Which side are you on, gal? Straight Talk with Cynthia Nixon

By Otep Shamaya

It is with deep regret that I find myself scribing this, a retort, to the festering homophobic twaddle spewed by the heretic, Cynthia Nixon. My initial (atomic) reaction was to target my riposte directly to Ms. Nixon in hopes of reducing her to a symbolic smoldering lump of charcoal and ash. But after a week furiously writing a rancorous volume of jibes, aspersions, and insults all briared within a pummeling of common sense by endless Shiva fists, it occurred to me that this might be a rather meaningless effort. It may well be entertaining for some, and definitely uplifting for me (to vaporize her to cinder), but in all probability will never reach the yuppie fields Cynthia Nixon pollinates nor will it dissolve the veil of invincible ignorance she burqas herself in. She has released an update (of sorts) to her original statement but it's just a bunch of condescending hooey. As liberating as it might be for me to fire bomb Cynthia Nixon from my righteous perch it would be an unnecessary distraction for the Gay Rights Movement if everything erupted in civil war.

I will instead write this to you, dear queer family and friends, who are most likely to endure the cruel, heartless thugs who can justify their hate-mongering and bullying by virtue of Cynthia Nixon's outrageous and unbelievably obtuse declaration that being gay is a choice.

Let me begin with what most of us already recognize, no one chooses their height, their race, their gender, if they have freckles or not, if they are right or left handed, or their sexuality. You are who you are, be proud of that.

Cynthia Nixon claims that she chose to be straight, and then chose to be gay, and that the gay community ignores the fact that being gay is a choice. She further asserts that no one should be allowed to define, as she puts it, her gayness. These unbelievably vacuous statements are corrosive, grossly offensive, and, plainly put, baloney. We, the gay community, do not ignore the fact that it's a choice because it isn't. Being gay isn't a lifestyle or a fad. And we can certainly define "gayness" with firm clarity. If you are attracted to the same sex, you're gay. If you're not, you're straight. Simple enough. In fact, it's quite easy to define Cynthia Nixon. She's half-gay. She's bisexual. By her own admission she proves it. She's attracted to both genders with heavy tendencies toward women. Gay people are attracted to one gender, their own. It's a natural attraction, it's etched into our DNA, there's no choice involved. Who would choose to be a second-class citizen facing discrimination, bigotry, criminalization, injury or death? Or choose to have to endure the consequences when lobotomite heretics like Cynthia Nixon use their celebrity "gayness" to wag the dog and get the self-important, opportunistic media machines grinding? Though she may want to be gay, she isn't. She can't simply dismiss the straight half.

And she can't possibly believe that the children who have been and are currently bullied for being gay have a choice. That they should just stop behaving this way and choose to be straight. In this delicate, powder keg environment, she should know just how unbelievably dangerous fraudulent claims like this can be. She has given gasoline to the arsonists. Bullies and bigots everywhere will now have her words to encourage and justify their cruelty. She has given validity to the bigots and ignoramuses who make salacious claims that lesbians just haven't found the right guy yet or that children can pray the gay away. I won't go as far as some who claim she has wounded the movement with her sloppy, inaccurate pleas for inclusiveness but I will admit to a slight bruising.

At this very moment, the Conservative Christian Right is bottling up her words and preparing to use them whenever gay people demand equality. Even if one of their children happens to own that moment of courage to come out these bigots will use Nixon (as if we needed another bad example bearing this name) to justify sending those kids off to some detainment camp where they use all manners of torture to try to de-gay them. They will reference Cynthia Nixon (as a high profile and, in some circles, well respected actress) to cement their point that we (gay people) do not deserve equality or civil rights because we (gay people) choose this lifestyle as if it's as easy as choosing what to have for breakfast.

To be clear, I am not seeking to destroy the alliance and common experiences gay and bisexual people share by making this distinction. Bisexuals encounter similar discrimination and bigotry that gay people do. We are all fighting to rise out of this swamp of intolerance together. But it's important that we do not confuse the two as one and the same. Because for those of us who have no choice, who struggle to exist in a world that criminalizes, dehumanizes, imprisons, banishes, and sometimes murders GAY people, her words are infuriating, dumbfounding, dangerous, and intellectually absurd. Hopefully her silly proclamations will sink with the shrinking minority of hate-mongers into the sludge of our collective dishonorable history and berth atop other cultural fossils like segregation, miscegenation, and denying women the right to vote. 

***

Our current fight is to overturn DOMA (the Defense of Marriage Act) and secure equal rights for all citizens in all 50 states. Currently, convicted felons and serial killers on death row have more rights than gay people. They can hetero-marry and it's recognized on a national level. Those seeping colostomy bags from the Westboro Baptist Church who protest military funerals with signs reading GOD HATES FAGS have more rights than gay people. These vile, diseased sacks of skin can get hetero-married and it is legal in every state, but Cynthia Nixon's comrade costar (of Sex in the City) Mario Cantone and his husband lose their rights the moment they set foot outside of New York. Why? Because DOMA defines marriage between one man and one woman and because it's federal law, it surpasses state's rights.

