My anger is real, too.
I’m young, male, and have been inspired to become
involved with the political process. Ask a mass media
commentator, and they’d likely tell you that I’m
a prime Barack Obama for President supporter.
But I’m not. Because I’m a member of a minority
group, a group that has been excluded from Obama’s so
called message of unity and change. I’m gay. This
issue is not, by a mile, the reason why I do not support the
man; but it certainly is a part of it.
When the subject of Louis Farrakhan’s, a man with a
history of anti-Semitic comments, endorsement of
Obama came up at the recent Ohio debate, Obama
stated that “I don’t see a difference between
denouncing and rejecting” regarding the endorsement.
Obama went on to say “But if the word "reject" Senator
Clinton feels is stronger than the word "denounce,"...
I would reject and denounce.”
If only every oppressed minority community
received the same treatment, to have Barack Obama
denounce and reject the support of their detractors,
those who seek to oppress them. As that certainly was
not the case prior to the South Carolina primary. For
when the South Carolina Gay and Lesbian Pride Movement
asked Obama to reject, not simply denounce, openly
anti-gay gospel singer Donnie McClurkin from his
“Embrace the Change” tour, Obama refused,
releasing
only a statement where he denounced McClurkin’s views,
saying, “I strongly disagree with Rev.
McClurkin.”
And that simply is not enough. Yes, there is
something to be said for inclusion of all peoples,
regardless of personal views. But there is right, and
there is wrong. Acquiescence to the point where
bigotry must be tolerated is not unity. With his
rejection of Farrakhan, Obama has shown he is willing
to take a moral stance only when it is politically
comfortable. He can release all the statements
denouncing McClurkin he wants, but when it comes to
what matters, when it comes to action, he did not come
through. To say he does not agree with the man, and
continue having the same man tell audiences at
campaign events that God “delivered [him] from
homosexuality” is the height of two faced hypocrisy.
In 2004, the popular buzz talk was that John Kerry lost the
White House because he and the Democrats weren’t
morally opposed to gay marriage and civil unions. I guess
that the front running candidates have learned their lesson,
and have chosen to ignore us, the GLBT community, this time
around. Best not to stick your neck out for civil rights.
With the exclusion of the second place Democrat, Hillary
Clinton, who, as the first and only First Lady to march in a
gay pride parade has had a long record of talk and action on
behalf of the GLBT community.

Citation:

-For the Democratic debate quotes:
http://www.cfr.org/publication/15604/democratic_debate_transcript_cleveland_o...

-For the South Carolina Gay and Lesbian Pride Movement:
http://holybulliesandheadlessmonsters.blogspot.com/2007/10/thoughts-from-sund...

and

http://www.towleroad.com/donnie_mcclurkin/index.html

-For the McClurkin quote:
http://blog.washingtonpost.com/the-trail/2007/10/29/post_159.html

-For Hillary Clinton’s marching in pride parade:
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2008/02/examining_why_baracks_mojo_wit.html?imw=...



Tis an article I wrote and can't seem to get published any where-- at any length-- and should be expected, because it's too gay. Barack Obama thinks he can run trying to address people's "real anger," but is ignoring countless others, me included.

Out of nowhere it came, on a sunny but snow drift-filled February afternoon. Riding the bus home, to the house I share with my partner. With the switching of the song on my iPod, the jolting bump of the metro bus down Buffalo's pot-holed city streets.
"I've heard it said/
That people come into our lives/
For a reason..."
And those words, fragile melody, I've heard a thousand times, were enough. To send me over that edge. Take me back to when we were in bed last night. Tom and I have fallen into the habit of watching "The Golden Girls" reruns from one to two am before bed, and last night they showed the series' finale.
If you haven't seen or don't remember it, the plot concerns Bea Arthur's Dorthy meeting a man, accidentally falling in love, it seems for keeps, and moving away. From her mother, Sophia, and roommates Blanche and Rose.
And no ending could be more tragic. These girls, this family, who we laughed and loved and cried and worried with all these years, came to an end neither you or they ever saw coming. The quiet, expected but not understood tragedy of moving on. For those you love, leaving those you love behind. Life without you.
Because the ending of Dorothy leaving her girls-- and constantly, it seems-- coming back through the door to say goodbye, one more time, took me to a place of my own. And when Dorothy finally leaves for good, and does not come back through the door, Blanche, Rose, and Sophia move together. To hug, and quietly cry. The moment brought me back to a thousand of my own, to what I never did so abruptly, but did nonetheless.
Over these last few years, I found happiness with Tom. And, gradually, little by little without really saying it, I moved out o my family's home. Away from the life of my mother, brothers, father. Our house.
And I think of Dorothy, Blanche, and Rose having cheesecake in the middle of the night, and remember coming home from a night out and seeing my brother's light still on. We'd hang out, play video games, mock three am infomercials, and talk. And I think of Dorothy going into Sophia's room whenever she needed her, to talk. How I had the same thing with my mother. When we lived together. Saying goodnight to her, in person, every night. She tells me now, all the time, that she's always, twenty-four hours a day, only a phone call away. And she sleeps with the phone by her bed, she says.
But it's not the same. And never will be, anymore.
And it's just sad.

    After two years of spending increasing time here, last winter, the following came to my attention about T's place, our new place, I'd just moved in to.
    Thought I would share today.
    T and I live in a very small house in Downtown Buffalo. You walk outside and look to your left, and you see the beginning of the residential expanse that is the West Side. Look to your right and you're downtown. Literally. Down the street is Ani DiFranco's "The Church," a brilliantly restored former church the brilliant singer-songwriter has now saved, and made (along with city help) into a concert hall/home for her Righteous Babe Records. We have a perfect view of it from our bedroom window, can see it when we're laying in bed. A little further down the street is Shea's Buffalo, a gorgeous old theater where I just saw Tori Amos, and will see "Wicked," probably daily, next June. Over there is City Hall, County Hall.
    What might all these buildings have in common, you ask?
     A haunted history.
    Buffalo, being an old, waterfront city burned in the War of 1812, was a central station in getting slaves to Canada on the Underground Railroad what with the boarder right here on the water, and, circa 1900's turn of the century, had a waterfront neighborhood, now downtown, where crime ran rampant and was commonly known as "the most evil strip in the world," where a murder, at least, a night took place. Not mentioning the numberless atrocities settlers committed against Native Americans on this local soil, and the unavoidable build up of tragedy any place on the planet has, Buffalo has always had a haunted history.
    But you know me. And back to this winter.
    T told me, offhandedly, over dinner, about how there had been stories about our house being haunted.
    Here he stopped, probably not wanting to go any further. Unspoken was the question that during all our time together, I realized, we had never gotten around to. Do you believe in ghosts?
    Sure, we'd covered religion, spirituality, and any possible afterlife, but why is it the question of ghosts, even for the most skeptical among us, comes separate?
    At this moment a shiver went up my permanently skeptical spine. The only way to say this is to come out with it. Once, early on in the relationship, I was rather drunk. And it was late at night, and it was dark. And I swore I saw a woman in one of the spare rooms upstairs. Long blond hair, a white dress of some sort, I couldn't find the details because when I looked away she was not there when I looked back.
    But I was drunk and tired and went to bed and didn't think much more about it-- well, from time to time-- until then.
    "Why?..." I asked T.
    And he told me some facts. When T's father bought the property, he had a painter working in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Mr. T swears he seemed nice and normal and legitimate enough a worker; a Native American from the reservation nearby. T's father was downstairs while the man worked up, and saw when he came running down, bolting out of the house. The man was not done with his work, but he was done and would work no longer.
    Apparently, to my surprise, Mr. T did not press the man for details.
    Oh, and yeah, it was the same room I thought I saw the woman in.
    Fact two. A friend of T's father, not long after he bought the property, relayed some information on to him. Mr. T's friend once worked for Channel 2 News. And while he was there, they covered a story he remembered, at the house. A murder. A woman had been found dead in the basement, an apparent drug related murder.
    "AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME THIS BEFORE!" I said rather loudly in the Mexican restaurant we were in.
    "Well...."
    After I made him promise and re-promise to not think I was crazy and remember that I was really, really drunk (when in reality I wasn't so pissed off my ass), I told T that when I was drunk once, I thought I saw a woman in one of the rooms. I expected an arched eyebrow, a laugh, something to make me feel like I was either very crazy, or keeping a very straight face during a rather long joke.
    "It was probably one of Hiram Pratt's daughters." One of the best things about T, in my humble opinion, is like my new cat Fiyero, nothing phases him. "I totally believe in that stuff," he said. And preceded to tell me about how Hiram Pratt, an early mayor of Buffalo, had a house on the property, daughters who lived with him all their lives.
    And no, T had never seen Hiram, one of his daughters, or the poor young woman who was found in the basement roaming the house before.
    He decided I had.

    Now, I consider ghosts and spirits the same way I consider anything about spirituality. Either way-- existence or not or somewhere in between-- is possible. Because I just don't know. Most of my life, most of my day, I go around "believing" that there are no such things as ghosts beyond legends of tragedy that take hold in a collective consciousness. And even if they did exist, I think Halloween to them would just be another day.
     So my thinking this shouldn't have kept me up half last night, clutching Fiyero and T?
  

