after drinking poisoned liquor, bringing that year’s body count to 741.

“This ‘speakeasy’ business must be the most independent and prosperous business in the world, especially in New York, for no other industry in the world could afford to kill its customers off like that,” Will Rogers wrote in a letter to The New York Times in 1928. “They must run an undertaking business on the side.”

Extract of Jamaica ginger, a patent medicine with a high alcohol content, found favor with a certain class of drinker. Unfortunately, “jake,” as it was called, contained a neurotoxin that caused its devotees to lose the use of their hands and feet. All things considered, it required a certain amount of nerve to lift a glass to the lips in the otherwise fabulous Jazz Age.

Not surprisingly, bars like the Violet Hour — unmarked, with a lone bulb outside to indicate, with a faint glow, when drinks are being served inside — do not specialize in Prohibition cocktails, only in a Prohibition vibe. Virtually every new wave speakeasy makes a point of showcasing purist cocktails made with fresh fruit juices, house-infused liquors, recherché bitters and hand-chipped ice. The ethos lies somewhere between 1890 and 1910, the golden age of cocktails.

You get the drift at Rye, where the abbreviated list of signature drinks includes a rye old-fashioned with orange and Angostura bitters and Demerara sugar, and an “improved” tequila cocktail with maraschino, bitters and a dash of absinthe. This is not the sort of cocktail that Americans were drinking in 1925.

Likewise the décor. The rough floorboards, dark wood and stamped-tin ceiling, not to mention the Cinerama-scale mahogany bar, screams 1910. So does the interior at the undeniably impressive Hotel Delano bar, on the other side of Williamsburg, which, like so many of the nouvelle speakeasies, is visually a good old-fashioned pre-Prohibition saloon.

The Raines Law Room, in Chelsea, puts the issue front and center with its name, an allusion to the prohibition that came before Prohibition. The Raines Law, passed by the New York State Legislature in 1896, banned the sale of liquor on Sundays, except at hotels, where guests could be served drinks during meals. Overnight, hundreds of bars put a few beds and chairs in their upstairs rooms, called themselves hotels, and kept a few plates of nominal food at hand to put in front of drinking customers. One of the great artifacts of the Gay 90s was the Raines Law sandwich, a desiccated slice of ham between two slices of stale bread that no customer ever touched. As a pivot point for nostalgia, the Raines Law seems like an odd choice.

Speakeasy time travel, in other words, is vague, the images dreamy. At the Violet Hour, patrons pass through the boarded-up facade to enter a lush interior with saturated colors, heavy fabrics and ornate chandeliers. In the Back Room, on the Lower East Side, the drinks are served in teacups, a pointless exercise in deception. At Speakeasy, in Cleveland, which really does go the extra mile down the nostalgia highway by distilling its own gin, a chandelier over a basement stairwell indicates the way to passers-by on the sidewalk. “When it’s on, the speakeasy is open,” said Sam McNulty, the owner.

The reality of Prohibition was quite otherwise. “A speakeasy could be a table, a bottle and two chairs, or it could be ‘21,’ ” said Daniel Okrent, whose book “Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition” is to be published by Scribner next year. “Most were closer to the lower end. They were dives where you drank bad liquor from a bottle with a counterfeit label and woke up with a headache in the morning.”

In the early years of Prohibition, when agents pursued enforcement with some zeal, patrons needed passcards or passwords, but corruption and inertia took over fairly quickly. In “Manhattan Oases,” Al Hirschfeld’s 1932 cartoon survey of New York speakeasies, a fake cigar store called the Dixie is ridiculed as “one of those quaint, old-fashioned places (circa 1925), which still think it needs a false front.”

Everywhere else, the speaking was anything but easy. In cities like New York, San Francisco, Detroit and New Orleans, the game ended almost before it started, and bars operated with the merest pretense of discretion. “The secret aspect in New York was over by 1928 or 1929,” Mr. Okrent said. “To run a speakeasy you just bribed the local cop. There was not a lot of secrecy.”

It is true, though, that illegal liquor added a certain excitement to nightlife. On this score, Rye and Dutch Kills and the Violet Hour and all the rest have their finger on something genuine. In an age when virtually nothing is hidden or forbidden, the idea of a secret hideaway takes on an undeniable allure.

The flappers of 1920 felt it, too. When mild-mannered Asaph Holliday, the put-upon protagonist of Elmer Davis’s Prohibition satire, “Friends of Mr. Sweeney,” ventures into a series of Manhattan speakeasies by accident, he discovers a world strange to his middle-aged eyes. Night spots that he would have considered nothing special when he was young are now regarded as thrilling. “Mr. Holliday realized at last why a nation tolerated the Volstead Act,” the narrator writes. “It made any place at all that contained liquor look like a wild cafe.”

