Friday, March 31, 2006
Meanwhile, On The Corporate Gays
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Upcoming Reader Mail Feature
Gentle readers, I get some great emails from you folks. Emails that are sometimes filthily funny, sometimes hotly pornish, sometimes heartbreakingly poignant. I get emails that are supportive and encouraging, and emails that are disappointed, scolding, or correcting.
I'm going to begin posting some of these emails as a regular weekly feature, beginning next Friday. As I have always done, I will contact the author first and obtain his/her express permission to publish their email, even if it's something I'm merely pulling out of the comments. And I'm happy to withhold the identity of the author, if requested.
I'm interested in your suggestions regarding this new feature.
It Wasn't Me
Thursday, 8:40am, the 6 train
The platform is very crowded when a train arrives already packed with passengers.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, this train is already very full, please step back from the doors if you cannot board easily, there is another train directly behind this one.
Bing bong! (That's the "doors are closing" noise.)
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE. This train is VERY full. Please do not hold the doors open. There is another train directly behind this one.
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please check to see that the doors are not blocked by your coats or bags.
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please take a moment and make sure that your personal belongings are not blocking the doors!
The doors reopen.
Female announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE make sure that your coats and your bags and your GIGANTIC ASSES are not blocking the doors!
The doors close.
I catch the next train.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Today's Oscar Wilde Quote
Black Party 2005 Video
Sadly, my beloved tiny and easy-to-hide Casio digicam died on the very day of the Black Party this year. Talk about a giant "Aaarrrgh!!". That camera and I saw some wonderful and interesting things over the last three years. They don't make 'em like that anymore, literally. However, as a precursor to my 2006 Black Party review, here's the little 30-second movie I made at last year's event. It's work safe, but has SOUND, really horrible, muffled sound.
Today's tasty bit of New Yorkana is the fabulous website Forgotten NY. Forgotten-NY contains comprehesive sections on the history of the subway, in particular the architecture and signage of the older stations, including photos such the gorgeous sky-lighted subway station at City Hall (above) . Click on "You'd Never Believe You Are In NYC" and delight at items such as the village on stilts in Jamaica Bay (below), which is accessible by subway, the A Train.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Co-worker ordering breakfast on phone: Yes, scrambled with potatoes and toast. Oh, and gimme a large Tropicana. Do you have immune deficiency? Cool, yeah, gimme that. Thanks, bye.
Me: Um, immune deficiency?
Coworker: Yeah? So? Oh, wait. What did I say?
Me: You said "immune deficiency". I think the brand is called Immunity Defense.
Both: (Uncontrollable giggling for two minutes.)
When his breakfast arrived from Cafe Metro, the computerized ticket said:
Add 1 large Immune Deficiency
Field Of Dreams
Last night I had another dream about a celebrity. Some of you may recall the dream I mentioned last fall, in which I found myself eating in the Times Square Howard Johnson's with Donna Summer. Well this one is much, much weirder.
In this one, I was the coach of a Little League team. (I know.) For unstated reasons, my particular league required that the coach had to play too. I was the catcher. (I know.) And I had bloody knees because instead of wearing normal catcher gear, I was wearing Bermuda shorts. (I KNOW.) My entire team was wearing Bermuda shorts and the kids were mad at me because I wouldn't let them wear normal uniforms.
Coaching for the opposing team was Salman Rushdie. Why Salman Rushie? That's what I'd like know. I've never met Salman Rushie, don't recall having seen him on TV, never read The Satanic Verses. I think I vaguely know what he looks like from seeing a picture of him in Time Magazine, but somehow he made it into my dream.
At some point it became the last inning and I was at bat. The bases were loaded and we were behind by one run. The game rested on my shoulders. I took a mighty swing and slammed the ball high and far over the heads of the opposing players. However, their center fielder, Salman Rushdie, who happened to be wearing a jetpack, lifted off in a cloud of dust and intercepted my shoulda-been home run.
At that point, I was awakened by the stupid motherfucking pigeons that roost in the airshaft of my apartment building. I hate pigeons. But not as much as I hate Salman Rushdie right now.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Resolution / Redemption
"Push a few of them OFF the Hudson Piers...the rest will get the message." - a gay right-wing blogger, commenting on my post, Dollars Vs. Gay Youth.
Unsurprisingly, they all are white males, these bloggers, these gay men whose sites are an infected rash upon the skin of the blogosphere. Some of them are no more than hate-bloggers, back-slapping and high-fiving each other in circle jerks of racism, misogyny, classism, xenophobia, and most of all, homophobia.
Yes, homophobia. Because above all, the thing that they hate the most (and if you are unfortunate enough to come across any of these blogs, hate is often the Daily Special), is themselves. These are capital "A" assimilationists, mocking the mere existence of gay neighborhoods and belittling those who reside within, ridiculing the work of GLAAD and HRC, and making vicious attacks on Pride events. To some of them, people with HIV or AIDS are promiscuous, dirty drug addicts who got what they deserved. These gay right-wingers long for a world free of openly queer culture, a world where gays live fully integrated (and therefore invisible) in their picket-fenced, cul-de-sac'd McMansions. They shout that "gay is only a small part" of who they are, yet fail to see the irony in their blog titles which use words such as "gay", "queer", even "faggot". Talk about cognitive dissonance.
These gay right-wing bloggers are also inordinately smug about their own perceived personal masculinity. Many are transphobic, femme-phobic, dagger-phobic. Many of them bitch and whine about TV characters like Will & Grace's Jack as unrepresentative of the true homo world, something they probably do believe, because they wouldn't have someone like Jack for a friend in the first place. They don't want flamboyant queens representing THEM on national TV. They want lawyers and truck drivers and football players who Just Happen To Be Gay and are never, ever, ever the slightest bit queeny. (Or interesting, as is so often the case. Example: Will.)
Full disclosure: I used to haunt these blogs and occasionally post in their comments, in some fruitless effort to provide opposing views in their echo chamber of self-congratulatory cuntiness. My final straw moment came when the host of one of these sites posted that my opinion must be caused by some AIDS-dementia. (No, really. He did.) But no more. I have resolved that I will be strong. No longer will I read, comment upon or link to the gay right-wing blogs. I will leave these unhappy men to themselves and their daily tens of readers.