    It's sappy, overly sentimental, and bordering on a nasty cliche. And it hurts all the same, all the more.
    There's now a paw shaped hole in my heart.
    Over a week ago, my boyfriend Tom and I decided to catch a movie on a Monday night, grab something to eat afterwards if we hadn't already gorged ourselves on popcorn as we are so apt to do.
    To catch the 8:30 or so showing of "Shrek the Third" at a second-run theater we've discovered as of late and fallen in love with, we needed to leave rather shortly, if we were to make it out there in time. We're dorks, so we'd made these plans the day before, and had been looking forward to it all day. Tom was on the phone about work, but with a work friend, so the conversation was taking longer than it should have, if we were to make our way out to the suburb ten minutes away to be on time for the show.
    So while I waited I started petting our pet, our cat, our family member Casi. A beautiful calico, Casi faced more than her deserved share of hardships in this life, and that included be trapped by psychotic cat people off a porch, who tried to re-fix her and nearly killed her in the process. As I petted her head, stroking her fur, I of course carried all the knowledge that Casi has lived nearly fourteen years, and as of late has been "getting worse." Tom and I monitored this faithfully; if ever Casi started showing signs of pain beyond her rapidly increasing skinniness, we would take her to the vet right away.
    But until that happened we were destined to let her life the remainder of her life on her own terms. Happy, she ate healthily, purred, loved us, slept often at the foot of the bed. It was always in our minds that she could get sick, become worse, and something would have to be done.
    That night, I noticed, her head felt wrong. There simply is no other way to describe it. The back of her head, her neck, did not feel right.
    I scooped our cat up and took her right over to Tom. On the phone still, I mouthed to him to feel her head. If he noticed anything different, what I was noticing, he showed no immediate sign for alarm. Which did nothing to quell my worries.
    I rocked Casi, gently. I petted her, stroked her under the chin, which she loved, would always purr madly at from the day I started shortly after first meeting her, and she purred, then, quietly. She was not right.
    I sat with her while Tom talked on the phone. Held her close. When the time grew later, Tom motioned to me to get the keys, which meant I would be driving out to the theater as he blabbed on.
    So I kissed Casi and put her on her favorite, comfortable chair. "We'll be back soon, sweetheart," I told her, and for reasons I was not fully aware of, I took out my new phone I had just gotten that day, and took two pictures of her with its camera. I knelt down, and looked at her, and she was looking away from me, off into space.
    "Casi, here," I said, and slowly she turned toward me and met my eyes. She was not well. Tomorrow we will take her to the vet, I vowed, to find out if she's really in any pain, if she's really hiding it, like this.
    I made sure to give her a fresh can of food and water before we  ran out.
    "Bye sweetie," was the last thing I said to her.

    When we came home four hours later from our dinner and a movie, our date night, Casi didn't come running up to us, which made my heart drop, and I went in to the kitchen to put the food we'd bought on the way home away, and that's when Tom came in and said Casi was gone. She was behind the chair I left her on.
    The only scenario, which hurts to think about, judging from things, was that she must have died within minutes after we left. She must have jumped down from the chair, or become so out of sorts that she fell off. And died. Alone.
     Staring at me since that night with a compounded unrest is what has stared at me starting at many points in my life. She died alone. Like so many I have known, so many people, she died alone and had no one with her not even us her "parents" who loved her and adored her and dotted on her every chance we got. We couldn't be there to see her out. Never before have I experienced the loss of a pet, for I've never had one-- but I find it surprising, though appropriate, that some of the same feelings one experiences at the loss of a loved one, a human loved one, are the same that come out at the loss of a cat.
    She was loved, I've been thinking. Did she love, I've been hoping. Why couldn't we have done anything, why did it have to be then, without us, why did she have to die alone. The emptiness that comes with beginning to wonder, and knowing about all that.
    I cried hard. That night, I did my best to keep it in, for Tom, and I did. But as we started to turn out the lights to go to bed, he began to just cry, clutching the bag of stuff we'd bought that needed to go in the bathroom: a box of tissues, toothpaste. One of the most heartbreaking things I have seen, in my life so far, I couldn't help but break myself; but not before I grabbed him heartily, and held on to him hard, let him cry against my chest.
    For a life had been taken, one of our own.
    Like all losses, writing doesn't even help it. Not really. It's going on two weeks now, and it has been getting better for us. It's not been as sad. When the most unfiltered of our friends rush to ask if we're going to get another cat, the both of us have answered the same, "Maybe, probably, in the future." We've been seeing cats, all over, and each time the glance we exchange knows more than the words we speak allow to show. Tonight coming out of a restaurant, we watched a stray black and white cat dart under a fence. And on the drive home, a small black kitten walked by on the sidewalk. We rushed to look at it. "Awh, little black kitty!" And said no more. In time we likely will, but he or she will not replace Casi; never could, never would we want them to.
    Some part of me still hears, when standing at the counter in the kitchen, the exact sound her paws made while jumping up on to it, landing. To get her food, water. Her meow, her purr. I'll get to hearing the sound of her jump, and hear it, over and over. Her paws. Everywhere I look in our home, I can see how she looked there, how she would run from there to there, jump up and sit on the arm of the couch after walking across it.
    And it's sad. Just so sad.

    So, Rudy "You Thought I Was Sane But Turns Out I'm Just As Crazy As The Rest Of Them" Giuliani has backed out of the sequel to Anderson Cooper/CNN's groundbreaking YouTube debate.
    And it turns out that Mitt Romney is also afraid of the American people, and deciding not to take them seriously. Rudy is citing scheduling conflicts, which is a ridiculous cop-out, and Mitt is coming all out and mocking the seriousness of the questions asked from the YouTube audience. New flash, Mitt: the questions come from the American people, the real American people, and not a snowman. I wasn't sure, Romney, if you understood that the snowman was not posing the question, but, no, he was not; it was a clever, creative guise under which a real American, someone you want to work for, is asking the candidates.
    There is only one response that the American people should have to this shoulder shown them by the Republicans, to being ignored. We must, now, if we weren't already, ignore them. White House Press Secretary Tony Snow mentioned that George Bush did not watch the Democratic YouTube debate, as they did not interest him. This comes as no surprise from the president who ignored the drowning and surviving citizens of one of his country's very own cities as the city was lost. But, how in the name of all the is holy do the Republicans expect to get even a single percent of the vote next year, how will they, as they have stated their intentions as such, distance themselves from Bush and the current administration if they turn around and are virtual children of his? Scratch that-- children aren't always so alike their parents.... Romney and Rudy are gearing up to be Bush clones. Fake arrogants who refuse to listen to the people.
    Says one GOP operative on the story, "Every day you're debating is a day you're not raising money." My God. These people, so transparent, are what I have always hated in Republicanism. The party's most outer face is always, shameless, about making money for themselves, not giving a damn about the little people they have to step on to squeeze out all their cash.
    Romney, in these recent events, has not only shown he wishes to ignore the American people, but that he is also, on technology as new as the Internet, ignorant as a rock. "YouTube looked to see if they had any convicted sex offenders on their web site. They had 29,000," he said, mistaking confusing YouTube with MySpace, which has, as of late, begun purges of sex offenders from their database.
    This level of selfish, ignorant, stupidity is what truly scares me about the (most) Republicans. They do not care how corrupt they look, or, more simply, they do not care how evil they look.
    So, they see the Democrats asked uncomfortable questions in the YouTube debate, and right-wing bloggers chide the debate and its format as flawed, as the questions asked are ones that would normally embarrass a host anchor. Well, to that I say, that does not matter. That it would embarrass Anderson Cooper, or Brian Williams, to ask a presidential candidate why you won't let two people in this country have equal rights does not make it a question that should not be asked. It is the question, that should be asked.
    And so, the Republicans see this, the people's will, and newfound power to ask, directly, the tough questions. Why can't I marry the person I love, like other people? Why can't I afford to be sick? Will the planet be here for my children and their children? Why should I vote for you? And they fear it. Openly. Without care that they appear evil, ignoring the people they seek to serve.
    And they expect us to believe they are the party to better protect us from Al Qaeda? When they are afraid of YouTube?
 

    The most common criticism of  Barack Obama's most recent book, "The Audacity of Hope" is that it's too lofty. Speaks of words and concepts that sound intangible but only exist in Neverland. For the longest time, I defended Obama as a true, spirited, voice of change.
    It's hard to now. This is gearing up to be a very short entry, as the lone truth can be proven very quickly.
    During the debate, Obama rushed to answer that yes, he would met with leaders of "rogue" nations during his first year in office. Hillary Clinton, a longtime advocate that the United States cannot afford to not talk to anyone, however "rogue" or "evil" explained that she would not promise that, because of the depending factors and necessary prep work that would need to be done beforehand.
    She did not say she would refuse to meet any of them, a child could explain that. The difference between striking when first able to pounce and waiting on necessary nuance.
    Now Barack Obama is saying that Clinton's answer, so much the same as his, puts her as "Bush-Cheney lite."
    This is ridiculous, and embarrassing, for Obama. It's baseless, blatantly so. It's not about "a fundamental principle" as I just heard an Obama campaign person say on CNN. Obama is trailing in the polls, and the only way he can see to do anything is throw-- not mud, not something of consistency-- but sand. From a child's sandbox. Trying to literally make something out of nothing.
    It's pathetic. Watching Obama try to rouse a crowd through getting them to believe the lies that this is about a disagreement, fundamentally. This is about Obama messing up, trying to save face, and think that spin will save them and help them appear to be right.
    It has nothing to do with the question. This is frustrating to me. Sure, Hillary should not have used the word "naive" to describe Obama's answer, however true it is. I understand it's all Obama can do, but it's still so disappointing.
    Coming on the heels of like events happening in local politics, this is..... Expected, but astounding.