Make it illegal, and they will come. If the authorities will not oblige, make it feel illegal. Nothing quite hits the spot like a martini in a ceramic mug.

like i said ...

Via Casey

right-wing extremism, average writing skills and susceptibility to snow jobs

Zealotry + denial = hypocrisy.
As usual, Aaryn's Citybeat column made my morning. But I think she's being too generous on the writing skills.

Nefarious claims
Can we all just finally agree that the Holocaust didn’t happen?
By Aaryn Belfer

“At JP Catholic we have an event called On Mission. The night consists of a guest speaker speaking about living out your Catholic faith in business or media, and after that there is confession and Eucharistic Adoration.”

So begins a Feb. 9 student blog post on the website of the unaccredited John Paul the Great Catholic University located in Scripps Ranch. Now, maybe you’re snickering about the “speaker speaking.” Or perhaps the mention of “Eucharistic Adoration” gives you a mysterious hankering for a Carr’s Water Cracker followed by a session of heavy petting.

But what’s notable in the post is not the redundancy in an opening paragraph by a kid who needs the guidance of a publicly validated learning institution. Nor is it a sudden, overwhelming hunger for crudités and kink. Rather, it’s the who who spoke, and what he said.

“Recently at JP Catholic,” the blogger continues, “Jim Holman, founder and editor of The San Diego Reader and a pro-life supporter, recently spoke to the students about the recent election cycle and Proposition 4 in California.” I think it’s fair to say our author effectively established that the speaking happened recently.

“He made an interesting comparison that rocked my world,” the blogger wrote of Holman, whose speech centered on his beloved-yet-failed parental-notification initiative last November. The conspicuous overlord of the gay-loathing, right-leaning, dressed-up-in-alt-weekly-clothing publication best used as an Ambien substitute—since it’s both sleep-inducing and non-addictive—inspired this student to “stand up vocally” on behalf of the unborn, by comparing abortion with the Holocaust.

Which raises the question: Didn’t Holman get the memo?

Pssst! Holman! The Holocaust never happened! And I’m not just making this up on a whim. This information is all over the news lately and is being spoken about quite matter-of-factly by a representative of the very church to which you and Blogger Boy belong.

The newly re-embraced Bishop Richard Williamson has stated repeatedly—and, it should be noted, recently—that roughly 200,000 to 300,000 Jews died in World War II and not the radical, yet widely accepted number of 6 million. It is tough to get one’s head around a number that big. It seems so entirely impossible that it must be. Williamson also has it on good authority that there was never any gassing. Auschwitz, mouschwitz.

Certainly, there are the conspiracy theorists falling over themselves to ostracize the bishop. These wild-eyed Holocaust historians seem to have him outnumbered; their outcry was so deafening that Williamson was removed from a seminary post last week in response to his unwavering comments.

But these folks are mere outliers in a giant fairytale, the nutty hook-line-and-sinkers demanding Williamson recant his denial of what purportedly took place at Auschwitz-Birkenau. And Belzec. And Chelmno and Majdanek and Sobibor and Treblinka. Who can pronounce those words, anyway? As if innocent human beings really died there: Men, women and children separated from family, huddled naked with strangers and dumped, still clinging to each other, into mass graves. It’s preposterous. Never happened.

Bishop Williamson is nothing if not open-minded. Though he doesn’t have any plans to stand with ghosts while touring the Auschwitz showers or contemplate his reflection in the ash pools there, he’s agreed to give the record another long-distance glance down his turned-up nose. The bishop would like historic evidence.

It’s not unreasonable for Williamson to demand proof. After all, this is a stance he’s maintained for more than three decades. Williamson is a proof-or-pudding kind of guy, not a show-me-a-miracle kind of guy. It’s not as if he bases his entire existence on something as flimsy and unreasoned as faith. For example, rather than relying on stories originating with Jews, I’m sure he has impervious proof of Jesus’ existence, more solid even than a crematorium, more permanent than tattooed registration numbers. The bishop must have in his possession a shroud. Or some DNA. Or at least a hair sample. Or a rusty nail with dried blood stains.

Speaking of blood stains, I disagree with the self-important Jim Holman when he equates the mass deaths of human beings to the removal of a clump of unviable cells from a uterus. In fact, not only do I support a woman’s right to choose every single time, but I’m in favor of retroactive abortion—an abortion time machine, if you will.