However, outside of the world of these mostly unnoticed gay right-wing bloggers, these is an occasional redemptive moment. Andrew Sullivan has long been vilified by gay lefties, usually for his support of President Bush and the Iraqi war, but often for an embarrassing personal situation (references to which will be removed from my comments, by the way). Regular readers of Sullivan are already aware that he has now changed his mind about Bush and devotes the bulk of his postings to blistering critiques of the Bush II administration, the handling of the war effort, the grotesque bloating of the budget, the nasty viciousness of the Republican Party and Bush's obeisance to the American Christianists who want to turn this country into a Christian version of Iran, complete with its own Levitical sharia laws. Sullivan is still a self-described conservative, but now I find myself reading him and coming away inspired and nodding my head. Those of you who wrote Sullivan off long ago, should visit his blog again. You'll find a man who isn't afraid to say that he's changed his mind, which I find impressive and refreshing, especially coming from one of the leaders of the pundit world.
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
Color me shocked, but sometimes this darn thing we call a gub'mint really works. Here's the resolution passed at the West Village meeting dealing with the underage queer problem that is tormenting many and causing deep divisions among the rest of the residents.
Community Board 2 passed this resolution, a program with a trial period until 6/30:
- Pier 45 to remain open until 1AM. Bathrooms and food vendors will be available until 1AM.
-FIERCE! will create teams to patrol Christopher Street to discourage noise making and engage in ’self policing”.
- Hudson River Park Trust, Community Board 2, local elected officials, and FIERCE! will work with service providers to build upon informal network of peer education and outreach workers who already work at Pier 45.
-Various mobile social service and health providers for queer youth will be allowed to park and provide services near Pier 45.
-Pier 45 Task Force will be created, and will include Community Board 2, local elected officials, Borough President, NYPD Precinct 6, and LGBT youth service providers to monitor the above program, make necessary modifications, and make a record of whether and how this program (including 1 AM closing) should continue or be modified after 6/30.
- The 1Am curfew is on a test run til 6/30. A community advisory panel (the Task Force mentioned above) which includes members of FIERCE!, get to review, monitor, and make decisions about whether to extend the curfew or make any changes after 6/30.
(via Daily Dose Of Queer)
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Standing Room Only
Friday, March 24, 2006
The thruple is in town for Black Party, as are many of my best friends from Florida and California. Yesterday, my little UES hovel was wall-to-sling Wilton Manorians. Watching those guys careening around the city for the last couple of days, two things have occured to me:
1. Nobody has gotten lost because New Yorkers love to give directions. Hardly anybody in Manhattan is a native New Yorker and there's a sort of joy in being able to act all local-like. I still remember the thrill I got a few years ago when I was stopped by tourists and got to say, "Times Square? Oh, sure. Just go that way on 42nd until you hit Broadway." I think I actually hung around briefly hoping somebody else needed help.
2. New Yorkers are not impatient, despite what it looks like. They simply won't wait, and that's different. Why should they stand in line in a store or restaurant when they can simply turn on their heel upon seeing a crowd and go into the place next door?
Black Party: Redux
Tomorrow I'll be attending my tenth Saint-At-Large Black Party, the most notable and notorious event on the calendar of gay homosexual perverts around the world. As a preview for those who may be attending for the first time this year, here's my posting after last year's event.
Roseland Ballroom, 5AM
Steve and I have been on the dancefloor for hours, as the swirling maelstrom of thousands of leather-clad bodybuilders spins around us. The men move in and out (of our field of vision), momentarily illuminated by an explosion of strobe lights, before being sucked (back into the darkness).
This Steve's first Black Party, my ninth. Finally, at 5AM, he tells me that he's relaxed enough to "go exploring" and I take him upstairs to.....(cue sinister music)...the balcony.
At first, we spend a few minutes peering over the rail, watching the dancers roil and throb beneath us as one huge carnal beast. Then Steve takes hold of my belt loop and I lead him to the long dark cock (riddled area of the balcony that runs the length of the room).
I want to show Steve all the hot men getting nasty in the dim darkness, and since he's never seen anything like that, I'm carrying myself as the supremely jaded, seen it all before, nothing surprises me, queen that I can be.
Inching throught the hot, pulsating, sweaty crowd, we can scarcely see where to put our feet. The music is so loud, we have to shout in each other's ears. Then we move into a section that is shielded by a wall, the music volume drops by more than half...and we fall silent.
We see a guy blowing a sexy black go-go boy, the box he's standing on thinly lit by an orange spotlight. We see a guy leaning against the wall getting fisted while standing up, which we agree is a pretty neat trick. We see groups of men standing in tight circles, their pants at half-mast, engaged in some mutual beefy-jerky. In the corners, various guys are openly snorting lines of various white powders off the backs of various other guys' hands.
And then I see something so shocking, so unexpected, so offensive, that I accidently shouted out loud.
"THAT guy is SMOKING!!!"
Originally posted March 30, 2005
UPDATE: For what's it worth, I'm not really interested in anybody's moralizing judgements regarding the Black Party as an event, or its attendees. If you don't like what goes on at the Black Party, I'd strongly suggest not buying a ticket. For those interested, I've found a 2002 Black Party review from the Village Voice, written by NY Blade editor Steve Weinstein, here. And in 2005, Weinstein wrote another story, this time for the Blade, here.
Manhattan, Thursday @ 7pm, 17th Street & 8th Avenue
Straight Girl #1: Ever notice how tightly girls hold onto their boyfriends when they're walking through Chelsea?
Straight Girl #2: Right? It's like they're afraid he's going to run out into traffic and get hit by a truck.
Straight Girl #1: Yeah. A big hairy GAY truck.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Dollars Vs. Gay Youth?
Back in 2004, I lived in the West Village, near the intersection of Bleecker Street and West 10th Street. Coming home late one evening after a night of barhopping in Hell's Kitchen, I came across a group of about a dozen teenage queers of color, standing on the sidewalk of Christopher Street. Some of them were in drag, but I hardly noticed. When you live in the West Village, you get accustomed to seeing large roving bands of very young queer blacks and Latinos, from across the gender spectrum. Nightly, you see drag queens, stone butches, bangee boys and girls, all sporting the latest in hip-hop-inspired thug fashion, and all startlingly, sometimes heartbreakingly, young.
