Some of My Best Friends Have Abortions

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This one is likely to be a shorter blog than I'm used to penning, largely because I just don't have the patience, right now, to go into extreme detail when it comes to my opinion on this subject.  Suffice it to say that I find myself annoyed, not just with the Talibangelicals and TeaTards who see fit to exact their religious standards on America's governance, but also with the gay male community who largely sit silent about issues involving women, bisexual, and transexual citizens.

When I lived in Los Angeles, I was surrounded by a cadre of friends, most of whom were gay men largely over the age of 40.  I've always felt more comfortable with people older than myself, likely as a result of spending so much time around adults and older teenagers throughout most of my childhood.  I rarely had friends my own age - I often found their childish antics far too exhausting for my more erudite tastes (yes, I'm being facetious).

One of the things that horrified me, however, about dinner conversations and group gatherings with my friends in L.A. was the terrifying lack of empathy displayed for people other than themselves when it came to rights.  It wasn't so much that they actively opposed rights for other groups (though that would come, later); what disturbed me, rather, was the total absence of concern for the rights of others, or how the loss of those rights have an indirect effect on our own.

Over a very nice Italian dinner, one friend said to me, "I honestly don't care about the Lesbian Community.  Let them fight their own battles."

At first, I thought he was kidding, and I laughed out loud, only to be faced with stone-faced sincerity.

"No, really.  I've spent several years working for the city of West Hollywood, and I am just tired of having to fight for their rights.  They can just start taking care of themselves!"

I've discovered that, at times like this, I am often torn between literally or verbally eviscerating the person sitting opposite me.  Most times, however, I simply choose a short retort, more concerned with repeating the story at a later date, though I never reveal their names, because such open expression of idiotic views is likely to get them booted out of a job working for a city government.

I wish I could say that this type of behavior is isolated, but in large part, it's not.

Don't get me wrong - I find myself exhausted by the neverending addition of letters to the LGBT acronym.  Every other year, it seems like we need to start recognizing a different group of people under our tent.  What was once simply the 'LGB Community,' quickly added the 'T,' which really isn't so much a sexual orientation as it is a gender orientation.  Shortly thereafter followed the 'Q,' which by some accounts means 'Queer,' again, is more related to gender identity than sexual attraction, and by others, 'Questioning,' which really is a bit broad.  And then, we added the 'I,' for 'Intersexed,' and the 'A' for 'Asexual,' only one of which describes a sexual proclivity.

Whenever I hear people start nattering on about LGBTQIA, I, too, feel frustrated that we have too keep inviting people into the fold.  Why can't they fight their own battles?  What does my fight for equality have to do with whether or not they can't use a certain bathroom?

I then take a step back from my frustration, breathe deeply, and remember how we got to where we are, today.  If not for a drag queen fighting back, the Stonewall Riots would not have occurred - the event on Christopher Street that started the Pride movement's national recognition as a "thing," and it was all because a drag queen got pissed off and fought back.

It's important to remember that whenever we talk about cutting a group lose and letting them fight their own fight.  When we make statements like, "'Gay' is the new 'Black,'" a statement with which I am apt to agree, what we are actually saying, though it may offend the sensibilities of some, is that we are all tied together.  We're not fighting for special rights; we're fighting for equal rights.

THIS is why I write about issues involving abortion, lesbian safe spaces, and why religion is destroying our nation - because everyone's rights are inextricably linked.  Some of my best friends have had abortions, and each of them - each and every one of them - feel, today, that they made not only the right decision, but the best decision available to them.  They stand up for my rights, and I will gladly stand for theirs.

Will we offend one another's sensibilities from time to time?  Certainly.  But, I will always be there to fight for their rights, regardless of whether or not their issues directly affect me, because I'm not a selfish cunt.

It's Your Party - Now Go Flag, or Something...

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There must have been a point in my life when I enjoyed going out to large parties.  I seem to remember a point back when I first attempted college at WVU when I just couldn't wait to get to this or that party and get wasted and dance to loud music; when I could go out to clubs and get wasted and dance, and actually enjoy myself in the process.  Though I remember at one time having these longings, I can't seem to recall at what point those desires morphed into revulsion - when "I'll see you when you get here!" became, "You go on ahead.  I think I'm going to stay in, tonight."