Let's make this a series. This will be short, real short. And in response to the fallout from one of what apparently became Monday night's debate's most controversial comments. The one directed to Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, would they, in the first year of their presidencies meet with leaders of nations the US has bad relations with, such as Iran, Iraq, Syria, etc.
    Barck immediately responded that, yes, he would. And Hillary answered she would not, given the severity that promising that carries. She would not rule it out, but listed the alternatives and necessary additional processes that would need to go on to prepare and legitimize a meeting.
    The man who asked this question via YouTube later said he agreed with Obama's answer more.
    So let's see who's right.
    The following is an Associated Press article from Yahoo on the subject. The digressions added in bold will be my writing.

"Obama debate comments set off firestorm

    I'm bored. Excited. Cause it's Monday night, I have nothing to do, am waiting for the spouse to come home and go for dinner.
    So I've decided to watch CNN's YouTube themed Democratic debates, and comment on it in real time.
    Possibly tacky, unnecessary, or misrepresenting the power of the mediums today like YouTube and the Internet, this can go either way. Or fall in between.
    These first questions are good, though they are none that haven't happened before. Asking someone like Chris Dodd how he'd be a different, questioning what, if anything, Obama's inexperience qualifies him or does not him for. Decent.
    Hillary answers good about the Republican corruption of the last eight years. Obama answers better, about the problem also affecting, to a lesser degree, the other guys and gals, the Democrats, in Washington. Working off each other like that, just cements the idea in my head that a Clinton-Obama ticket is the best miracle our country can vote for.
    Hillary defines herself, rather than liberal, as a modern progressive. Getting the definition of liberal right, and stating she's even true than aligned to just that term.
    Mike Gravel tries to hurl mud at Obama that only questionably exists. See my previous entry about him being cut from the same cloth as George W. Bush.
    A killer question, what Republican would you pick as your vice-president. Asked to Biden and Edwards. Unfortunate that Obama or Clinton missed that one.
    Slavery reparations. Strange. On the edge of my seat? Johnny Edwards, wisely, answers the question perfectly? Reparations are a nice dream, completely unachievable. But what is a good, tangible issue, poverty and financial discrimination/class structure, and Edwards knows this. His specialty.
    Obama builds off the question, with investing in the educational system. Okay.
    Dennis Kucinich says he's for them, due to a noble quote from the Bible. Too pure for this race, and too pure to lead if elected. I love him but he just can't handle the world. Blanche DuBois?
    Dodd brings attention to Katrina. Good, good. Few people do this, but it is necessary, and responses like this should be a given.
    Bill Richardson. I forgot about him. Where's he been until now? People rumble that Hillary would/could pick him as a running mate. This would be unfortunate.
    Hillary and Barack address critics who question their blackness and femininity. Obama answers with a good, Manhattan taxi joke. Doubt it's truth, but it's good. Great answer about disparities and gaps in this country. He gives the country too much credit, and that's awesome.
    Clinton answers flawlessly, embracing her gender as only part of her person. Emphasizes a level playing field. "When I'm elected, it's going to send a good message to all little boys and girls around the world," is phenomenal. Embodies the level playing field and equality perfectly. This makes sense in my head but I don't know how else to write it right now.
    Edwards answers with one of those pure, Blanche DuBois answers, about not wanting any bigot's vote. Makes up in part for his earlier claim that he's a better candidate for women. But he hits back at it, and Hillary proves him wrong, in my opinion. Giving credit to John and Elisabeth Edwards, she shows, with past actions (minimum wage legislation), and her "Women's rights are human rights" hits the entire issue dead on. Finishes with a good joke.
    Awesome question about gay marriage. Flawless answer from my boy Dennis Kucinich. Chris Dodd is now handed the question. Starting with an awesome, progressive and liberal-minded answer that he's already given before; he tragically stops without going "so far" as to marriage. Bill Richardson, a realist, gives a dissappointing answer. Unfortunate. Yay for the hate crimes legislation.
    A southern Reverend delivers the best question so far, why is it still okay to use religion to justify no equal marriage. Ask them all this question. I am nervous.
    John has issues with it, he struggles. And is respected by me. Elisabeth supports it, awesome for her. He's answering honestly, perfectly, defining how people can't let their personal views get in the way of the law, and how it's okay to have those views, but still govern.
    Anderson fields a great question to Obama. Comparing a ban on interracial marriage to gay marriage, how he can justify a difference. He is half good, but disapoints.
    I just had an enormous, painful cramp in my leg that lasted from the Reverend question until just now. I still feel it's ghost. Crap. And we've only been here for thirty-five minutes.
    Good video from the Clinton campaign. Not the best they've done or are capable of, but good.
    Commercial.
    Darfur. Great. We're talking about everything we should be talking about. Save the elephant in the room. Iraq. Bill Richardson. How America could help. He says, no militarily. Awesome answer. Maybe he wouldn't be bad as Hillary's VP. Peace keeping troops for the UN. Questionable. Needed?
    Biden on Darfur. Where we can, America must. He saying we need to send our American military troops now. Appeals to the bleeding hearts, but not to those who are truly anti-war.   
    Mike Gravel begins a well intentioned answer. Tries to play up his wild card position. Fails.
    Hillary gives the right answer on Darfur. Our military presence doesn't have to be needed there now. Perfect. Ties this issue into Iraq. Good.
    The sacrifice in Iraq. Why Darfur should not be taken lightly.
    Question: how can we pull out now? The invasion was bad idea, but how can we pull out now, and live with the consequences for Iraq? The rational, thinking-person's question. Fielded to Obama. He opposed this war from the start. Answer the question. Confused response. No military solution.  Tries to have it both ways, but pulling out as carefully as we carelessly got into it is a good point. If only the rest of his answer was stable enough to hold this.
    Biden. Okay, I'm biased against him. We can't pull out now, so we shouldn't even start thinking about. Worthless. Why is he still here?
    New question: a mandate in 2006 for the Democrats to end the war in Iraq, asking how the Democrats can do what they're doing. She's confused. Hillary, your answer? Nuanced. Explains how the Democrats have tried, but can do little because of their slim majority. Skillfully links how there is no military solution, and to the Pentagon telling her how her questions were unpatriotic.  
    Blanche, err, Dennis, tries to take the high road, and falls off in a ditch. Killing funding is a careless way to pull out of and end a war.
    Chris Dodd gives a good answer, relating Darfur to Iraq.
    Bill Richardson, advocating a total pullout. American lives matter more than Iraqi lives.
    YES! Someone honestly questions Mike Gravel. That all the deaths in Vietnam were in vain. Mattered noting. A view. But the better, and more true view is that these men and women, in Vietnam and Iraq, did their job.
    Obama beats a dead horse. He didn't get a chance to not oppose this war from the beginning. He fails and then tries to rebound with the troops dying in vain bit.
    John Edwards, realistically answers the question flawlessly. How troops who do their mission, regardless of the mission's success, do not die in vain. Applause.
    Should women register for the draft at eighteen? Dodd gets it, and the issue. There should be no draft but if men have to register, women should, too. Not a great, needed question. But okay.
    Hillary says the same. Expands on the issue and excels. Bringing it to an issue of public service, and proper training for such service.
    Obama says that would send a message to his daughters that public service is required of them. Severe. Controversial. It'll fall by the wayside.
    Question for Hillary Clinton, the truly legitimate question of how she would deal with cultures who do not truly "value" women (Muslim countries). Says she will be taken seriously. Lists other precedents.
    I can't hear the question because my spouse just had to come home and sit down next to me, turn the TV down and call in his back thing with the speaker phone on. What is a disgrace?
    We need to talk to Iran and Syria? Yes, Barack, this is right. Give them responsibility. Good.
    Hillary gives a better answer. An answer details the careful way these situations, meeting with controversial leaders, need to be handled. Awesome. Better.
 John? Weird answer, tries to separate himself, and moves the question onto how US can restore credibility. Needs to be addressed, if off-topic.
    More discussion on Iraq pullout from Dodd. Bill Richardson. Too severe a pullout he wants. Holy Yoda. But Yoda was more wise than his plan to pull out. We need to, but need to do some humanitarian work, too.
    Biden shows Richardson the  unrealistic errors of his pullout ways. Actual decent point about the funding for the war.
    Senator Clinton. Defines her plan as something different, admits, lol like I did, that Joe is right. Heightens the issue to how we need to work with all people in government. The need to save Iraqi lives and American lives. Flawless.
    Dennis DuBois beats the dead horse of his text messaging. Lol. He doesn't belong here.
    Commercial.
    Decent commercial from Gravel. Too bad he's too dangerously like George W. Bush to ever be taken seriously. I'd like to; but it would be dangerous, and wrong, because of his anti-diplomatic extremism. What is best must overcome what is wrong.
 Teacher question. Love it. Please oh please have everyone answer it. Damn. I missed what Gravel got a laugh for, cause hubby needed me in the kitchen.
    No child left behind, Mr. Richardson. Scrap NCLB. Yay. Cites it's faults (lack teacher training, penalizes schools that are already not doing well. Good answer. Awesome answer. The best he's done all night, a night where I've lost even more like for him. The arts. Yay.
    Biden talks about partaking in the NCLB mistake. Decent answer and explanation.
    Dinner break took did not mean that we didn't still watch it.
    Obama was okay on the environment, Hillary excelled, such a damn good speaker, is why I support her.
    They're all very good on the minimum wage, but they're bickering amongst each other.
    Social Security. Obama's doing better than he has all night, and he's been seriously struggling.
    Taxes? Okay, necessary, but why aren't these people talking about health care.
     Dennis answers decently, albeit slightly confused.
    Finally. Health care. Obama answered well, good, with a decent plan. Edwards clarifies that it is not universal health care, because it is not mandated that everyone is covered. He did better. And Hillary did best, giving a mammoth wonder of a perfect answer.
    Gun control. I have to give it to Biden, his response was wonderful.
    This ending question, turning to the next candidate and saying one positive and one negative. This is why Gravel is an awful candidate, the negativity. All except him did excellent with the question.
At the moment's end, I call it this way:
Winner: Hillary Clinton
Runner up: John Edwards
Second runner up: Barack Obama
Third: Joe Biden
Fourth: Dennis Kucinich
Fifth: Chris Dodd/Bill Richardson
Last place: Mike Gravel
    