A lot of them come in from Jersey City and Newark on the PATH train, disembarking at the first Manhattan station, on Christopher Street. Some of them come in from the outer boroughs, riding the 1 train down from the Bronx. Many, if not most, of these kids are refugees from and within their own families. Castouts, figurative and literal, from dangerous and desperately poor situations, they find each other on the streets of the West Village and congregate nightly by the hundreds on the newly remodeled and relatively deluxe Hudson River piers, which for decades have served as social and sexual ground zero for the more socially desperate and/or sexually hungry of our peoples.
That night, standing there waiting for the light to change, I was spun around by a sudden outburst of shrieking, screaming and hollering. The gay teens had circled around one of their own, a tiny black queen, perhaps 14 years old, while she climbed up onto a parked car, stood on its hood, affixed an suction-cupped dildo to the windshield and began fucking herself on it. Her audience went apoplectic, their screaming echoed up and down the narrow canyon of storefronts and apartments. A boy, himself no older than 15, caught me looking and shouted, "What the fuck you lookin' at faggot? Ain't you never seen no queen take a dick before?"
Ignoring the damage to the car being made by the queen's heels, ignoring the sex act being performed in the middle of the street, ignoring the screaming and shouting, I stupidly mentioned the worst thing I could have. "Don't you kids have school tomorrow?" In an instant, half of the them had encircled me. I backed down the sidewalk towards my building's door, as they threatened to "cut me" and "fuck me up." When I knew I could make it, I turned and ran for my door, their hooting laughter bouncing down the sidewalk behind me.
This article in this week's Village Voice describes the ongoing battle between Village residents and the hundreds of gay youth who enjoy (or terrorize, depending on your position) the Village on a nightly basic. The gay teens have organized themselves into an advocacy group cringingly called FIERCE! (Fabulous Independent Educated Radicals for Community Empowerment). FIERCE! aims to lobby the city to move the closing curfew for the Hudson Piers back to 4am, rather than the present 1am, arguing that if the kids can stay on the piers later, they'll be less likely to rampage through the adjoining streets when the park closes.
It's really hard for me to take sides on this. I can definitely understand why the neighborhood associations are pleading for the city to do something. Above all, people have a right to safety, quiet and comfort in their own homes. On the other hand, maybe the West Village IS a special case, deserving of less stringent administration. Historically, it's been the one safe space for queers, particularly queer youth, most of whom truly have no where else to gather. This problem raises questions about racism, classism, and gentricification. It's Gen X vs. Gen Z. It's queer kids from the projects and tranny kids from the streets vs. lofts and co-ops and the celebrities living in Richard Meier's riverfront glass palaces. It's about the continuing eroding of civility and manners vs. the venal world of real estate.
Read the Voice article and tell me what you think. I'm really stuck on this one.
UPDATE: Reaction to this post: here.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
My Past, Revealed
Yes, it's true, Finnish porn blogger Pete, who authors Roids And Rants, has indeed unearthed a bit of my past, as I realized after getting buried with hits from his site during the night. But I swear, it's not what it looks like. More on this later today, with a photo.
(By the way, in case the words "porn blogger" didn't tip you off, Pete's site is SO totally NOT fucking work safe. Seriously, you're halfway to being fired just reading this disclaimer.)
UPDATE: By now, those of you able to go look should know that despite what Pete considers an "uncanny resemblance", the Colt Model in question is definitely not me. But what is uncanny, and the main reason I linked Pete's post, is that I'm actually friends with said Colt Model. I met "R" (I'm forgetting his professional name at the moment) on the beach in Fort Lauderdale while back home on vacation back in 2000, and he visited me in San Francisco later that year. He's a good man and we've stayed in touch over the years.
And by the way, while most of my friends did question my dallying with a guy almost two decades younger than me, (while simultaneously expressing their jealousy), none of them thought that we looked alike. Here's a picture of us, taken at a nightclub in South Beach in March 2000. Somebody jump-start the Wayback Machine, I'd like my triceps back.
Monday, March 20, 2006
The East Bay Mind Fuck
San Francisco, 1997
Walking behind the guy I'd just met in the Powerhouse, I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, Joe. Just how hard up are you?" I preferred having sex in my own place, so I could kick the other guy(s) out afterwards and get some sleep. And here I'd just agreed to follow this dude all the fucking way to Berkeley. But he was handsome, furry, and muscular. You'd have gone to Berkeley for this guy too.
Fortunately, the ride over to the East Bay was quick. Somewhere that seemed more Emeryville than Berkeley, my "date" (let's call him Sam) slowed down in front of an rather impressive looking apartment building and with some waving, indicated that I was to find parking on the street. Sam drove into his building's garage and I began hunting for a space. And hunting. And hunting. A couple of times I thought I'd even lost where his building was. Several blocks away, I found a questionable parking space alongside a dumpster and decided to chance it.
When I walked up to Sam's building, he was standing inside the front vestibule, peering anxiously up the street. He pushed the door open for me and said, "I'm really sorry about the parking problem around here. You were taking so long, I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about me." He looked down and added, "Not that I'd blame you if you did."
That seemed a bit odd. He'd seemed so confident in the bar, almost cocky. Probably why I was attracted to him in the first place. We got into the elevator and Sam fumbled with his keys. He had the penthouse and needed a key to take the elevator to his floor. I made a mental note not to comment on how well off he must have been. The door opened directly into his place and we stepped out into one of the most spectacular apartments I'd ever been in. Floor to ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of downtown San Francisco and both bridges. The effect was stunning.
Equally stunning, however, was the decor. It was if a thrice-divorced woman had gone on a mad spree at Pier One or QVC with a stolen Mastercard. There was not a seating surface that had not been throw-pillowed, not a shelf or counter-top that had not been Hummeled into submission. I got the impression that the entire apartment had been arranged from the viewpoint of the elevator entrance, everything seemed to be angled towards making that first impression.
Sam said, "Why don't we sit on the couch and have a drink?" Again, he cast his eyes down. "I'll get you whatever you want. I have everything. You say it and I'll get it immediately." I started to get an idea where this visit was headed. I pushed a pile of beaded pillows off the sofa and sat down. "A beer is fine." Sam nodded, "Yes-" He seemed to cut himself off and scurried away.
Sam returned with a six pack and placed it on the coffee table, taking care to slide an Ikea catalog underneath. He handed me a beer, and again with that curious downward look, said, "I was thinking on the way over here that you were probably an OK guy, since you go to the Powerhouse. You have to be pretty open-minded to go to the Powerhouse."