In instances of immigration, gay couples have been torn apart because the Federal Government doesn't grant them the same rights as straight couples. Not even civil unions protect gay couples even though essentially ALL marriages are civil unions but again DOMA is the culprit. Remember, it's supposed to be All are created equal, not some. Besides, marriage equality won't redefine marriage as the loonies claim. As it happens, King David and Abraham (both Old Testament rock stars) defined marriage as one man and as many wives as they could afford. And marriage equality doesn't mean a gay invasion of churches where ministers will be forced to preside over same sex services. Do Baptist churches marry Hindu couples? Do Lutherans marry at synagogues? No, and as it stands there are plenty of churches for gay people all across this land that hold ceremonies for gay couples even now. But it's not just the ritual we want, it's legalization. We want equal rights under the law. Our current marriage laws are antiquated and in some cases, quite bizarre. It is legal in more states to marry your cousin than it is to someone of the same sex.

President Obama should take a stronger stance in favor of marriage equality. He is, after all, biracial and while his mother was pregnant it was illegal in some states (due to miscegenation laws) for her to be married to his father. It seems to me an easy act of empathy for him. This goes for the Tea Baggers, forgive me, the Tea Party, as well for it was taxation without representation that led to the American Revolution and eventual birth of our nation. Gay people are taxed the same as heterosexuals but do not have the same rights.

To any heterosexuals (straight folks) reading this that might agree with Ms. Nixon's statement that sexuality is a choice, the same principle must apply to you. Which means YOU are able to choose your sexuality and your choice is straight. But the choice COULD be gay.

Ask yourself this question, "When did you choose to be straight?" If you find this ridiculous then you know exactly how gay people feel when someone asks this of us.

It's true many people live half their lives only to finally come to terms with who they are as gay or bisexual people. The famed "late in life lesbians" illustrate this perfectly but this does not mean it was a choice. It means they are a side effect of a puritanical prison that forces people to remain invisible in order to survive. If we use racial heritage as an example, during the deplorable systematic scourge of Apartheid in South Africa, it was easier if a black African looked like a white African and could blend in with the reigning minority, but it did not stop them from being who they were. It was the result of existing in and being confined to an abominable social construct and social engineering of extreme discrimination. For a large portion of the gay and bisexual population, this is exactly how they survive. They pretend to be something they are not until, hopefully, they can find the courage to come out. Some never do. Some will remain pretending for the rest of their lives.

But that's not choice and that's not what Cynthia Nixon is referencing. She declared that the gay community ignores the fact that being gay is an option. I didn't choose to be a woman, I didn't choose to be gay, I didn't choose my Irish ancestry, these are not choices one can make. But you know what is? Religion is a choice. Writing this was a choice. Being gay is not.

In closing, dear readers, thank you for taking the time to let me inside your hearts and mind. Remember, there is nothing wrong with you. You are beautiful just the way you are. Let no one rob you of that. They bully and demean you because they envy you and how far you are on your journey of self-love and self-discovery while they are still fumbling and tripping over themselves to fit in. Let love permeate your soul and toughen your resolve. It gets better and better. I promise.

 Blurt blogger Otep Shamaya is frontwoman for heavier-then-heaven outfit OTEP. She's also the contributing Cultural Arsonist to our print magazine and penned the essay "Happiness As Defiance" for our last issue. Watch for #12 and more of her writings this spring on bookstore and assorted indie retailer newsstands.

TRUTH IS FRICTION / OTEP SHAMAYA

In a world where the likes of Rand Paul and Sarah Palin excel, where working people are the eager pawns for the filthy rich, where rats feed freely and the poor obey like insects, truth is certainly friction. In this case, the two opposing forces causing the friction are historical amnesia and pure pious stupidity.

This is not new. It has always been a vital part of our national identity: freedom for some, slavery for others, liberty for all - except women, indigenous tribes, slaves, gays, & the Irish. As a people, we tend to detest truth. Indeed, collectively, we are unwilling to see the forest for the matchsticks. What we desire is a given reality.

We are very much like a family who refuses to acknowledge that our shifty cousin Glenn has a gambling problem. So we sit, silently at the dinner table, avoiding the massive gorilla in the room contrived completely from the $14,000 in stolen retirement checks he nicked from Nanna. Do we address it? No, we just quietly pass the casserole and listen as the collective enamel scrapes over the cutlery.

But let's say this year, as you sit together round yon dinner table, something different happens. This year your bullshit quota overfloweth. So as cousin Glenn slugs back his fifth Pabst Blue Ribbon tall-boy, belching, and laughing loudly at his own poorly timed gynecological jokes with a mouthful of mashed potatoes and turkey tendons, you grimace, you can feel your entire body boiling towards a breaking point. 