    At all the Democratic debates, he's been there. Standing on the end, angry, shouting, screaming to be heard. His name being neither Clinton, Obama, or Edwards he, logically and of course, has no shot in hell at being elected to the office of president of the United States.
    But that doesn't mean we can't, for these moments, take the former Senator from Alaska seriously. When listening to Mr. Gravel, the overwhelming feeling one comes away with is that, regardless of for what, this man cares. About what he screams about, about the heated insults he hurls and the issues he speaks of. A part of the end of the Vietnam war during his time in the Senate, Mr. Gravel is adamantly anti-war, and speaks, he thinks, to the issue most directly. Furious that Congress will not excise power of the purse and cut off funding for the war, thus ending American involvement in the conflict, Gravel sees Senators Clinton, Obama, Dodd, and Biden, along with Congressman Kucinich and lets even throw former Senator Edward in there as incompetent idiots who aren't dealing with the problem in a more acceptable, direct, and immediate manner. In fact, during the first debate, he commented that he wondered how any of these people got to where they are now, being that they are so incompetent and ill-equipped for their job, along with performing it piss-poorly.
    With a voice so radical, so direct, it's a surprise more people aren't paying attention to him or getting behind his candidacy. In supporting candidates for the race next year, there seem to be more camps of Democrats than there are Senators in the Senate. You have your girls and guys who support either Hillary and/or Obama and all they stand for; you have your supporters of Biden and/or Kucinich, often for reasons that while they are a huge part of the establishment, they aren't the front-runners like Clinton-Obama-Edwards. And you don't have much else, aside from, well, those who want to draft Oprah and Bono to run on a joint ticket. This is not to say Gravel doesn't have support; his latest Internet video seems to be making quite a stir, one he let two art students make of/for him. In the video, he stares at a camera, directly, for quite sometime; a minute or two. And then he walks over to water, and throws a boulder in. A metaphor as subtle as Liberace's sexuality, it suggests a vote for Gravel is, at the very least, a vote to cause a stir and commotion. And, this viewer thinks, a vote for change.
    However, the "change" posed by a Gravel presidency would be a change only in men, presidents, ideology-- and it would go full circle, and return to exactly the climate we have now in this country, under George Bush. Yes, I am saying Gravel is an antithesis of George Bush; but, however, they are the same kind of men.
    Arrogant tyrants. They accept no dissent of any kind; any people-- the American people, the international community, members of the United States Senate-- who disagree with them are not only wrong: they're idiots who don't deserve to be listened to, treated fairly, or given equal time to speak their minds. No ounce of logic could ever dissuade them from these mindsets; you can't confuse these guys with the fact. Or rationality. All of the ways Gravel seems to think the only-- and his or the highway-- ways of ending American involvement in Iraq involve the immediate decision of Congress to cut off funding for the war, and in his mind end the war. His mind, for any way in which the US withdraws troops from Iraq, ending their involvement is no end to the war; only America's direct part in it. Were every American soldier and member of the military to leave Iraq tonight, the war would still rage on; a war we did not start, but a war we fueled nonetheless-- one we complicated, threw new logs on to the fire. For whatever our twisted reasons were, we decided to interfere in Iraq, and overthrow the Iraqi government, on the basis that, for better or worse, we knew better. We knew better, and would bring them the godsend of democracy, and help them become a stable, functioning, and safe country.
    But now that the country's dictator is disposed, the internal civil war of the country continues, rages. The simple solution the Bush administration either stupidly believed or evilly duped the world into thinking they believed has been proven able to never be. The problem in Iraq, once mainly internal, has now been made into a global issue, problem-- and there is no easy, painless, solution without sacrifice in sight. We broke the country of Iraq; we were wrong, but we did what we did. We must, truly, be humanitarians at some point and help our fellow neighbors, Iraq. Especially since we helped descend their country into the widespread bloodshed of this civil war.
    So Senator Gravel's solution to this problem is supremely cynical. Leave now, with the men and women we still have, and try not turn our heads over our shoulders as we hear the screams of Iraqis-- innocent and not, and in between-- as they are slaughtered. As evil as the Bush administration's decision to go to war was, as moronic, careless, and wrong, we cannot do what we did and leave, completely, suddenly. Sure, there is something to be said for the idea that this world is so badly off, that the concern that we, as a country, America, cannot do anymore, and must leave countries and peoples completely behind in their suffering; but we have not reached that point yet. We are still alive, we still have resources, we have not descended into apocalyptic chaos like in Cormac McCarthy's recent Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction, "The Road." We can help.
    Which is why, when taking Mike Gravel seriously, I cannot help but think the ideas he fights so passionately for irrational. Candidates like Barrack Obama, Hillary Clinton, and even-- I think, though I'm never sure what he thinks-- John Edwards-- understand the need for moderate, time-tabled withdrawals. Not to mention, they understand the fact that in order for Congress to get anything done on the war, they must agree. It is not the fault of two Senators running for President, or the Speaker of the House, or even the Democrats' that the Congress can't get anything done; especially with the Democratic majority sporting such a slim majority, living in such a heatedly, diversely divided political environment. These other candidates understand this, that one man cannot be a change, as he burns bridges and touts only his own horn. In fact, that's the simplest concept of politics. In order to do anything and, more importantly, in order to do anything right, you need to work with all people, peoples. You cannot raise to glory, be elected to office, and blaze a path of needed change the way you see it, for you know what is better, for all issues, for all people. Not only because that would make you George W. Bush, but because (as he seems to not understand), this country has a system of checks and balances-- while often abused-- designed to protect the other guy, the other people, the others side or sides. In solving any problem, especially what to do about a war, one must consider the validity of all sides, and the level ground in between. Its just simple knowledge of the world, of people, of paths to change and paths out of problems.
    And this is why, when I see Mike Gravel ranting and raving during a Democratic presidential debate, I feel a need to take him seriously. And not just as a caricature of a raving old man. As he so obviously cares about what he screams of. And this is why I take him seriously, and this is why I see him as dangerous. As George W. Bush.
    And, given the little support he has, I feel America has come to understand this, too.
    God bless America. And, whoever is up there, if you are, please let us not make the mistake another time. Let us elect a healer, a uniter. Not a divider.