I raised my eyebrows. "You do? I thought you just had to like beer and slutty men."
"Oh, I mean that...you know...Powerhouse being a leather bar and all, you wouldn't be there unless you were, um....open to stuff."
"Here it comes," I thought. What was it gonna be this time? Spanking? Bondage? I steeled myself to be non-reactive when he laid it on me. I smiled faintly. "And just what is it that you are hoping I'll be open to?"
Sam leaned forward and put his beer on a copy of Martha Steward Living. "Don't think I'm a freak or anything, but I'm really into.....being humiliated."
Fuck. I hate the mental kinks. The physical stuff is easy. Shackle this, electrify that. If I know how the gear works, I can go through the motions even though the thrill is pretty much one-sided. But the mental stuff, the mind fucks, the stuff where I have lines to say and have to act, that shit can be pretty tiresome at times. But not always. I'll be the first to say that on occasion I may have gotten a little too into the "Cruel Daddy Master" schtick. On the occasions when I could successfully stifle any giggling, that is.
So it was with utter nonchalance that I said, "Humiliated, how?"
I could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Sam's forehead. "Well, that's up to you. SIR. I'm just really into being in the presence of a superior man. You know, a superior man that isn't afraid to tell me how beneath him I am." I didn't say anything. Sam stole a glance at me and looked at the floor again and said softly, "But how you tell me, you know....that's up to you...Sir."
Jesus. I had to act and I had to improvise? Trying to buy some time, I made a weak, terrible joke, something that I'd heard a stand-up comic say. "You want humiliation? How 'bout we start with this fucking wicker sofa?"
Sam's eyes flew wide open and a fearful look spread over his face. "I know. It's a terrible sofa. I'm lucky to have a superior man like you sitting on it." He fell to his knees in front of me and looked up, his face now completely wet, flushed with eagerness and excitement. "What else?" he pleaded.
I pointed at an armoire. "And what the fuck have you got over there? The entire fucking Franklin Mint? What are you, a man or some pussy housewife?"
Sam rubbed his crotch and reached out for mine. "Yes sir. I know. It's terrible."
Emboldened by his touch and caught up in his excitement, I almost shouted, "Did you macrame' those plant holders yourself, you bitch?"
Sam pulled his cock out and began jacking it furiously while undoing my belt with his other hand. "My....mother did. But...I....helped her!"
I sat back to allow Sam to get my pants open, foolishly hoping that once the actual sex started, I could ease off on the "humiliation". Sam pulled my cock out and started sucking it, but stopped just long enough to hiss, "What else?"
My eyes darted around the room. "Oh, um....um...I would definitely have gone in another direction with that window treatment." Apparently, that wasn't harsh enough because the fervor in Sam's sucking eased off. He waited. I knew he wanted more but for the life of me, I couldn't find a new target for decor derision. I turned around a little bit but I couldn't see into the bedroom.
"What else?" Sam whispered insistently, his mouth still on my cock. I could see his own cock beginning to deflate. I was blowing the scene as badly as he was blowing me. I whipped my head around, looking for something, anything to ridicule. In desperation, I was about to return to the topic of the wicker furniture when Sam decided to help me.
"The ahdwuk!" he mumbled, then pulled his mouth off my cock and repeated. "What about my artwork!"
Bingo. He had a chrome-framed Nagel. I went to town. And so did Sam. Twenty minutes later I was paying my toll, westbound on the Bay Bridge.
In answer to those of you who have written and left comments regarding Bagpiper Hunt '06, I'm sorry to report that I never came across the young man in question. In the publishing world, when you fail to deliver, you sometimes have to offer your client compensation, called a "make-good". So here's a lovely photo I took of the Flatiron Building, where according to legend, young men would gather to watch how the unique wind patterns created by the building would blow the skirts of young ladies up over their heads. See how I tied all that together? Bagpipers-skirts? Flatiron-skirts? 23 skidoo!
" 'Impeach Bush' Chorus Grows"
There's an interesting article in the UK's Sunday Times regarding the growing movement to impeach/censure our president. (It's worth remembering that it was the Sunday Times that uncovered the infamous Downing Street Memo.)
As the article notes, it will be most amusing to watch the same Republicans in Congress who impeached Bill Clinton over a blowjob, try to weasel and squirm their way out of impeaching a man who lied and misled the nation into a war that has devastated the national budget and caused thousands of American deaths.
Also, most annoying in the article is the news that my Senator, Hillary Clinton, is continuing to duck reporters calling for her position on the impeachment issue. I've just called her Manhattan office (212-688-6262) and left a message asking her to call me back and explain herself.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Property Known As Garland
Last night I attended a preview performance of The Property Known As Garland, starring Adrienne Barbeau. My companion for the evening was fellow blogger David, of Someone In A Tree, and he and I both nearly gasped at how amazing the 61 year old Barbeau looks. If she's had work done, it was very, very good.
The premise of the play is that it's the final night of Garland's last European tour, and we are backstage at what would prove to be her final public performace in Copenhagen. Barbeau told Playbill: "It's a two-character play. It takes place backstage the night of what turned out to be [Garland's] last performance at the Falkoner Center. She's getting ready to go on, and the young stage manager keeps coming in to try and make sure she's ready to go on. She's hesitant and starts telling stories to postpone having to go onstage, and it's a very witty play. It's sort of a love letter to her I think — a tribute to her, to her spirit and her survival instincts and her wit."
Althought there is a second character, essentially this is a one-woman show, a series of show biz stories from Garland's life, told directly to the audience with with numerous audio flashbacks, in which the stage lights dimmed, a spotlight shone on Barbeau, and we heard an offstage voice from Garland's past (her mother, Louis B. Mayer, etc) Both David and I found this device rather gimmicky and tiresome after the first, say... 300 times they did it.
David and I also agreed that Barbeau's performance was near flawless, despite the not-so-great writing. It's a demanding role, Barbeau shoulders 95% of the dialogue and is on stage for the entire 80 minutes (no intermission) of the show. The Property Known As Garland was written by Barbeau's husband, Billy Van Zandt, but I'd have to say that in this case, nepotism was a good thing. Barbeau didn't attempt to do a drag performance of Garland, which we appreciated. She physically resembles Garland at that age, and as David put it, the performance was an "evocation, not an impersonation."