It could be made available to people like, say, Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother. Or Dick Cheney’s. Or Hitler’s. Then again, that last one may be unfair given the Holocaust fable. In reality, Adolf was probably little more than a misunderstood regular guy, looking for a girl to love him. Sure, it sounds like something straight out of Notting Hill, but the only thing more improbable than Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant falling in love has got to be the systematic, state-sponsored persecution and extermination of 84.5 Qualcomm Stadiums-full of Jews.

But it didn’t happen, and if the Holocaust didn’t happen and the Catholic leadership backs this notion, then comparing abortions with it at a Catholic “university” seems to be a self-defeating analogy. An educated person would be skeptical of, and offended by, such an argument. Unless that “educated” person holds a degree equivalent to one earned from Sally Struthers, in which case, it’s world-rocking material. Thanks to JP Catholic and its speaking speakers, we can be assured of a whole bunch of mini-Holmans flooding the business and media industries in the near future with their right-wing extremism, average writing skills and susceptibility to snow jobs.

Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.

god hates shrimp

But don't take my word for it: Leviticus 11:9-12 (King James Version)

9These shall ye eat of all that are in the waters: whatsoever hath fins and scales in the waters, in the seas, and in the rivers, them shall ye eat.

10And all that have not fins and scales in the seas, and in the rivers, of all that move in the waters, and of any living thing which is in the waters, they shall be an abomination unto you:

11They shall be even an abomination unto you; ye shall not eat of their flesh, but ye shall have their carcases in abomination.

12Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you.

Yesterday, Leo and I walked from 1st and University to 30th and University -- and then on to our home with Ruby. We were just a few among a crowd of 10,000 people marching to show our outrage at the passage of Prop 8. We saw several signs that said it all, among them:

• "Welcome to California, where chickens have rights but people don't"
• "Mormons: Latter Day Taliban"
• "California fucked me without a condom"
• "The Mission Gathering Church is sorry for the judgemental, unchristian hate that passed Prop 8. Our community stands with your community in fighting this injustice."
• "Kiss my second class ass"

It's disheartening to see the pain, bewilderment, and shock that Prop 8 has created. While I am not a fan of violence or of hate, I am outraged at the outcome of Prop 8.

It floored me to learn that 48% of the donors to Yes on 8 disclosed that they are Mormon. It also concerned me that so much of the money supporting Yes on 8 came from out of state -- after all, we have serious concerns when residents of other countries give large amounts to our federal candidates, because it creates the impression of a real conflict of interest. But the biggest surprise of the Yes on 8 folks was the fact that my own mother gave them an ungodly amount of money.

I learned about it by opening a link sent by a friend on Monday, Nov. 3. His comments were on the role of the LDS church and out-of-state donations. I glanced through the document and saw that it listed donors by city. I looked for my hometown and saw one entry. I did a double-take when I saw that the $1,200 donation had my mother's name next to it.

I called Leo, outraged. He asked if I'd spoken to my dad yet. (I hadn't).

I called my dad, asked him if he knew that she had donated more than $1,000 to political campaigns. (He didn't.) We had a brief conversation where he gave me one-word answers and then told me that he was at a Vietnamese restaurant with her. I asked to speak to her and then she giddily told me that she had, in fact, given the Yes on 8 people $100 a month for a year. I ended the conversation by telling her that that was the last conversation I would ever have with her. (Clearly, this break was years in the making, but this was the final straw for me.)

Nearly a week later, I'm thinking about the pleas for understanding and calm in the wake of last Tuesday's election.

I'm working with my LGBT and straight friends to become active in the Repeal Prop 8 movement.

But most of all, I'm searching for a reason to hope and wondering if our new president can demonstrate the same courage that the fictional Jeb Bartlett did. As Anne Lamott said, “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”

Barrack Obama campaigned on the platform of hope and change, yet his victory Tuesday was sullied by the passage of Prop 8 here in California, which was one of the darkest moments of my adult life. Ever the optimist, I cannot sit and simply curse the darkness. While I hope for an end to the dark ages, I'm doing my best to create some light as we wait for the sun to rise.

quotable

"When people show you who they are, believe them."
Maya Angelou, born Marguerite Ann Johnson, April 4, 1928 in St. Louis, Missouri, is an American poet, memoirist, actress and an important figure in the American Civil Rights Movement. Angelou is known for her series of six autobiographies, starting with "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," (1969)which was nominated for a National Book Award and called her magnum opus. Her volume of poetry, "Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die" (1971) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.