     Working in politics, like I do, saying that you meet a lot of people as an unjust understatement. You meet all people, from all walks of life, creeds, and minds. This immersion I've done over the last year and a half, of entering the world of politics, has been one of the most altering, enlightening, confusing and fulfilling experiences of my life; and that I get to meet all people is a dominant factor in that.
    I mention this because a few weeks ago, I attended a fundraiser the likes of which I hadn't yet seen. Of course, I've been to fundraisers like and unalike to it; it was this particular group of people that struck me. The event took place in the rented out community room/cafeteria of an Orthodox Church of some kind (I'm not good with religious specifics), and was put on by a woman, an activist, who leads many different groups and does good, community oriented work, over on the East side. I wondered why this East side group was coming to a church on the northern side of town, near some of the most affluent areas in Buffalo, but soon I realized, as is always the case, just up the street, a traveling ways, you come to a different neighborhood, the East side.
    Now, no neighborhood can be judged, especially by me. But the East side is an area which has faced tremendous social problems; mainly, quality of life issues, like crime and decreased public safety, the loss of business. However dire their situation is, though, the tremendous people of their community, like the woman who organized this fundraiser, have stepped up to the plate and done, and continue to do, astounding work.
    Knowing all this, and retaining this knowledge even after the event, prepared Tom and I nothing for the culture shock we endured. I've been to fundraiser's where the price was more than 100 dollars a person, and I have to say: this woman's, with a 20 dollar suggested donation, had some of the best food (soul food) I've ever had.
    The people, though, included several characters the likes of which are hard to describe. Tom and I sat at a table with the woman who does the event, and her friend. Also seated at the table was a young man in glasses and a sweater vest on a warm summer's (albeit rainy) day, another quiet-appearing woman, an older man, and an older woman. The older woman who, from listening to her thick Maine accent, appeared to have dropped out of a Stephen King novel. Quickly, as we were introduced, a conversation was struck up, and all these people seemed to be so nice. We found out the older man and woman were husband and wife, and their adopted son, with disabilities, was the one in the sweater vest. Exchanging stories, these people revealed themselves as kind, loving, fun, and all around good people.
    That was until the subject of politics, and how that world often intrudes into the realm of the personal as that is what it is, came up. The woman who appeared to be quiet until then, randomly, in the spirit of conversation, announced. "Well, there is something I would like to denounce. I don't know if anyone was listening to [some obscure radio station] at six this morning, but the state assembly just passed gay marriage, and it could be legal after the Senate votes on it."
    A reference to our wonderful governor here in NY doing what no other sitting governor has done: introduce legislation to make gay marriage legal. The state assembly passed said legislation, but the Senate broke for summer recess, and will likely not debate or vote on it any time in the near future. However, it is tremendous progress.
    Her denouncement erupted a whole fury of discussion, support, at the table. Tom, the woman who ran this thing's friend, and I remained silent. As declarations of how evil Eliot Spitzer, our governor is, were hatefully spewed forth, by these people who truly did not understand what they were talking about, people so adamant on hating a man they never met. People who declared the evils and disgusting nature of homosexuality. At one point, I felt like snagging a line from the divine TV show "Six Feet Under," and standing up and saying, "I'm gay. This is my husband. And we have sex. A LOT. And it's really, really gay." I had not felt so outcasted since high school, when Mr. Wel and a guy in my class were agreeing on how wrong homosexuality is, and how 'something always has to happen, some trauma, to make people think that way.' Never had I been so personally offended by people I liked since then, until this fundraiser. My instant reaction, and I cannot, rationally-- er, well, exactly, explain this, was to grab Tom, and find some broom closet somewhere, and just-- have sex. It was bizarre. But I kept thinking that: "We need to get out of here, these people could never understand...."
    I was about to speak up, when Tom cut me to the chase, telling the woman who'd started the discussion how Spitzer, a good man, was trying to be diplomatic and give people equal rights. This they did not hear, in any capacity, as she heatedly fired back at my partner "Read your Bible! Read your scripture!"
    At this, we realized the battle was lost before it could ever begin. The woman, and the boy's mother, then launched into the evils of Spitzer's supporting of reproductive rights. And how partial-birth abortion consisted of waiting until the baby was born, then having a hole drilled in it's head, and the brain "sucked out." At this point I was beginning to be scared, but they were busy away calling Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, my girl, a "vile evil devil woman sent straight from Satan" for supporting abortion rights. This particularly struck me, as unbeknownst to them, I was with Senator Clinton a little over 24 hours earlier, joking with the vibrant, warm, and sincere woman and having a brief mini-discussion, and I wondered what they would have said to me knowing I took a smiling picture in the sunny outdoors with her hours earlier, work for her, support her whole-heartedly and, perhaps mostly importantly, with my whole mind. But you needn't have met the woman to know she is not evil, nor are the things she supports and advocates for, the change she tries to work toward.
    Tom and I were silent the rest of the time we were there. At one point, a man who ran for judge last year came in with his children, and we said hello, and he told us he remembered us from the Stonewall Democrats' endorsement process last year. Which, I'm sure none of the people who heard were aware of, what Stonewall is (gay democrats).
    When we finally left, and headed home in the car, we were laughing our asses off. All the way home. But the laughter stopped, and afterwards, we were left with the sobering reality of the reality we'd just encountered. How can change be brought to fruition, when people are so senselessly, adamantly, opposed to what they don't understand, and unwillingly to gain the education that would help them come to understand? Quite frankly, how can equal rights be gained when majorities believe their creator did not create all men and women equal.
    This question I'll never find an answer for, I fear. It shadowed us a good portion of the ride home, with its silence, its confusion.
   

    I'm having none of some of Michael Moore's new film "Sicko."
    I consider myself a fan of Moore's, and consider "Bowling for Columbine" and "Fahrenheit 9-11" to be important, if still hugely flawed, films. Those efforts are, however, much harder to fault than Michael's latest on the US Health Care system, even though "Sicko" itself is a truly important film.
    Let's start with the bad, the automatic 10 point docking. It's hard to consider most of Moore's work an actual documentary, as one constantly has to be aware of his agenda(s), and the conflicts of interest and so on that easily result from those. There's much information in his films, and documentary content; however, it's hard to honestly label some of his work as such, a documentary. Case in point, "Sicko" is proudly, from my view, one-sided. There's no question in my mind some of the horror stories described in the film are horrendously indefensible; but that in no way means that the other side is not afforded their say.
    But, for the truly great parts of the film, that's okay. Because the film as a whole gets a message out there, the general idea that health care systems in this country are crap and need to be fixed. The victims' of the system(s) stories, as depicted by Moore, are truly moving. To the point where you want to leave the theater and go out and change the world before stopping to throw out your popcorn container. The instances of the woman's husband being denied life-saving care and thereby dying, the mother's daughter suffering the same fate, and the list continues, makes you feel sorry to be a part of the human race, a being who looks like others who are so infected with evil, greed, and their main cause: stupidity. Health care reform is a topic long overdue for a true, vibrant, beating debate in this country. Sure, we listen to our presidential hopefuls mention it, but until now it has largely gone unheard, due to the appeal of other issues. Iraq, terrorism, activist judges, activist attorney generals. For unknown reasons, health care is often not included among those, the most important; but maybe, hopefully, it will know. The information that moves the heart as presented here by Moore is a wonder, commendable, for if enough people see this film, health care will be discussed. Passionately, constantly, and informed. People will learn their opinions as intimately as the ones they possess on equal rights, the war, abortion.
    But I can't let Moore off so easily. Granted "Sicko" is a documentary that takes liberties with the truth, I found an instance of bias a bit troubling, one where Moore's own feelings trumped the issue; and he drew lines in his head with only his ideas found in said head and decided they're facts, and tried to spin them as such.
    The issue I'm talking about is his treatment of Senator Hillary Clinton. That Clinton has been donated to in large number by the health care field is in no way an indictment that she has been 'bought' etc, as Moore tries to allude to. I laughed out loud at that scene/twisting of facts. Hillary has never been silent on health care (another statement by Moore's film). Of course she is quieter now; after the beating she received while finding out an 'independent,'  single person cannot bring about health care reform in this country, she had no choice but to take another route. And that is what she has been doing, establishing her own, individual political identity. Health care has always been an important issue to Hillary, and that she has such difficulty getting anything done, whether it be on her own or now as a part of the government, is hardly something to fault her for. Especially if you're a filmmaker who wants to look out for the guy you're supporting next year, to try and cast Hillary as a bought and silent part of the evil system she has warred, and is warring, against so passionately throughout her career, her life is.... sleazy. And Moore's better than that. If only, if not for that misrepresentation of her, Moore's spin, "Sicko" could rise to great heights, near to his other work. Had he depicted the whole picture of Hillary, explored why she did things, and how now that she's rising in the government she is becoming a part of what she believes should be change so that she can change, I would feel comfortable calling "Sicko" a marvel of a film.
    However that is not what he did. Nevertheless, Moore's effort here is by far commendable, and the one true must-see film of the summer. Sure, it's not perfect and occasionally fails-- but when it works, it works on levels of informing and educating people, plus instilling within them the drive to discuss these issues further and advocate change; and those levels I've rarely, if ever, seen such art do.
    My final thought is this: go see "Sicko" if you haven't already. You will be moved, unless your heart is made of stone and/or brick. But afterwards, when you're so inspired to go out, kick ass and take names, do so. Do so by continuing the discussion, further informing yourself, and refusing to let the issue of health care in the US take a back-burner seat again.

    I doubt I've seen the concept before. Director set out to do a biopic using the surreal and (pardon my French) mindfuck genre. Part fairy tale, part fable, part tale of journey to self discovery and artistic expression (as well as part biopic, too; let's not forget that), "Fur" is a remarkable film.
    My personal disadvantage when it comes to Diane Arbus is my lack of knowledge about her actual like-- something that is even worse for the wear after my viewing this film. And that doesn't have to be a bad thing. In high school, I stumbled across some of her pictures; became weired out by some, fell madly in love with others. One in particular featured an elderly woman in a wheel chair, in the background a wall and the shadow of a tree, who happened to be wearing a Halloween witch's mask. From that one picture, I felt I had a pretty good idea of Arbus; the world, her and its secret, that she wanted to show us, the rest of the world. Masking versus reality versus perception versus myth. All too complicated to ever describe, all captured beautifully in that one, single snapshot.
    To my great surprise, this is exactly the feeling the film left me with. I have to admit, I'm a huge Nicole Kidman fan. Her work over this past decade and right before the turn of the century-- "Eyes Wide Shut," "Moulin Rouge!," "The Others," "The Hours," "The Human Stain," "Birth," "Cold Mountain," and "Dogville" have all bee uniquely, in completely different ways, terrific. The girl knows how to pick a script, a director, her co-stars. And in this film she delivers yet again. As this film's fable version of Diane she excels; taking the journey from repressed, unhappy housewife to personal, artistic liberation and freedom beautifully, truthfully.
    She does this in the midst of a terrific cast of other actors, led mainly by Robert Downey Jr., who plays Lionel, a man with the rare condition of having mass hair grow all over his body, who moves into the apartment above the repressed and searching Diane. What follows takes place on the stage of children's fairy tales; the same tales one imagines the film version of Arbus (and, quite probably, the real woman, as well) has left behind, forgotten, or considered useless, as she has reached a stage in her adult life where nothing she has seen-- or has been allowed to see, rather-- will satisfy, complete her. Using the timeless language of classics "Alice in Wonderland" and "Beauty and the Beast" among others, the film takes this woman, longing to express herself, and sends her through a journey of liberation where she literally follows the white rabit down the hole, to the beast's chamber. To his heart.
    Quirky, weird, at times brilliant, gorgeous, and surprisingly moving, "Fur," is an experience that anyone even remotely interested in the artistic experience (or, maybe better, state of mind) should consider.