Incidentally, The Property Known As Garland features no music other than that can be heard drifting backstage from Garland's opening act, and some recorded audio moments. Previews continue for another few days and The Property Known As Garland officially opens on March 23rd. The Actors Playhouse is in the West Village at 100 South Seventh Avenue. Get tickets here.
Just by coincidence, I happened to catch Barbeau on cable in Creepshow, right before leaving for the theatre. Of course, aside from being Bea Arthur's daughter Carol, on the TV's famed Maude, you may know Barbeau best from campy horror flick, The Fog. Don't go into the fog! But do go see Barbeau as Garland. And that, gentle readers, may be the gayest advice you get this week.
UPDATE: I neglected to directly link David's review, which is here.
Friday, March 17, 2006
He Ain't Lyin'
Friday, 2PM, the corner of Madison & 50th Street
Very Drunk Guy #1: Dude, is it just me or is playing the bagpipes totally gay?
Very Drunk Guy#2: What you talkin' 'bout?
Very Drunk Guy#1: I mean, blowing on those long, hard, round pipes? Squeezing that big ole hairy sack? While yer wearin' a skirt with your junk all hanging out?
Third Drunk Guy Standing Nearby: He ain't lyin'!
Erin Gay Bragh
I suppose I should comment further on the usual annual brouhaha regarding the banning of gay Irish groups from marching in New York City's massive St. Patrick's Day Parade. I'm a strong believer in the right of assembly. If the parade organizers don't want gay groups in the parade, well that sucks, they're bigots, but they have a right to their bigotry, blah blah blah.
If gay Irish groups want to march in the St. Patrick's Parade, they should work from within to change the opinions of the organizers, not force their admittance through the courts. Yes, the St. Patrick's Day parade is a "public" event, but so is the Pride parade and with a precedent of forced parade admission, it's easy to imagine the nightmare of a Pride parade with contingents from the Westboro Baptist Church or Exodus or any other anti-gay group.
Of course, my noble thoughts on freedom of assembly are sorely tested when the Head Bozo of the parade, John Dunleavy, compares gay activists to Neo-Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan, saying "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?" Which is kind of my point, but way to make me wanna eat my words, you dumbfuck.
Completely by coincidence, today I ran into a Mrs. John Dunleavy (totally no relation), just outside the Grand Central Deli on Vanderbilt Street, just off the parade route. Mrs. John Dunleavy started her St. Patrick's celebration very early this morning and was sorry to miss most of this year's parade, but she really, really just needed a minute to rest her eyes.
I Live In Blog City
The front page of this morning's issue of amNewYork proclaim's New York as "Blog City", and features an interview with none other than Chris Hampton, the founder and emcee of WSYIWYG, the monthly performance showcase for New York bloggers, which I mentioned just a couple of days ago. It's a nice little plug for WYSIWYG, but when the article references NYCbloggers.com and states that "there are more than 6250 independent blogs...scattered throughout the five boroughs", I had to laugh. Yeah, there are more. Like ten times more, at least.
In The Gay-vy
England dropped its version of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" back in 2000. The result? The English navy is working to implement "drama-based" classes to help make straight recruits comfortable with their gay shipmates. They want to train the straight sailors to act gay, presumably in order to make them understand what the other side is feeling. "No, no no! You're doing it all wrong! First you say the bitchy remark, THEN you snap your fingers in his face. Now try it again, but this time, call him 'fat and tired'."
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Soon To Be On A T-Shirt Near You
Jamie Raskin, my new favorite Senatorial candidate, testified before the Maryland legislature this week, regarding the anti-gay marriage amendment currently before that body. After Republican Senator Nancy Jacobs made the typical Xtian comment regarding the Bible and upholding Xtian values, Raskin said this:
"People place their hand on the Bible and swear to uphold the Constitution; they don't put their hand on the Constitution and swear to uphold the Bible."
Where do I order that t-shirt?
(via Worth Repeating)
Tomorrow: Photo Harassment
Tomorrow is St.Patrick's Day and as a genuine, authentic, so-Irish-it-hurts, Irish-American, I shall be among the millions lining Fifth Avenue for the world's largest St.Patrick's Day parade. The massing of thousands of handsome men, wearing kilts for a legitimate reason (don't get me started on "Utilikilts") is something I cannot ignore. I took this picture of the sexy bagpiper pictured on the left, during 2004's parade.
And so I was mildly impressed with myself to spot the same guy last year, as he strode past me to join his contingent. Note his wary sideways glance at me. Perhaps he recognized me also, as that perverted old queer who'd forced him to pose the previous year? No matter. Harrassing the hot Irish boys in skirts is my own personal way of protesting the continuing ban on any gay Irish groups from marching in the parade. If I manage to capture him again this year, I shall immediately post my victory in this space. Tally...um...ho.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Dyke Or No Dyke?
Today's bit of New Yorkana is Biff Elrod's Ascent-Descent mural that greets commuters at the top of the entrance to the PATH train's Christopher Street station. For years I've thought that the artwork was a nod to the station's presence in the middle of the gayborhood, and that these were two gay men, passing each other on the stairs. But last weekend a friend argued that the person on the left is a woman, and that's she's definitely a "bra-less hussy". If that's true, I still think the artwork is an homage to the neighborhood. Look at her. No make-up, no jewelry, no bra, man-hair. Definitely family, don't you think? (Above photo by me.)
- WYSIWYG's first event in its new home, the Bowery Poetry Club, is next Tuesday. This month's theme: Starfuckers: Close Encounters Of The Famous Kind. Last month's final Wizzy in the old location, the revered P.S. 122, was way sold-out, so don't arrive on GST.
- Kenneth Hill, the "Gayest Editor Ever" and managing editor of AOL's gay & lesbian section, has a blog. Nice blogroll, man!
- Out of the blue: I've just decided that if I ever open a leather/SM shop, I'm calling it Slings-N-Things.
- An oldie that cheered me up this weekend: 1981's Class Action classic "Weekend", spun by DJ Paul Ferrer at the NYC Eagle. "Oh, me? Why yes, I'm getting ready to go out. Oh, no no NO. No, I know you didn't think I was staying home tonight!" Lyrics.
My talented buddy Steve Schalchlin, whose most recent musical The Big Voice won just about every award on the West Coast, including the Ovation for Best Musical, just sent me the link to a new song, Holy Dirt, from a work in progress. Check it out, it's very timely. And go ahead and leave Steve some feedback.