Then you see ole Glenn lean over to ask Nanna if she has 40 bucks for another "sixer and a pack of smokes". 

Well, this is the moment.

Right here. Right now.

You push back from the crowded table, toss your fork to the plate and roar high and mighty, "Goddamn it, Glenn. You contemptible cunt! Stealing money from Nanna so you can play roulette at the Pink Palomino? She's on a fixed income you filthy bastard! Besides, roulette?? It's not even a game of strategy, you dick! If losing is your thing then I guess you're a professional, ay? Well, fuck off. Do you actually think we are all just gonna sit here and let you get away with this? Do you?? Well, I'm giving you one chance, you greedy pile of shit, to make this right. If you do not leave this table right now and find a way to repay her every single fucking cent, I am going to carve out both your eyes with this olive spoon and sell them to a couple of Serbian fellas I know who pay big bucks for usable organs and then do you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna march back into this house, step over your bloated body, and give that bloody money to Nanna. Are we clear, you syphilitic testicle? Or do I need to start prying out those baby blues?"

And just for good measure, you toss your mug of scalding tea into Glenn's great staring eyes and he runs out of the room screaming in agony. There's a moment of heavy silence and then chaos ensues.

It seems everyone was actually just going to sit there and let Glenn get away with it. Now the family erupts like a bunch of nervous baboons flinging their own excreta at a deadly cobra.

Insults hurl through the air. Poor Nanna is scrunching her sweater over her heart and Gramps is jumbling through his unbonded dentures for YOU to "GET THE FUCK OUT". Meanwhile, the other relatives are head-lighting you with harsh yellow judgmental scowls, whispering things like "unbelievable", "what a fiend" and "monstrous". Twenty minutes later, Nanna is on a stretcher with chest pains and you are being arrested for domestic violence against your degenerate cousin.

Is that fair? No. But this is how the responsible sect behave in a polite, civilized society. We must have selective blindness in order to survive. Anything else must be subjugated for the common good.

For example, if I was to state that American entertainment icon Michael "Jesus" Jackson died from an overdose of a powerful anesthetic injected into his candle colored arms every night so that he remained paralytic and unable to sleep-rape the children, I would be berated by the eager-doomed as a reprehensible miscreant only out to start trouble. 

No, no! It's far easier for them to believe Mr. Jackson had a severe case of restless leg syndrome so he had to be placed in a coma every night with enough drugs to vegetate a rhinoceros.

Another example would be if I said Sarah Palin believes the word America comes from the Bible or that she secretly hopes to start her own religious organization that is a sort of reverse Mormonism where the wife leads the household and has multiple husbands, or that she encourages her daughters to have anal sex instead of using condoms because she believes that it preserves the sanctity and Christian virtue of virginity.

Egads! If I wrote that, I would be flogged and labeled a traitor and a reprobate and tossed into the dank undercroft of Guantanamo and kept chained there as an enemy of the state.

Or if I told you that the majority of the rodents who want to keep America sterile of equality are closeted sodomites who fear that this kind of constitutional buoyancy would unmask them as traitors to their own kind. That those ministers, politicians and admirals who scream "NO" the loudest, have zero gag reflex and use chemical rectal constrictors to remedy all the years they've used a "wide stance" in secret restroom liaisons.

Well, if I wrote that, I would be bound in a burlap sack with a wild animal and tossed into the Mississippi river for revealing such truths.

It would be the same if I dared to inform you that hemp is only illegal because the versatility of the plant threatened William Randolph Hearst's newspaper/timber interests, or that every time you buy a gallon of gas you are funding terrorism, or that a bi-racial President can still be homophobic, or that you have more power than you know because THEY want YOU to be tame and apathetic, I would be hung from the tallest tree and set on fire.

No, my friends, we do not want truth. We want scripted reality. I have learned a lot since the spoiled Bush baby trampled our nation for 8 years and left it bloated from excess like a Congolese sewer rat in the rainy season.

I have learned to love my country but trust absolutely no one in authority. I have learned that this is a world where the rats poison themselves.

 Blurt blogger Otep Shamaya is frontwoman for heavier-then-heaven outfit OTEP. She's also a contributor to our print magazine and penned the essay "Whippet, Good" for our last issue. Watch for #10 and more of her writings in mid-March, on bookstore and assorted indie retailer newsstands.

"Music is the wine that fills the cup of silence."

- Robert Fripp

We stand on the edge of national metamorphosis armed with hope and lengthy dreams, and the desire to leave the mistakes of the past far, far behind us.  Some wake to a blessed plague of amnesia hoping never to recover the damage that was done. Some keep marching forward feeling the heavy ache of everything they wish to change about themselves and our nation dragging behind them like a long, prolonged shadow. And still others shine above the sun, sparkling like raging cosmonauts, propelled by the strength and power of their pathological optimism.