While some people will largely point to me being in my thirties as the obvious reasoning behind my lack of any desire to be social, the real cause is much more complex, and my age isn't really a factor.  I can name at least twenty people right off hand who defy the culturally imposed "age limit" on having "fun."  The gay male community, in particular, is rife with them (often a little much so, for my tastes).  The overabundance of the Over-Forty gay male demographic at events like Folsom Street Fair and Dore Alley often leaves me feeling as if I'm missing something.  Everyone around me appears to be having fun, and all I keep thinking is, "Goddamn, it's fucking hot/cold/rainy!  Fuck, these boots are fucking killing my feet!  If one more sweaty asshole slimes his way past my unsuspecting back, I'm going to take his truncheon and beat him unconscious!"

At this point, I have to assume that it's something internal about me that just fails to get what the big deal is with all these events.  I was never a proponent of the "party" scene (as it relates to events) - events like Muscle Beach, White Party, Black Party, and basically any event that boasts about having an ostensibly famous DJ never really piqued by interest.  For a while, I remember enjoying dancing in clubs, but after taking a few serious dance classes, I now just feel both self-conscious and awkward because I can hear every mean instructor (because, really...they're the only good ones who actually get results) screaming at me to be mindful of my form and carriage.

Mostly, it's that I don't enjoy the music, and I usually don't enjoy the company.  That isn't to say that these DJs aren't good at what they do; it's that I hate dance music, particularly dance remixes of good songs that had no need to ever be turned into an "anthem."  Because I move around so frequently and being poor tends to necessitate living on the far-flung outskirts of any major metropolitan area, few of my close friends are ever near enough to me to make going out together on a regular basis feasible.  When the rare opportunity arises when we are able to make plans, I have a tendency to dread the coming outing as the date nears, greeting it with all the enthusiasm of a penile swabbing with a sandpaper Q-Tip.

If I really don't want to go out, I'll inadvertently find a way to make sure I'm unable to go.  I'll pick up a shift at the restaurant without "remembering" our plans; I won't make enough money to afford gas or drinks to go out; I'll catch a cold.  It's all unintentional, I think, but I can't guarantee that I don't subconsciously put myself into these positions in order to avoid being social.

More often than not, I prefer to be the entertainer.  I never mind big social gatherings when they're being hosted by me, both because I kind of enjoy the attention, and because it gives me a chance to bring together people who would likely never meet one another because I tend to pick up friends from almost every walk of life and from every social group.  As my mentor once told me, I will likely never really "belong" to any kind of community, so much as I will make my own.

Maybe this is why I'm never threatened by change.  When the WeHo gay boys panic about the encroaching lesbian takeover (despite the fact that the one lesbian bar closed and the nearest lesbian community center/Safe Space is so far outside West Hollywood city center that they can spit into Beverly Hills and Westwood), I don't feel like anything is wrong with that.  When the leather queens complain about women coming into their leather bars and "ruining the masculine atmosphere," I think them antediluvian and on the verge of extinction.

Because of my tendency to cobble together people from various backgrounds and create my own version of "family," I am comfortable in almost every situation.  I am not shy, nor am I uncomfortable with my gender identity or sexuality (they are different aspects).  I'm more than happy to strip completely naked in front of pretty much anyone, save for children, whereas many men feel overly exposed and vulnerable, unable to "relax" around women enough to be comfortable with nudity in mixed company.

While this may sound as if I am a very sociable person, fully able to integrate myself into the types of environments I so loathe, the reality is far different.  My friends will post photos of themselves at these massive events and parties, and there's a part of me that thinks to myself, "What the fuck?  Why wasn't I invited???"

And then, after I think about it, I come to the realization that I wouldn't have had a good time, anyway.  If it's too loud to make conversation with the person next to you without screaming or sign language, I'd rather be anywhere else than there.  It isn't that I don't want to support my friends who are go-go dancers or drag queens, it's that being in those places makes me miserable, one the one hand, and more likely to commit homicide, on the other hand.