Holy Dirt (Cube dwellers warning: Sound.)
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
A Question For Human Resources
After witnessing a long and heated argument between a Rite-Aid cashier and her manager, I walked back to my office pondering a Worker's Comp question. If an employee gets a Repetitive Stress Injury from continuously making that patented black girl "Oh, no you di'int!" neck movement, is that a legitimate cause for filing a claim?
My New York
Over the last few days.......
- I bought a burrito at a Vietnamese-owned and staffed restaurant that advertises "Authentic & Fresh Tex-Mex!"
- I stood on the subway platform and watched a band of ethnic-Japanese Peruvians play a Spanish-titled pop song by a Swedish group, using Greek instruments.
- I visited the all-Russian staffed Burger King on 40th Street where a German woman spat on her boyfriend, shrieking "Hund! Hund!"
- I bought a newspaper at the kiosk outside my building, where the friendly Indian man was singing in Urdu, as he often does when he's in a good mood.
- I rode in a taxi driven by a young man from the West Indies who had his radio tuned to a cricket match taking place in Pakistan.
- I witnessed some street drama in which a woman was screaming, " Help! Help! Please! Does anybody speak Cantonese?", because an Asian man was violently shaking his wailing toddler granddaughter, and was ignoring the pleas from passers-by that he stop.
- I followed a friend into a Sri-Lankan-owned porn shop where he looked at, but did not buy, Brazilian gay porn. Every dirty bookstore in New York is owned by Sri-Lankans.
- I watched an unintentionally hilarious local cable access Hindu devotional program, sponsored by a Queens carpet retailer which is having a "Vishnu's Birthday Blowout Sale!" I don't know when Vishnu's birthday is, so it might have been a rerun.
- I met a Japanese businessman and his Kiwi boyfriend, who suggested I stop by for a drink, "next time you're in Kyoto Prefecture."
This is my New York. I think if I lived in Middle America, I'd feel like I was from a different planet.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Riddle Me This, Batman
What do the following have in common?
-New Jersey Generals
Answer to follow in this space.
UPDATE: As some of you have noted, the anwer to my riddle is that all of those names are known for being losers. The list was prompted by yesterday's win by gossip blog Queerty, in the 2006 Bloggies Awards, widely considered the "Oscars" of blogging. Congrats to David and Bradford and the staffers over at Queerty. Condolences to my fellow losers: Little.Yellow.Different, Towleroad, and Good As You.
On Beer, Hair, And Ports Security
Yesterday afternoon, a small group of my friends and I were hard at work, adjacent to the Hudson Piers, doing our patriotic duty to ensure that all shipping of beers from the bar to our corner of the room was done only by certified mostly-Americans. We were at constant high alert that absolutely no beers would be handled or transported by any dirty foreigners, especially nun'a'dem shifty United Arab Emiritians. The safety and security of our nation's beer portals is always our utmost concern.
Well...that was the original plan, anyhow. Typical of your standard American jingoistic edict, our Zone Of Safe Transport was thwarted almost at once, by that most cunning of sexy foreign operatives, the Hung Brazilian, who brazenly defied our trade sanctions with a wave of a $20 bill and a thickly accented offer to buy us all a round. Talk's cheap, and draft beer is $3 a pop, so from there ensued a raft of extralegal non-domestic beer shipping. Yes, we can be bought. We're a lot like the Port Authority that way.
After the Brazilian shipment, we accepted delivery from a nation on the State Department's Travel Warning list. That shipment was followed immediately by a shipment from that new country on the outskirts of Turkey. You know, the one that's shaped like a clock? It's called Tofurkey or Turducken or something like that. Anyway, all that dirty foreign-funded beer began to fill me up with shame. And beer. I felt so un-American. And drunk. I left my not-American beer shippers and their discussion of the finals on Pakistani Idol (fo' realz, swear!), and slipped away towards the can.
Just outside the restroom door, my elbow was grabbed by a passing acquaintance. "Hey, Joe. I've been meaning to ask you something. You don't have to answer if it's too personal."
Well, there's no way this will end well, is there?
"Too personal? Hehe, that doesn't sound good," our hero muttered with false joviality.
"Ha, ha. Yeah, well I've just been meaning to ask you if you are using that hair stuff, you know, Propecia or whatever."
I shook my head. "Nope. All I use on my hair is Irish Spring. Where did this come from?"
"Oh, well I've just been noticing that the last few times I've seen you, you don't look as bald as you usually do."
Tell the man in the turban that I'm ready for another round.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Thirty Democratic Representatives have cosigned onto Rep. John Conyers' (D-MI) House Resolution 635 which calls for a special Select Committee to look into impeachable illegal acts committed by Bush II.
I'm proud to say that my own Representative, Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) is among those 30 who have already signed on as a co-sponsor of the resolution. Is your Congressperson on the list? (via Daily Kos)
Write to your Congressperson and demand that they add their name!
Friday, March 10, 2006
Open The Windows, New York
The high in NYC today is expected to be near 70. It's the first morning in 2006 that I've left the house without hat and gloves, so of course I had a minor spastic attack on the train wondering where I'd dropped them. And would you believe that sometimes I still wonder where my car keys are? (Oh, that's right! I left them in 1995!)
I have to hand it to the city for getting us all in the mood for spring. There are fully bloomed flowers in every nook and cranny, like these I found along the Hudson River yesterday. Being a bad gay, I have no idea what kind of flowers they are, but I'm sure one of you boys will be along in a moment to tell me.
UPDATE: Gay men are passionate about flowers! Who knew?
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Last spring, one of my buddy Mark's sons was visiting New York and we took him to the auto show at Javitz Center. Mark didn't come out until his mid-40's, after ending a marriage of over 20 years, a marriage that yielded two sons, two sons that have yielded, to date, two grandchildren. After divorcing his wife, Mark moved to New York City and dove headfirst into the leather scene, becoming well known and liked in the bars.
Mark has made peace with one of his sons, Corey, the one we took to the auto show. It's a peace based on an agreement that there would be no more secrets, that Mark would be completely open about his new life. So it felt kind of natural that when we wanted to go for a drink after the auto show, the Eagle would be our destination. Now, over the years, I've met plenty of "Daddies" and "boys" at the Eagle, but I'd never walked in the door with an actual Daddy and his literal boy. I felt like the entire bar was looking at us.