I tend to slingshot between all 3 of these distinct planets with unruly fortitude. This is where art comes in. It helps me deal with my compulsive randomness, and allows me to abate life's repressions while exploring all possibilities of transformation and growth.

And for this, I am eternally grateful.

When I first began thinking of putting a band together it was out of sheer panic. I was almost homeless, jobless, a sadistic scribbler, my life had no direction, and I was headed negative north with a bullet. To top it off, the energies that had fed my hungry soul through illustration and poetry had all but dried up. I knew, without the magic of creativity, I would surely be lost. And then I rediscovered a band, The Velvet Underground, and was transformed. They were painting pictures on silence. They were writing poetry with sound. Then it hit me.  Whatever I could create in prose, whatever I could lay down on paper in the form of a sketch or rambling tirade would come alive if shaped and remodeled into something hallowed, into song.

Madness? Sure. But I am one of those insatiable heretics that still perceive art as sacred. For me, making music is not recreational. It is a powerful spiritual experience that permeates every atom of my being. Each note that we write, every syllable that slips from my lips, every riff change, bridge, intro, outro, chorus, and interlude is as important to me as transcribing sacred verses was to the prophets of old. Through song, I am attempting to speak with forgotten gods and heroes, to uncover the great mysteries of existence, to seduce a lover, slay a tyrant, write a wrong, or to unravel the hidden places of my being. In doing so, I can explore all of the spiritual, philosophical, sexual, and intellectual freedom that I secretly hunger for.

This is why plankton like Britney, Lindsey, and the rest of the Slack Pack sicken me.  Granted, collectively, they have sold more records worldwide than the number of Mormons in Utah, but that does little to sway my opinion of these swine or their music. These prefabricated plastic mammoths of industry (& their handlers) have learned the Lemming song and know just how to change it so it appears somewhat different on every lazy album that dribbles from their noses.

But I digress.

Music is the fluid in the spine of imagination. Its origin predates written history. Some believe the first songs were imitations of nature. Crude flutes and other wind instruments have been discovered at paleolithic dig sites. The earliest written records of musical expression have been found in India, China, and Mesopotamia. For me, music is the secret language of the soul. It transcends time. Empires may fall, but their art persists. Music is the grand uniter. People from all varieties of background, socioeconomic status, religion, race, sexual orientation can find solidarity in one piece of music. Throughout history, music has been used to strike the emotional chords needed to propagate revolutions, to celebrate victories, commemorate tragedies, motivate, seduce, destroy, and invigorate.

It seems, as a species, we have always needed music.

Many ask me for advice on how to write, how to start a band, how to kill the demon of writers block. I think the simplest and most powerful method is to begin a foundation of immovable principles. One of my literary heros, Charles Bukowski, wrote:

"if you're doing it for the money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it....when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was."

Wish You Were Here

Disclaimer:

The story you are about to read is based on actual events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. This is pure Gonzo-deSade - if you are easily offended by adult language, sexual situations, drug fiends, homophobia, or salacious behavior - move on. This is not for you.

 

I woke up in my pajamas curled up on the couch like a rehab patient.

Hung. Over.

It felt like an iron balloon was inflating inside my skull. My stomach pinched and turned in nauseating waves that crested between the sadness and paranoia.

So many questions...

"Why was my mobile phone in the fish tank? Did I drunk dial my mother again? Did things get ‘out of hand' while sexting with an ex? Could that explain all these empty Tabasco bottles in the bathtub? But why did I microwave pudding? Or Photoshop Hitler mustaches on pictures of Cate Blanchett and email them to The Vatican? Just for kicks? Or was there some deeper psychological root to all this mania? How twisted was I? Maybe I should go to the hospital, call the paramedics, seek help now --- Holy Krishna! Get it together, lass. This is just the drifting haze of the aftermath. Ride it out. Eat some carbs. You'll be back to super-hero status lickety-split."

Indeed. It seems all it takes to uncover this kind of spastic emotional hysteria is 3 bottles of Bordeaux, 2 cups of coffee, 5 shots of tequila, a hash brownie, 2 tabs of xanax, and a devastating break-up. Yes, I've recently lost the love of my life due to a rather silly but irreversible skirmish on the number of accessories I should've added to my iPeen (see previous blog - and please, stop sending me hate-mail. I am keeping my elegant vagina. Reset and move on).  

Now, my head knows the dangers of committing spiritual archeology under the heavy drapes of drugs & alcohol. But during deep dramatic distress my bohemian-heart pops like a blowfish calling the "fuck-it-all" devils to rise from the depths, seize the helm, and steer me directly into the eye of the crashing storm.

I wanted to drink and forget and awaken on the far shore depleted and sore from the jagged tiers of the frigid rocks. So here I was, alone and shattered, hoping this sad-sickness would soon surrender itself out of me.

And then my landline rang.

It was Jonah - one of my dearest friends and co-conspirators. He is an excellent example of living a self-defined life. I've always believed him to be the psychic lovechild of Abbie Hoffman and Freddy Mercury. Together, we are the best of the worst. True professional degenerates. Whenever he calls, beautiful trouble follows.