Photo by Diane Arbus, of course.

... among whom? This is going to be funny, as with a few exceptions of some new friends I've made on here, this journal has sort of been me talking to no one, keeping track of things for myself. Still unsure of what I will end up doing with this, but, though I made an entry some time ago saying I would try and post something-- a journal entry, other memory, book or movie or music review, fiction, non-fiction-- each day in order to keep myself in the writing mode; editing, writing, editing and revising.
    So I have not kept up too well with that. But now that's good news!
    I've been doing what I haven't done, regularly, in a terrible long time I think, if measured, would horrifically end up being a year or more.
    I've been writing. Intensely. My fiction. It's not the story I've had in mind all this time-- but rather, a new one that I began thinking up only a few weeks ago. As if anything of mine would actually come to any consequence, in my mind, especially, what I'm writing now is, and never will, come to any consequence. However, I'm writing. Again. Coming home.
    And it feels wonderful.

 Like many things, never have I thought that possessing the feeling of 'gay pride' was for me. Do not get me wrong, like so many do; no, I do not hate myself, nor am I a self-hating gay, or even trying to justify some type of inner closet that I somehow must be in if that is how I feel. I am in no way ashamed, there's nothing wrong with being gay- my god, I know that to be the most integral of truths, and have never advocated, in any way, for anything else.
 But I just don't feel that I'm special due to that part of who I am; no more than I don't feel special, proud, to be a man. Or a blond, caucasian, you name it. I'm proud of the accomplishments I have made in life, and I'm proud that I have survived. And that my sexuality is merely a small part of that whole, that all of who I am.
 So I've never felt comfortable with the concept of 'gay pride,' in the strict form I thought was the only option it could ever take.
 This past Sunday, I had something of an expanding experience. Not necessarily eye-opening, as the revelation, small epiphany, was no sudden discovery of new but rather an added light which helped me to a view I'd never expected to exist.
 I marched in Buffalo's Gay Pride Parade. With the 'Stonewall Democrats of Western New York," the local chapter of the national organization of gay democrats. The often maddening organization, that is. Prior to joining Stonewall, I was no such illusioned person, who expected idealistic results and processes out of the political group; I knew the world, and I knew politics well enough to know better. However, the organization still found ways to surprise me; with its dysfunction, corruptness, and otherwise self-destructive practices. The group is basically owned by a certain local political group-- but that I won't get into. I still attend meetings, but I don't know for how much longer. If things go on like this, I can't imagine myself staying.
 Regardless, I marched with them, alongside a number of politicians who wanted to march with us. Tom walked up front and carried a flag with the president of the group; I kept tabs in back, holding a sign, rounding out our group, and falling behind as I waited for our politicians to catch up with us, as they were quickly introducing themselves/shaking hands with the crowd.
 While some candidates like Jim Keane, a sincere and good guy who's running for County Executive, marched ahead of the group and not with us, in a bizarre move which was, needless to say, confusing, as it appeared he was marching for his own pride, and not with Stonewall. Democratic primary rival Paul Clark (also an ECE candidate) marched, too, as did City Comptroller Andy San Filippo and State Senator Antoine Thompson. Peter Savage, Niagara District Council candidate, also made an appearance, and his primary opponent, David Rivera, also made an appearance at the rally afterward.
 None of that will mean anything to anyone outside the Buffalo area, but I felt I had to mention each man's name, as I grew newfound respect for each one of them. Walking with us, in the parade, was a huge deal. To walk with us, standing together against the few disturbed souls who shouted from random corners that we need to repent, shame on the candidates, and other hateful wretch that doesn't matter. The true leadership each candidate showed made me proud to literally carry their water (on the pack on my back I carried enough for the group); their courage and strength was undeniable.
 So I was walking, the decent hike from Kleinhan's Music Hall to Bidwell Park. And heard 'thank you' and 'you're beautiful' from the crowd.
 And I felt good. Energized, out there, me, displayed, here; enough to want to go back into Stonewall, with this spirit and energy, and try and change for the better, make some good out of the muck. Simply put, I felt proud to be out there, with friends, with Tom, walking arm and arm at the end into the rally.
 When we did that, he leaned in and told my ear how proud he felt right then, with his boyfriend here. To which, I had to quip, 'Is it awkward with the both of us here?'
 All kidding aside, the feeling I felt, the pride, the strength, the overwhelming sense that I was here, I had made it somewhere, a part of myself was established, among friends and lover, and here now, is something I can't translate into words, an entry. Every attempt I've made since Sunday has failed; I'm guessing this will have to suffice.
 When I think about Pride, now, I think differently. 'Gay pride' doesn't have to pride in one's self; it can be an overtaking rush of energy, world pride, and empowering strength given by, and made for, a group. Absolutely, being gay is a huge part of my life. Obviously, it's no longer relegated strictly to the sexual part of my life, as I'm in such a committed relationship, one so deep it contains sexuality yet rises above and beyond, with, at the same time. I've always been an extremely sexual person, and always held the belief that I would not let that define me, while not keeping it a part of my life I felt any shame over. Because I never have. But now, a part of something greater and larger, I feel 'pride' in the world; that me and everyone who positively took part in the parade exist, together, and have the power to stay this way, and continue to change. All for the better, progress everyday.
 It goes a long way for feeling 'normal,' too, I've noticed. Now, certainly being gay is normal; but it is different, and there are aspects of the life, especially in my situation and age, that are widely different, but at the rally, Tom and I saw our neighbors, Adrianna and Joe, a beautiful couple our age, with her beautiful daughter Emma. Seeing their new family alongside the one Tom and I are creating, equal, at a festival one day in the park; something just quietly struck me about that. Something united, something supportive, something real.
 Something to build a life on.

 Always have been.
 I don't know what it is, but as I woke up this morning and felt the grey, wet world pressing breezily on by outside my window, I felt a happiness, a contentment that a sunny day could never give.
 I love the dark, the rain, the washing, the smell of a coming storm, the wind through the trees, pushing strong gusts of water through the world. There's just a special something so unique. Mystic, ancient, untamable, and furious about a rain, a storm. The skies letting go and admitting their strain, the heaviness of the world's pain.

And I didn't have to click my heels once.
 Earlier this week, I went home for what amounted to a short evening visit. The bitterest of sweets the whole time, my mother curious, cautious, with a need to want to be respectful fighting one that wanted to know. But even with the discomfort, the details of my life I thought we were not yet ready to openly discuss, I loved every minute of it. Because it was home.
 I never officially moved out, though I really have. My room still exists, with a great deal of my stuff. Most of which I can't bring myself to take because that will make it, finally, though truly rather powerlessly, official. Before I let the evening of the best conversation on other areas of life, the world, books, film, poetry, politics, and punditry, I went upstairs to grab a few shirts for the warm weather which pounced on us earlier this week. Some t-shirts and polos. I didn't take any of the shorts my mother had laid out on the bed, in part because it takes me a while to get into wearing shorts during the summer, for some reason I don't like wearing them; but also, in part, so that I would have to come back. Like this.
 Into my bag, I put a few books and a movie, all of which I could not see myself using/experiencing in the near future-- right now, I just don't have time, the weekends are busy, the weeks are worse-- but I took them anyway because they reminded me of home and I felt like I needed them. But I know I can't take that feeling with me, anywhere, beyond those doors of my father and mother's.
 The hardest part was actually walking out the door. I'm young, I realize that, this is a first. None of that is a consolation to my pain, my heartache, when I think of how it once was to live under that roof, with those people, like that, and how it will never be again. Some nights, when my boyfriend is asleep and I'm lying in the new home of our bed, I still wonder, beyond all reason, how it would feel to be back home in my little single bed again, falling asleep. To a morning when I would wake up, say a Sunday, and my mother would be downstairs making eggs, my father sprawling the paper out over the table all the while not meaning to, just trying to stay current with each section. Those days, were the family, in any capacity, to do something together, the possibilities were endless. Going out for breakfast, even to church, to the movies, to a park, a relative's house, a relative's house for a party; anywhere. On days which weren't Sundays, my mother and I would make trips to the library, selecting one or more out of a number of locals branches, and spend an hour there, too. For the last few years before this move out, I always said good night to my mother on my way up to my room (or out from it), as she goes to be at 11, far too early for me. I just realized how much I missed that.
 How much I missed all of it. I'm happy, now, beyond what I thought any life of mine could offer. I love my life, my boyfriend, the life we've built and continue to build on together. But, while my number of years here may be shallow to some, I've lived enough. To know that all happiness is possible, in the face of the bitterest losses. What I'm going through with my family, with moving out, might not to many be a "loss," but rather a change of sorts, with the loss of a lifestyle. I understand that, but it means a bit more to me.
 From this post of happiness I can look back on my life, and see other happinesses which have come before, and gone, in there different ways. Always, I'll feel the ache of these, no matter how strong the sun on my back, how much it covers me.
 When I went to walk up to the transit station, I decided to go up the street behind my house, walk up memory lane, past the houses where all my friends from childhood once lived.