So, while my friends enjoy themselves at Dore Alley and Pride festivals, I will be doing what I love best - sitting in my bed with my laptop on my lap, my iPad to my right, a controller in my hand, and something on the television, engaging in my own form of social engagement, all in the purring company of my wonderful gremlin, Goblin.

The Death of a Gay Bookstore

            Of my time spent living in Atlanta, GA, I remember few good things other than a handful each of people, days, nights, and businesses.  For the most part, my life there was fraught with my struggle to avoid plummeting into depression, meth addiction, and total self-destruction, ultimately culminating with my precipitous fleeing from the city with as much shit as I could carry in my new Pontiac Sunfire.

            A bright spot of my life in Atlanta was the time I spent wandering around Outwrite Bookstore &Coffeehouse on the corner of 10^th and Piedmont during my days or evenings off from work.  A denizen of bigger cities with brighter lights and better integration of the gay community, Outwrite was one of the few places in Atlanta where I felt like being gay wasn’t just about gaudy parades, drunken bar tours, and starring in one’s own version of a pre-Bravo “Real Houseboys of Atlanta.”  This was a place where you could go to meet up with friends the day after all of that nonsense to catch up over coffee, pick up the latest in gay and lesbian literature (yes…actual books), and step away from Burkhart’s and Blake’s to regroup before fighting traffic on the 75/85 split on your way home.

            This week, Outwrite shuttered its doors and sold its inventory and fixtures with no plans to reopen in a new location at this time, and with its passing, I feel it only appropriate to mourn the loss of one of the last bastions of gay book lovers in America.  What was once a staple of city life in larger metropolitan eras has fallen victim to the same problems that have confronted independent bookstores for the past decade – a poor economy, stagnant incomes, the proliferation of online book retailers, and the increased availability and popularity of eBooks.

            I will be the first to admit that I love eBooks.  Before purchasing my iPad 2, I owned a Nook Color, primarily because of what I learned after spending so much time and money at Outwrite Bookstore – owning a lot of physical books is great if you never plan on moving…ever again.  Otherwise, it’s just a hassle, as my mother so kindly reminded me, recently, while she packed up her garage in anticipation of her move back northward.  The hundreds of dollars I spent filling countless bookshelves with gay fiction, non-fiction, biographies, satire, and history books are scattered around the eastern seaboard, some left behind in others’ apartments or houses, some lost on tour busses or airplanes, and countless others packed away in some long lost or forgotten box likely moldering in some humid basement, garage, or attic never to be discovered or appreciated again.  It is this reality that makes me appreciate the value of eBooks, whose only storage requirement is measured in megabytes and gigabytes instead of shelves, cases, and stacks. 

            While I have made the 80% transition to electronic books, there will always be a place in my heart for the gay bookstore.  I am of the opinion that no city can count itself among the “Top (--) Gay Cities in America” without having at least one gay-owned and operated bookstore wherein no less than 70% of the inventory is dedicated to actual books as opposed to the novelty clothing, kitschy memorabilia from the 1950s/60s, and endless array of Pride stickers, decals, license plate outliners, wind chimes, candles, decorative beads, and various other sundry bullshit that litters the shelves our most of our nation’s gay “bookstores.”

            When cities complain about not being included on whatever arbitrary list makes its way around the internet and boast about their endless number of carbon copy gay bars, coffee houses, gift stores, and parades, I think back to the many afternoons I spent sitting on the patio of Outwrite Bookstore smoking a cigarette, sipping a soda, and sifting through the pages of my latest purchase, watching the citizens of Midtown Atlanta drive, bike, and walk by holding hands, sharing stories, or simply moving on their way to their next destination.  I remember the evenings I stopped in to see what was new before heading over for drinks at Blake’s on the Park, calculating how much money I could spend and still afford enough drinks to make poor decisions later that night.

            Most of all, I remember Outwrite as the one place in all of Atlanta where being gay was just about being Marcus, and forgetting for just a few minutes that my life in that city was tumbling around me in shambles.