"Otep," he said, "drop the doom and gloom, pack a bag, and get cute. We're going to Tijuana."

"What the fuck are we gonna do down there?" I asked. "Get robbed?"

He said, "That's enough of that, scholar. I know exactly what you need: fun, sun, and Mexican skydiving."

I dribbled, "Jonah, I'm a mess today. I still miss her. Another time, okay?"

Jonah shouted, "Get it together goddammit! You called me at 4 this morning screaming about how ‘our side' is losing the fight for Gay Rights, that your ex won't return your calls, and how quickly you were sinking into the sand! As your sponsor in debauchery, I cannot stand by and watch you become another soggy cliché! We are going to fucking Mexico, my friend!"

I wanted to hang up. I wanted to slip back beneath the blankets and drift deep into the calm waters of depression.

I said, "I don't think I have the emotional architecture for this level of adventure."

"No worries." He said. "I've got the sure cure: ACID."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

He was serious.

"Come on O, don't say no." He pleaded. "We need to do this. I got it all taken care of. Trust me. After this trip, you're gonna be good as new!"

Normally, I would say no - LSD is not a drug I am partial too - but I was in serious emotional crisis and his enthusiasm was too much for me to resist. The "fuck-it-all" devils once again grabbed the controls and I surrendered.

Skydiving. On acid. I was impressed. "Excellent form, sir. Let's do it."

He beamed, "I knew you wouldn't let me down. We can trip on our trip and we'll peak by the time we fly the friendly skies. If we leave now we can be there by 3 o'clock."

"On the way we have to stop", I said, "So I can get a new phone. Can't go on this journey unarmed."

He laughed, "That's the spirit! Make sure it takes video! Now, look out your window."

He was parked in my driveway.

I got dressed, threw a bag together, and raced to the car. He dosed me as soon as I got in and we sped off for the border - music blaring, eyes wide, minds open.

By the time we passed through San Diego a strange crystalline network of glowing prisms, organic fractals, and rainbow webbing had emerged and devoured the peripherals. The passing landscape melted and split like a watercolor Rorschach. I found myself lost in the Escher angles of the Great Cosmic Grid. Everything was infinite and ever expanding. I realized we, the human species, were nothing but holograms projected over the octagonal gravitational planes.

Beautiful. Right?
I thought so.

Then the sun began to bleed and pulse like a colossal strobe light. The landscape darkened and drowned in inky petroleum and choked with ash and fire. Then hundreds of hairy spiders, giant scorpions, and hagfish began plopping all around me.

My visions kept coming: I saw black Jesus riding a dragonfly, armor-plated grizzly bears ripping Sarah Palin to pieces, Jerry Falwell sucking off Mickey Mouse, and a sleeping winged land whale (whatever that is) laying soft white eggs on the scaly skin of some forgotten Sumerian God. It was incredible.

After an hour or so of this miserable nightmare, everything dissolved into a radiant storm of tiny embers. Everyone and everything looked to be made of fireflies. When we reached the border, the guard either didn't notice or didn't care about my incessant staring because he just waved us through.  

We somehow found our hotel, checked in (without getting arrested), and then lit out for the airfield. Jonah's timing was impeccable. 3:05 on the nose.

We met up with our instructors, had a 7-minute tutorial session, and then bam! We were up 13,000 feet and ready to vault into the stratosphere.

But then the drug turned on me.

I kept thinking that whatever I was doing to my mind could never be undone. And that all these people standing around me were conspiring to poison and murder me.

Not the thoughts one wants to have while racing 300 mph over the jagged Mexican terrain. And things were getting worse. I glanced at Jonah. He was laughing hysterically, which (of course) I perceived as evil incarnate.

Fear gripped my spine. Everything felt ominous. I suddenly realized that I was strapped to a portly little man named José - yes, my instructor. I think he said something like, "ARRRE YOOUU RREADY?" But before I could process the question, José stepped out of the plane and we tumbled into the atmosphere.

I remember falling.  And thinking, "This must be how Icarus felt" and someone shouting, "HOLY GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE!" It was José. What kind of demented jackass screams something like that while strapped to a noob with a head full of acid?

I closed my eyes. Terrible idea. I could see the inside of my skull.

José shouted again, "I'm just messing with ya!"

The treachery of the moment was too much for my senses to bear. I must have blacked out. I don't remember landing. I don't remember punching José. I don't remember how we got back to the hotel. Or how I got under the bed. But when I woke the drug was long gone. Jonah had moved on to another - Ecstasy. (And probably a little demon-speed)

He was shirtless wearing a man-thong, listening to his iPod, and dancing like an eel out of water. He spoke to me in a rapid, unbroken cadence only a few major-league drug cosmonauts could master:

"Otizzle!Good.You're awake!You okay?Why did you punch that guy?They were gonna call the cops.Luckily, I brought petty cash.You owe me $150 American. Just kidding. You hungry? I ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and a fruit platter from room service.Have some melon.It's good.I don't want any right now but you go for it.See, I told you it was going to be fun. Go ahead have a peach."