 This past weekend, my boyfriend, Tom, decided it would be a good idea to take Chelsea to our area's White Party, at Club Marcella's here in Buffalo. Chelsea is a new friend of ours we met through our political volunteering, and T rationalized that it would be nice to take her (a lesbian) out for the party, the Memorial Day weekend. Being that she was away from family over the course of the campaign (she's not from here), and it was a long holiday weekend.
 "But the White Party?" I pleaded. "I'd rather eat nails."
 But, being the good boyfriend/partner/"husband" whatever it is that I am in spirit and name, I relented, as he was intent on taking her out, to the party, and then out to one or more of the local girls bars to show her around. Nice enough, I figured, and I'd endure.
 So I gathered together my white dress shirt, pants, boxer-briefs (lol, dork), socks and sneakers, and grinned. Bared.
 For, you see, the scene which would be part of the White Party is not my scene, in any way. It's not that I'm uncomfortable-- once, that was me. Surely, before I ever stepped foot in a place like that I always thought I'd feel ridiculous, and I did, the first time.
 Many years ago, and by many I only mean a few-- my freshman year of college-- I fell into that. Going out, partying. Taking all afternoon to get ready, head out to club. Get in, and be so nervous I'd swear I could hear my heart beating as this guy started to smile at me, dance with me. Look me over and put his hands on me. All night, it seemed, I'd stay out. The sun rising meant sleep, rest so you can do it all over again tomorrow.
 And I fell into that like an addict. And in a way, I was. Going through high school, being alone, feeling alone, inside, I for some reason never thought I'd connect with the world outside, and beyond. I knew a gay life and culture existed... and yet from some mental block I never looked at much in question, I always knew I could never go out and be a part, find people like me. So I fell into what appeared to be the first thing I found: a scene, going out.
 Thank god I made it out. Because, while it's fun to sweat the shirt off your back with a guy on the dance floor, never would there be a permanent place for it in my life. I would not allow it. I wouldn't want it, it wouldn't work. I missed classes, so many because I either had a hangover or couldn't get up in time; so many missed classes, I had to withdraw from far too many classes. And after a while I got bored, as I so often do, and yearned for something greater in my life. To go more seriously for a career, to go to school and attend classes, not just part.y.
 And while I'm not one to say if coincidences exist or not, I doubt it was one when a boy a few years older than me walked into my life that day, and held me after. With his arms, with his mind, with his unexpected, vibrant possibilities. I haven't let him let go of me since.
 It's not so simple, that I equate meeting T with the end of my party days. In the early days of our relationship, we went out, and the lifestyle of missing classes did not immediately discontinue, as the experience of waking up with new love, and choosing to fall back asleep with him till noon, when we'd slowly shower and leave the apartment for lunchtime breakfast, appealed to me far more than being taught the American Revolution again. Even the class which interested me and held my interest I didn't, and still don't, care about missing. Because while my life was not so simple that it's possible to equate Tom and the end of my party days, Tom coming into my life contributed, in a big way, to meaning re-entering, in a way I hadn't let it before. It was just the simple tired cliche that, at that time everything was changing, meaning more to and for me, and for the better. The happiness in my life, that complicated and much wrestled-with issue, is a many splendored, many factored thing. Tom contributes in a huge, impossible way to my happiness. As does finding meaning with my life, pursuing school, my writing, my political work. Relationships with my family and other friends. It all started coming together, big time, the light bursting in at just the right time--
 And where was I again? Oh, the White Party. And how the club lifestyle is great for some people, but something I'd like to leave behind. Because, now, for the most part, it just annoys me.
 So, because T wanted to, we went to the White Party. And I survived.
 But this whole "scene," this lifestyle... now makes me feel like I need a walker, and I get such a kick out of that. Not physically, because we stayed out late, and got considerably hammered, but the morning after, it's like 'Why?' A question which also ran through my mind when trying to talk to T, Chelsea, or anyone, and realizing it was futile, because the music was so loud the lyrics were no longer audible, and all that was was that beat.
 And during the drag show. When the club and night was at its peak, and the people literally were a sea you had to fight, paddle through, if you wanted to get anywhere. During this time, I felt a weird mix of 'oh my god, we're going to get crushed!' And 'oh my god, that guy who just walked past me, and felt me up on the way, can't be a day over 16!' Which happened quite a lot, the being walked past-felt up by every Joe Schmo who walked by, it seemed. And at first I felt annoyed, and then amused. As in, amused because they wouldn't stop, and why were they wasting there time on me when those go-go dancers in only the tight white were just over there, laughing my ass off.
 The most amusing tidbit came during drag show intermission, when some light dancing started to happen. And, crowded in as we were and I can't believe I'm writing this on the internet let alone anywhere, Tom and I started to just sort of sway to the music, with some light PDAs. A welcomed kiss, his hand over my shoulder. And the couple next to us consisted of a guy whom I was once in a relationship with, and that's putting it kindly. Many years ago. From what I have pieced together in running in to him at coffee shops and around town, he was in a relationship when he told me he wasn't. Always smiling, happy to see me it seems, till the guilt rushes over. So I never say anything beyond 'hi'
 To make a long story short, he (John) and his boyfriend were pushed in next to us, and started doing the same thing. And he looked at me with the dopiest smile, and we had a little oh so immature yet good-natured, boyfriend-PDA-sway dance off.
 The music beat, my man moved in closer to me, and we were both sweating from the heat when I realized something, about why I don't care for this scene anymore, why my life feels so much fuller now. Like I have all I need right now, and could ever want. And hopeful-- because that's all a person ever can do, hope-- that it all will last until tomorrow. And past, into the past and beyond. I felt the realization sweep over me like a wave of music and dance and strobe lights-induced sweat, like a gale of sunlight on a warm late May day.
 It's because all those things I felt like, the perfect, rare, feeling, was nothing 'like' anything I was those things, all. I was there, I'm here, I had, have, all those things. I knew this always, but it's comforting, life-affirming, wonderful to think these things, and have, every time you do, feel like a new realization, an epiphany of happiness.
 Even if it is on a ridiculous dance floor at quarter after one in the morning, a wine and a half already in me.   

Absolutely, "Out" magazine, because what you did was disgusting.
Some back story. Last month, or the month before, "Out" magazine, that national "representation of gay interests," did a horribly offense cover story, entitled "The Glass Closet." On said cover, were two models- one male, one female. One wearing a paper Anderson Cooper mask over his face, the other one of Jodi Foster. "Why some celebs won't come out and play."
Some may think, "Good for them, 'Out' should be making people a conversation and/or issue, there's nothing wrong with being gay so why not?"
I, on the other hand, am biased toward the stance that sees it as invasive, intrusive, repulsive, and violating. "Out" was using to celebrities who, to varying degrees, have sexualities which are a variety of open secrets. Cooper has on occasion, debatably when appropriate and necessary, been forthcoming about his sexuality. I believe, during a segment on his program once, Cooper told the late, no so great Reverend Jerry Falwell "we pay taxes, too," in reference to the gay community. This pronoun since has been edited out by CNN, and Cooper has continued to keep a more reserved tab on his sexuality and speaking about it in public. Foster has been more-- and by more I mean completely-- quiet about it.
But none of that matters. In defending the magazine's reprehensible actions, the editor (I believe) attempted to justify that, what they did was no big deal, because Cooper and Foster are probably out to their families and close friends.
Excuse me, no. That doesn't matter, either, because what you did and are continuing to defend, to my offense, is use something so personal and private to any person. "Out" took the sexuality that they have chosen not to talk about, for reasons which should be respected and left private, and decided to make an issue out of them, catapult it-- an it which would be the personal lives, careers and otherwise, of people--into the public eye. It matters not if it's an open secret, if the only thing the magazine did was spread the word further that some celebrities chose to keep his or her private life private. What they did was chose something, based in an issue so personal and private to any man or woman be they famous or not, made said person a political/public issue, against said person's will, and capitalized off of it. In money, in discussion. Vile. Some try to defend this by saying, 'Well, we hear about every heterosexual celebrity's sexuality, so that makes it right.' I have no sympathy for this, either, for even if some stars' sex lives are shoved down our throats, that does not make it right. Whether it is Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt choosing not to go public with their relationship during its early stages, or Jodie Foster decided that in the public eye she will do the work, acting, that she is so talented with and only that, or Anderson Cooper deciding to be a true, idealistic reporter and put all the news before and in place of his personal identity and persona, opting not to make himself a spectacle of news (as so many "news reporters"/commentators, tragically, do today)-- or me, in my own life, deciding what stages in the coming out process and I in, or will eventually, in time, come to, one thing remains the same. All those people, every one on this planet, should be left alone to make decisions, about their lives, by themselves. With the forceful, violating, capitalizing hand of no one else.
So, that got me rather angry, and I sent out an angry e-mail as a letter to the editor of "Out," the moment I saw the cover, read the story.
And a week or so later, got an email from an editor saying the magazine was interested in running my letter in the June issue, could I confirm everything.
So I did, and they did, too.
And my letter is first, right under a picture of the Anderson Cooper mask in "Out"'s June issue, with whoever Chad White is on a Daniel Radcliffe inspired Eqqus horse.
They captioned it with a smarmy "Shame on us!"
So, to them, to the people at "Out" who capitalized on personal privacy and violated decisions about people's lives by making them for them, absolutely yes.
Shame on you. And that is why I wrote this:

" Dear Editor,

I just wanted to register my immense disappointment on your recent "Glass Closet" cover and story, which instead of speaking for the gay community spoke out against us. I realize that the title of your publication is "Out," but I believe firmly that any organization which advocates for being out with one's sexuality should be understanding and sensitive to people's sexuality. It's not fair in the least for any publication to explore the motives behind any person's-- be they famous or not-- decision to not be publicly out. Given that Anderson Cooper and Jodie Foster are, to different degrees, something of an open secret, that still would not in any world give anyone the right to profit off their images by exposing them in such a public way. If either Foster or Copper had wanted to make big media coming out spectacles like Rosie O'Donnell or Lance Bass, as your publication is basically forcing on them, they would have already. To pry into something so personal and intimate about a person, and use that anything against them/without his or her permission is severely shameful.
And I don't say that a lot.
Thanks,
Bryan Ball
Buffalo, NY"
And had them publish it.

Since I'm not taking summer classes these next few months, I will have quite a lot of more intellectual free time. Much needed, thank god. Hopefully enough to carry me through next semester. So, since I don't know what I'll be need to read next semester, something I'd like to do, in order to get a head start, I've decided to pick my summer reading list. Let the joyous news be spread.
This summer, I hope to get around to reading:
-"Lisey's Story," by Stephen King (finish)
-"The Road," by Cormac McCarthy
-"The Thirteenth Tale," by Diane Setterfield
-"Middlesex," by Jeffery Eugenides
-"Water for Elephants," by Sara Guen
-"The Gravedigger's Daughter," by Joyce Carol Oates (TBA real soon)
-"The Historian," by Elizabeth Kostova
-"Boy Culture," by Matthew Rettenmund
-"Until I Find You," by John Irving
-"Was," by Geoff Ryman
-"Lost," by Gregory Maguire
-"Mirror, Mirror," by Gregory Maguire
-"The Alchemist," by Paulo Coelho
-"The Golden Compass," by Philip Pullman
-"The Satanic Verses," by Salman Rushdie
-"Jacob's Room," by Virginia Woolf
-"Orlando," by Virgina Woolf
-"The Gospel According to the Son," by Norman Mailer
-"Dispatches from the Edge," by Anderson Cooper
-"The Human Stain," by Philip Roth
-"American Pastoral," by Philip Roth
-"The Time-Traveler's Wife," by Audrey Niffenegger
-"Revolutionary Road," by Richard Yates
-"Atonement," by Ian McEwan
-"Gilead," by Marilynne Robinson
-"The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay," by Michael Chabon
-"The Secret Life of Bees," by Sue Monk Kidd
Now, it will be a wonder if I get through three or four of these, but if I do, and work on my own writing this summer, I'll be able to have something to show, of personal work to myself, for the directionless confusion I feel myself/life floating in currently, between semester, between bigger things....

So, I'm watching the wonderfully compelling train wreck that is "The View" this morning. And the main topic of discussion, brought up by the occasionally right, occasionally tragically wrong Rosie O'Donnell (see, her endorsement of Blake Lewis over Melinda Doolittle for American Idol, when she sank to Howard Stern levels and asked fans to vote for her favorite), concerned the subject of male nannies. Or, as the American lexicon that likes to shorten/combine things pushed the View girls to call it, "mannies." And their decisions/opinions/judgments fell right in with something I've been thinking, repeatedly, about lately.
They decided-- well, as always, Rosie did, and eventually convinced the other girls (save Barbara Walters) to follow suit-- that she/Rosie/they would never hire a male nanny for their kids. Because of the high incident of males being the more likely sex to molest a child. Joy or Barbara-- I forget who-- chimed in "Isn't that discrimination?" And they all agreed that yes, it was, and no, they would not ever hire a male to look after their children.
So, okay, yes. It's more than understandable that when it comes to a topic like this-- mothers/parents and the safety/well-being of their children-- statistics and/or profiling and the like does, and probably should, factor into the equation.
It's just... Rosie prides herself on being such a progressive person. And she is. Sometimes obnoxiously so. Case in point, her chiding of Ellen DeGeneres' situation, stating on her (Ro's) blog that Ellen is somehow contractually obligated to not talk about her sexuality on her talk show. Which may in some shades be true, but is pretty much a fallacy of the majority. Ellen talks all the time of her life-- her girlfriend/partner, that together they live on are a "we," never shying away from matters of homosexuality, and even having half a show on how, after she came out on her sitcom, neither she nor Laura Dern (who played her lesbian date for coming out show) were able to get work.
Which leaves it at this: Rosie must feel that if Ellen does as flamboyantly talk about her sexuality, like Rosie does, Ellen must be contractually obligated to not say anything. None of that makes very much sense, and who am I to know, but all this goes to question the fact of how progressive Rosie actually is, and what it means to be progressive, and what are the realistic expectations of both. For, given it's so rare that someone is the ideal, progressive and truly liberal in the highest sense of the word across the board, shouldn't they practice and preach what they do preach in all areas of their lives? Shouldn't Rosie, an advocate for lesbians and gays, fight to bring the way of free thinking to everything about her life? When the topic of male nannies came up, and Barbara asked if Rosie's reluctance was due to something gay/homosexual and then, possibly, having to do with pedophilia, Rosie came right out saying that being a pedophile and being gay have nothing to do with each other: the progressive spirit she loves to display. But that is where she stopped. Understandable, enough, because it concerns her children, and even the slightest statistical possibility. So let's just hope Rosie never hires a nanny who likes to take her clothes off and have kids climb all over her or, worse, shakes and hits her child. (Both real incidences of female nannies gone wrong.)
Her discussion got me thinking, how I try to-- ideally, and I fail-- apply such progressive principals to my life. I'm human, I fail, but I pride myself on being liberal, on being all-inclusive, on being so progressive-- all of which is the same thing. Though, compared to some areas of my world, I find myself always, at the heart of who I am, to be more ideally progressive than my surroundings. I'm reminded of the 2004 film "Crash," which won the Academy Award for best picture, contained fine staging and performances (along with some writing) that I admired greatly, but was in the end a morally bankrupt and offensive piece of art. Because it said, no matter who we are, we're all a little big racist, sometimes. Even "Avenue Q," a musical I love suggests that.
But I have no problem standing up to that belief and saying, "No, maybe for you but not all. Cause I'm not." Maybe it's where I was raised, maybe it's how-- and both or neither, but it doesn't matter; I am this way. Because someone is Black, Muslim, Hispanic, Male, insert societal group here, and looks suspicious I do not believe that they would be more likely to rob me, kill me, or molest the non-existent children I'll never have, anymore than someone who's say, a white Christian female, or any other combination of the tragically stereotyped "safe" majority. Because I've lived, and I've seen. Tragic actions come from hands and minds of all colors, variations. There may be something to say for statistics, for the safety that can come from following them, but on principal, and since statistics can never become the safest protection, a fact, I pride myself that I live my life with eyes that see everyone on equal ground.
However, I recently had an instance where I failed. Faltered a moment, and regained my balance. Here on LJ, I recently was friended by "queerbychoice." At first, her user name made me wary, and then I checked her journal, saw her organization, it's work, it's website. Which all sent me into a moral question of sorts, with my initial response, which was "I hope queerbychoice and her organization don't mean to imply that it's a choice for all people."
And then I listened to myself, made myself stop, to think. Just because I am one way, have one experience, does not cancel out all others. That is the same kind of prejudice that I have, and do, fight against just being gay. It was just like an event that happened several months ago on a soap opera an, er, friend of mine happens to like watching. On "All My Children," it involved a lesbian character who began to fall for a character who was a pre-op male to female transsexual lesbian. Fans, including members of the lesbian community, were outraged. Bianca (the birth lesbian) was just being thrown in a ridiculous storyline so that she could be paired with a man. An accusation I defended vehemently, as there are people in the world like that, and the characters of Bianca and Zoe played it realistically, and they even had chemistry.
And so I found myself accepting of the queerbychoice philosophy. There are room for all experiences, all creeds, all people under this son. And, right now as well as in the end, it's all good, as they say.
I try to live my life, my imperfect human life, by that, always. And I find it makes my time here all the better.