Mark, being the popular guy that he is, waded into the crowd hugging and back-slapping friends, while Corey and I trailed behind. I watched Corey's eyes dart around the room, taking in the erotic artwork, the rough-looking tattoed bartenders, the hairy muscular shirtless men with their arms draped around each other. I watched Corey take in the scene, his first moments ever in any gay bar, and I thought to myself, "Wow, talk about throwing this poor straight kid in the deep end, taking him to the Eagle with his own father."
We all moved to the far end of the bar and took up position under the DJ booth, while Mark secured us drinks at the bar. That's when I saw Corey's head tilt up towards the television over the bar. Following his gaze, I saw that playing on the screen was a particularly hardcore bit of porn. A half-dozen men were gathered around a table. Shackled to the table was a huge hairy bodybuilder, his legs hoisted into hanging chains. The other men were taking turns moving to the end of the table and with snarls and spitting, they were savagely shoving their tongues into the shackled man's asshole. It was a brutal gang-rimming. It was a leather rim-a-rama.
I looked back at Corey. His face was completely blank. Mark returned from the bar with our beers and stopped short, following Corey's eyes up to the television. Mark's face drained of color and he shoved a beer into Corey's hands and shouted, "I NEVER DO THAT!"
Corey took a sip of his beer and shook his head. "Dad, you promised. NO MORE LYING!"
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Measure For Pleasure
Friday night I saw Measure For Pleasure, the new David Grimm play making its world premiere at The Public Theatre. The press materials intrigued me: "Restoration comedy meets modern sex farce in this play, exploring the elusive nature of happiness and featuring mistaken identities, duels and double-dealings, gay marriage, and the obligatory sex cave."
I called my friend Mike and read that bit to him. "So you wanna go?"
"Sex cave? What's the setting? Steamworks?"
"Actually, it says here that the setting is England, 1751. Wanna go?"
"1751? Um, I don't know."
"There's a trannie hooker in it."
Said trannie hooker is played by dreamy (those eyes!) Tony nominee Euan Morton, whom I thought was fantastic as Boy George in Taboo. (Yes, I was one of the few that saw Taboo.) Also in the cast is Wayne Knight, best known as the mailman on Seinfeld. I should have mentioned this to Mike, because the first time Knight took the stage, Mike blurted out, "Newman!" (Cut to Joe, shrinking in his seat.) The rest of the cast was unfamiliar to me except for Susan Blommaert, who occasionally appears on Law & Order as Judge Steinman. Although by coincidence, just last night I recognized cast member Saxon Palmer playing a drug dealer on...Law & Order.
The play was funny and clever, although you really have to keep your ears open to catch all the witty (and really dirty) double entendres. Old ladies seated behind me: "It's so bawdy! Didja know it was gonna be so bawdy? It's not obscene, ya know...but it's definitely, um...bawdy!" (I don't know how to spell the word "bawdy" with a horrific Queens accent, so just repeat it outloud to yourself until you reach hilarity.) The plot treads on the familiar themes of love forbidden, love denied, love renewed, however with moments such as the one in which Wayne Knight is chasing someone across the stage while wearing a giant strap-on golden dildo, I was never bored.
I left the show as a huge new fan of Tony nominee Michael Stuhlbarg, who plays the lead character in love with Morton's trannie hooker. The second act opened with a frustratingly brief bit of singing by Morton, which I suspect may have been inserted to highlight his impending CD release, New Clear, which he'll be showcasing at Joe's Pub on March 20th and April 3rd.
Measure For Pleasure officially opens tonight, March 8th.
UPDATE: New York Times review here. AP review here.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
This Is Why You're A Temp
The Cheater Calls
Thursday, 1pm, Corner of Lexington & 42nd Street
It's drizzling a cold sleet. People are using their umbrellas like bumper cars, slaloming their way down the icy sidewalk. I'm waiting to cross Lexington, when a woman behind me starts yelling angrily into her Bluetooth earpiece.
"You have got a lot of fuckin' nerve to call me. You piece of shit. What am I, the biggest schmuck in Manhattan? Don't tell me to calm down. I've never been so fucking betrayed in my life. I'm humiliated. My soul is broken. No. You go fuck yourself, you fuckin' cheating bastard!"
I hazard a look backwards. The woman is in her early 40's, wearing a Donna Karan power suit. She catches me looking at her and I snap my attention back to the Walk/Don't Walk sign. She continues.
"Am I leaving? Are you fucking serious? I'm already gone, fuckhead. I'm coming by later tonight to get my things and you better not fucking be there or I'll don't know what'll happen. You hear me? Do those scumbag friends of yours in your office know what you did to me? Cuz they are gonna find out!"
The light changes and the woman strides past me, her black pointy-toed boots snapping icy water back onto my feet. I'm thinking that she looks remarkably clear-eyed for someone in the middle of such an enormous emotional crisis. She appears to be listening intently to the other person, and when we reach the far curb, then comes the resolution.
"You can beg forgiveness until your fuckin' mother comes outta her grave. But I'll telling you right now, I'll going straight to your office and telling everybody what you did, and then I'm going down to my office and doing the same thing. Then on Monday morning when everybody knows what a scumbag you are and how you cheated me out of my fucking commission on this project, a project that everybody knows I have killed myself on for you, then you see how many fucking traders you have left at the end of the day!"
I watch her head into the lobby of the glass tower on 42nd Street and I wish I could go with her to watch.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Mike And Joe On Butt Maintenance
At a unnamed nightclub, where a go-go "boy" is dancing on the bar.....
Mike: Wow, that dancer has an amazing ass!
Joe: Well, they don't let people with saggy butts become go-go boys.
Mike: I know that, but don't you think he has an especially perky butt, I mean, for his age?
Joe: What do you mean "for his age"? He's hardly in his 30's.
Mike: People in their 30's do NOT have butts like that. I think he's had something done to it.
Joe: Honey, it's called Stairmaster.
Mike: Mmm, no I think there's something else going on. I think he's had some of that stuff shot into it.
Joe: Stuff? What stuff?
Mike: You know, Buttox.
Joe: I hate you.
Mike: Ha, ha, ha! Buttox! Get it?