I was much too grumpy for fruit. "What time is it?"

"It's daytime." He said. "On Sunday.Come on, get up. Let the healing begin. I've got something really special lined up for tonight."

"Dog races?" I asked.

"Even better." He said. "Chop chop. Get a move on. Later, I reveal the true purpose for our Mexican invasion!"

Before we go on I should give you a little more info on Jonah. He's a self-loathing TV producer who uses his absurd wealth to make up for the fact that he's a self-loathing TV producer. He's also the kind of beautiful lunatic who will persuade me to go skydiving on acid without telling me our trip also includes a dinner with leaders of the ultra-conservative group "Marriage is Holy".

Awesome, isn't he?

The first couple arrived at the restaurant shortly after we did. The husband, Reed, was a major stockholder in a Conservative cable news network, and his wife, Cassandra, was a bulimic aristocrat with a bad pill habit.

The second couple arrived a few minutes later. They were bitching about the cab driver and accusing the "sand-monkey" of taking the long way so he could plump the meter.

The husband, Pervis, was a Baptist Minister specializing in gay exorcisms and supervised the nefarious "HOMO NO-MO" clinic. His wife, Eustace, was Republican royalty - her father was a famous segregationist.

I chose not to reveal my politics or my loud & proud outlaw rock-poet heresy. I didn't have the energy or interest to intellectually pummel these volcanic-enema-men or their blue-blood brides. Silence was the key to my stability. And theirs.

Between breaths, and stuffing their craws with food and booze, these pontificating scab-bags railed on and on against the evils of the Internet, atheists, feminists, and fags.

Pervis barked, "Can you believe what these sodomites are trying to do now?" Bits of food hissed from his lips. "Mark my words, destroying the sanctity of marriage is the goal of the secret homosexual agenda!"

Eunice mumbled, "Filthy Fags", but Pervis slapped her hand, "Not while the men are speaking, honey."

I was just about to go erupt on Jonah when Reed leaned over and asked, "You bring the vitamins, soldier?" I pretended not to hear. Jonah smiled and slid the bottle of ecstasy to him. Reed grinned like a pig in shit. He popped one in his mouth and motioned to his wife. She tossed back a pill and passed the bottle to Pervis and Eustace.  They, too, joined the party.

Jonah began doling out bumps of cocaine from a small grinder but I declined. Not my drug. Shortly after, we piled into Reed's limo and headed out for their favorite local disco. Yeah ...disco.

In the car, the women downed shots of Jack Daniels while Pervis and Reed crushed up Viagra and snorted it off the mini-bar.

I was ready to bail. I remembered my new phone and retrieved it from my bag. I needed a cheap flight back to L.A. - NOW.

Suddenly, Pastor Pervis barked, "Just what in the hell do we have here, huh?" He motioned to my bag. The contents had spilled out all over the limo seat: wallet, keys, hand sanitizer, pill bottle, eyeliner, mints, and ...my iPeen.

Fuck. I forgot I brought it.

Before I could explain, he grabbed it by the shaft and the damned thing thundered to life - violently vibrating in a flash of bright, multicolored lights - he sputtered, "Whoa now, you're not one of those, uh - holy Jesus - is this a weapon? Are you a member of the Lesbian Jihad?"

Jonah shoved another bump up Pastor Pervis' flaring nostril and said, "Back off, buster. She's one of us." Pervis sucked back the powder, downed a shot of Jack and passed the iPeen to Eustace. She waved it around like a lightsaber.

Reed shouted to the driver, "Stop! We're here! Alto! Alto!" The limo screeched to a halt.

Eustace touched Jonah's shoulder, "This is where we met you, remember Jonah?" He blew her a kiss.

Cassandra leaned close to me and whispered, "Welcome to Gomorra. You can have anything and everything you want here." She smiled and waddled from the car.

The "disco" was actually a private sex club for the wealthy elite. Reed and Pervis flashed their Platinum VIP cards and we were ushered in. The place was a dive. They paid for freedom and secrecy - not luxury.

The music was a deafening mix of techno-trash and German trance. The stench of cigarettes, cheap cologne, latex, old lube, and assorted bodily fluids was equally overwhelming.

This was definitely NOT my scene.

I tried to get Jonah's attention but Cassandra suddenly dropped her skirt (no panties) and jumped on top of the bar. A crowd collapsed around her, staring wildly at her mature meat-curtains slapping and clapping to the rhythm of the music. I expected her husband to object, but Reed was busy making out with a black transvestite in the back of the club.

Pervis and Jonah plopped down at a booth and started slamming back Jaeger-bombs while Eustace gave a handjob to a Limbaugh look-a-like.

I commandeered an adjoining table to survey this insane circus from a safe setting. The waitress brought me a bottle of tequila infused with scorpion venom. Perfect. I wanted swift amnesia.

Reed sidled up next to me and said, "So sport, wanna play?" I punched him in the dick and he slid to the floor. I roared, "Game over. Fuck. Off."

I slammed a shot, and was just about to suck back another when I saw Eustace and Cassandra making-out.

Hate devoured me.

Watching these two hypocritical hags eat each other's face was too much for me to bear. I had to get out of there. Fast.

But first, I needed to give Jonah a piece of my mind. I jerked him by the collar and shouted, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you bring me here? This isn't my scene, you maniac! How is this supposed to help me? I am outta here!"

Jonah laughed. "Cool out, Teez. I'm sorry. Okay? But I promise it's worth it.  Your new phone has video, right? Capture a memory."

A devilish grin slid across his face. Indeed, the master plan.

I moved through the room secretly filming these human disasters like a true virtuoso - smooth zooms, perfect pans - passing over Jonah giving me a thumbs up while snorting lines off a hooker's ass, over to Pastor Pervis sodomizing Reed who sucked off the Nubian Tranny, to Cassandra fucking Eustace with the technological wonder that is my iPeen.

I filled up my phone with video and snuck out quietly. I had Reed's limo hustle me back to the sweet sanctuary of my apartment.

I showered, downed a couple of Ambien (with a vodka chaser), and ate half a hash brownie. My mobile buzzed. A text from my ex: "Babe! I'm at a Disco in Tijuana! SOOO drunk. Thought I saw Jonah. Wish u were here!!"  

I grabbed a bottle of tequila and collapsed on the couch.

I woke up the next morning. Hung. Over. I remembered the video. I hissed, "I'm gonna fry those fuckers." I looked for my phone - shit, where was it? My apartment was a mess: dried pudding, Hitler mustaches, Tabasco bottles --- Fuck.  It can't be.

I was curled up on my couch like a rehab patient.

And my phone was in the fish tank.

My fellow Americans,

I bring you great tidings of tremendous jubilation! Fear no longer, for everything they have written is true, and I have found salvation!

Yes, my friends, I am becoming a responsible citizen.

How you may ask? Well, these things go in stages.
First things first, I AM GETTING MARRIED.

Let the angels rejoice! The Devil has been tamed! Hallelujah, hallelujah!

Now, before we say amen, and break off into the who-what-when part of this, let me clarify a few things.

Most of you are aware of my sublime, decadent Libertine indulgences that have made me somewhat of an outlaw in the Los Angeles social scene. I've never denied it.

Monogamy was for suckers. I was living the lawless life of an ambitious bohemian, always on the hunt for something fresh, something exciting, that "New Car Smell".

I thought of myself as a noble savage.

I wasn't committing moral turpitude nor had I pledged myself to some vast Lesbian Jihad (as some have charged) - I was simply obeying my fundamental instincts, "When you are hungry, you eat".

But not everyone can handle the weight of this kind of freedom, so it was understandable when folks like George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, Justin Timberlake, Jared Leto, Chris Brown, and Mel Gibson all engraved my name in their Enemies List for the repeated (and salacious) incidents where upon their girlfriends found their way to my den of sin and were left comatose in the twisted sheets of my dark-wood, crimson draped, Hindu bridal bed.

Of course, it wasn't always actors and singers that I inadvertently touched; indeed, I am the scourge of the corporately powered publicity agent charged with keeping America's cinematic sweethearts squeaky clean.

Many have cursed my name with pox and plague after discovering that their clients were photographed shoving their slippery tongues down my throat.

But why should I say no when an A-list actress decides she wants to walk on the dyke-side and engage in the dark Sapphic arts? Why should I care if she was dating someone, or how this might affect her career?

Well, I didn't then, and I don't now.

Kissing a girl is a career killer? For who?  It worked out all right for Katy Perry. Ah, good point, she didn't really kiss a girl - she just used the imagery to give chubs to all her pre-teen emo-hipster fans in their tight white jeans and fluorescent multi-belts so she could sell a bajillion records.

Remember, this is America (goddamn it!) and our hypocrisies are rich, bold, and full-bodied!

We encourage our women to be hetero-flexible as long as they are college-age-unknowns and appear on tacky, tug-job DVD's you can buy at 3AM for $9.99 while watching ADULT SWIM on Sunday nights.

Or so I'm told.

Well, that life is over and I am done with that savagery. Be brave O'Hollywood! Your women are safe! The menace is no more!

I am madly in love and there is no going back.

Indeed, a couple of weeks ago I decided to make it official. I proposed on the lawn of the ritzy beach house I rented just as the sun was setting over the mighty Pacific Ocean.

Her hands trembled, tears burst from her eyes, and she blubbered a messy, "YES!" We kissed and spent the night coiled like serpents, making love, and imagining all the silly details of spending our old age together.