Joe: I hate you.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Faggy Fashion Flashback
An art director friend of mine, who is a straight male, has asked me for some help with a photo shoot he is working on. He's trying to create a visual representation of how gay men and women have dressed over the last fifty years. The idea is some sort of an assemblage of iconic, not necessarily stereotypical, styles of dress.
For example, for the '70s, he's thinking more Castro Clone, less Village People. Other than that example, he's rather lost for ideas. For the '80s, I suggested the East Village/ACT UP look: shaved heads, leather jackets, protest t-shirts. For the 90's, I thought of the circuit boy look: smooth-shaven, wife-beaters, track pants, tribal tattoos.
What would you suggest, gentle readers? How did our people dress over the past five decades? Was there a uniquely gay style of dress in the 50's and 60's? Is there one now? Am I wrong about the 80's and 90's? I'm going to forward him all of your ideas.
(And don't think I don't know that most of you can't think of anything right now, because you are hung up on this: "straight male art director". Go New York City, eh?)
Here's the interview. Hopefully I don't look like too much of a tool.
Open Mic / 2006 Oscars
If I were selecting the winners:
Best Picture: Crash
Best Director: Paul Haggis, Crash
Best Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Best Actress: Reese Witherspoon, Walk The Line
Best Supporting Actor: George Clooney, Syriana
Best Supporting Actress: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
I can't do one of those "should win", "could win", "will win" lists because I don't know enough about the politics of awards to do that kind of handicapping.
UPDATE: Kinda impressed, aren't you?
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Fight The Real Terrorist
More from yesterday's Lewis Lapham article in Harper's, which tells the story of Rep. John Conyers, Jr (D.-Mich) and his resolution that the House Of Representatives form "a select committee to investigate the Administration's intent to go to war before congressional authorization, manipulation of pre-war intelligence, encouraging and countenancing torture, retaliating against critics, and to make recommendations regarding grounds for possible impeachment.”
Money quote: (Emphasis motherfucking mine.)
"That President George W. Bush comes to power with the intention of invading Iraq is a fact not open to dispute. Pleased with the image of himself as a military hero, and having spoken, more than once, about seeking revenge on Saddam Hussein for the tyrant's alleged attempt to “kill my Dad,” he appoints to high office in his administration a cadre of warrior intellectuals, chief among them Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, known to be eager for the glories of imperial conquest. At the first meeting of the new National Security Council on January 30, 2001, most of the people in the room discuss the possibility of preemptive blitzkrieg against Baghdad. In March the Pentagon circulates a document entitled “Foreign Suitors for Iraqi Oil Field Contracts”; the supporting maps indicate the properties of interest to various European governments and American corporations. Six months later, early in the afternoon of September 11, the smoke still rising from the Pentagon's western facade, Secretary Rumsfeld tells his staff to fetch intelligence briefings (the “best info fast...go massive; sweep it all up; things related and not”) that will justify an attack on Iraq."
And there it is. Bush invented the war to settle some macho score about "his dad", screwing our economy by the trillions and causing the deaths of thousands of Americans, not to mention Iraqis. And then lied about it. Over and over. I see: Crime. Crime. Crime. Crime. If Bush isn't the textbook example of what power run amok can wreak, then why bother to have the impeachment option at all? I just don't want him canned now, I want him IN the can.
BLOGGERS: Do NOT let this story go unmentioned. The MSM has paid scant attention to the Conyers resolution thus far. WE CAN CHANGE THAT. Make noise on your own blogs. Give visibility to the Conyers resolution.
"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful,committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, that is the only thing that ever has." -Margaret Mead
UPDATE: Go check out Articles Of Impeachment Against George W. Bush @ Daily Kos , including a plea to buy the current issue of Harper's Magazine which contains the full Case For Impeachment story, which is only excerpted on the Harper's site, here.
UPDATE: Somebody whose opinion I respect, wrote to say that he was "disappointed" with my characterization of Bush as a terrorist, feeling that calling Bush a terrorist was the sort of looney lefty hyperbole that characterizes much of progressive movement and costs us credibility. And he's probably at at least a little bit right.
But just for fun, I googled "define terrorist" and the first return was this: "One who utilizes the systematic use of violence and intimidation to achieve political objectives, while disguised as a civilian non-combatant. The use of a civilian disguise while on operations exempts the perpetrator from protection under the Geneva Conventions, and consequently if captured they are liable for prosecution as common criminals."
From Google's mouth to Zod's ears......
Reaction to this post here and here.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Now! Now! Now!
Yesterday's CBS poll reveals that Bush II's approval rating has now dived to the lowest of his presidency, a mere 34%. Cheney's approval is a laughable-if-it-weren't-so-sad 18%.
Let's flip those numbers for a second, for the benefit of non-Americans out there.
66% of the United States disapproves of their own president. *
82% of the United States disapproves of their vice-president. *
Prisoner abuse. An undeclared war. Wiretapping. Cronyism. Incompetence on an unbelievable scale. The impeachment process HAS GOT TO START NOW! The world cannot wait.
Visit the ACLU's site to learn more about the effort to stop illegal spying on Americans.
Even Wikipedia has a compendium of resources devoted to Bush' impeachment. But this chilling line stands out: "As of March 2006, the United States House of Representatives as a body, has taken no action of any kind toward the impeachment of President Bush, nor have they scheduled any." It's time to change that.
Bloggers, check out the United Coalition Of Blogs For The Impeachment Of George W. Bush.
For those unaware of the process, impeachment is only the beginning of the procedure to removed a sitting president. Impeachment merely means that the House Of Representatives has voted to try the president for crimes against the country. It's worth noting that only two presidents have ever been impeached, and that no impeachment has ever resulted in a president involuntarily leaving office. Nixon resigned before the House could vote on his impeachment. Andrew Johnson and Bill Clinton were both acquitted at their trials.
It's long overdue that this country made some positive history. Today, I'm emailing my Representative. What are you doing? Write to YOUR Representative.
UPDATE: Read this story in the current issue of Harper's Magazine, The Case For Impeachment.
FURTHER UPDATE: The San Francisco Board Of Supervisors calls for Bush's impeachment.
*CORRECTION: In my joy reversing the poll numbers, I forgot to factor out the wishy-washy motherfuckers who don't give two shits about this country and answered the poll: "neither approve nor disapprove". The total "disapproval" numbers are actually lower. Sorry folks.
Reaction to this post: here, here.