The next morning she called her mother to share the good news.

The shit-storm was immediate and devastating.

I could hear her mother screaming from the phone, "Your father didn't fight on the beaches of Panama so you could marry a lesbian! Besides, your eternal soul is at stake, and what would all of our friends say? No. This is madness! I forbid it!"

To her, this was a slap to the face of the baby Jesus and a full frontal assault on the very foundation of American moral fiber.

For the next 20 minutes she blathered on and on about how it's illegal for "queers" to marry in California, and how she wasn't homophobic because the whole family votes Democrat, and blah, blah, blah.

Her mother hung up and that was that.
All seemed lost.

Now, remember folks, this is the love of my life, THE ONE, I would die for her.  If her mother, the laws and Gods of this nation, will not recognize our love as we are, then something will have to change.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

I am an American. I love this country. And I realize this decision might cost me my career, the respect of my peers, the love of my own family - but I see no other way.

In order to legally (and morally) marry the woman I love - I have no other choice but to ...become A MAN.

Yes, sexual-reassignment surgery.
No, I am not kidding.
I am buying a penis. A real one.

Oh, how I will miss my magnificent breasts and elegant vagina!

But say good-bye, I must. The doctor assures me that my metamorphosis will be a masterpiece that will shame Michelangelo! I will be fitted with two perfectly plump and proportioned testicles and (as the centerpiece) a beautiful, robust and veiny, 8-inch peen.

As an added incentive, they are going to install a free iSex Kit^TM (with optional interchanging LED lights) that uses sensors implanted in the shaft to transmit data to my iPod during coitus so that the speed and rhythm of the music will match the speed and rhythm of the fornication.

As convincing as my surgeon might be, I remain disturbed and concerned. But, ah L'amour, my heart screams that all this is worth it!

My transformation will authenticate my citizenship as a REAL, honest-to-goodness American!

No one - not the church - not the government - NO ONE - can deny me the right to marry as long as I have a peen in my panties.  

Does it matter that my "Patriotic Penis" was made in a sweatshop by slave labor? Not in the slightest.

The only thing that matters is symbolism.

No dick? Get a dick. Bingo. You are on the B-squad. Your woman may hate it, she may hate YOU, but what matters most is, America will LOVE it.  

The majority has voted to destroy the lives of our fellow citizens based on what they believe is a choice. (Just like religion) And though there is no prerequisite in the Declaration of Independence that requires Americans to be heterosexual, wealthy, white, Christian, or male, the vote to deny Gay Rights is the asterisked footnote our forefathers meant to add but obviously forgot.

Besides, if the MAJORITY can vote to take away the rights of other tax paying citizens - what is to stop them with the Gays? What's next? Atheists? The Disabled? The Obese? The Different? YOU?

Depends ... Are you one of Them?
No? Then who are you?

Well, I don't want to find out. I'm tired of fighting the soggy masses and I'm ready to jump on the winning side.

The procedure is scheduled. The Amex has been charged. Tiny Indonesian hands are already hard at work on my squeaky new silicone-slick testes and powerful prosthetic prick.

I have consulted with my lawyers (and their rabbis) - it is official.

With a little money (and a lot of medicine) a Gay woman can surgically become a Man and LEGALLY marry her Lesbian fiancé.

Ah. That New Cock Smell.
Unmistakably American.

Menace To Society

by Otep Shamaya
 
I write to you today from the burning green of the deep, deep South. It is a hot and humid day that fosters a weighted atmosphere of sloth and fury. Perfect. I have been asked and eagerly agreed to speak at a church rally in support of a grassroots movement hoping to rid our society of the most morally egregious degenerates we have ever known. I think we all know who I refer to. And yes, I joined this crusade to combat this diseased vermin before things get out of hand. As we've seen all over the news, these degenerates have started to organize politically and demand equality.
 
But never fear, fellow citizens, this threat will not go unchallenged, I assure you.
 
Our nation was built on the good God-fearing Judaic-Christian heritage of Andrew Jackson, George Wallace, General Custer, Nixon, McCarthy, and J. Edgar Hoover. We are not, nor have we ever been, a nation of equals. We are a nation of chutes and ladders. Everyone knows this. But this group of hooligans intends on disrupting the status quo.
 
Well, this will never do.
 
The social terrorists I am referencing (and opposing) are the notoriously strange and flamboyant RED MENACE, better known on the street as "Gingers".
 
Indeed, we at the "National Organization for a Red-Head Free America" are outraged at the recent hubbub and associated ruckus these "Gingers" have created by demanding equal rights and many other absurd notions that plainly do not apply to them.
 
We have done our own studies and proven that blondes and brunettes are physically superior and have more brain mass than Gingers. In fact, we have proven that the "Ginger Gene" is a myth and an abomination in the eyes of God. Have you ever seen a picture of Jesus? What color is his hair? I think I've made my point here.
 
But despite all this scientific and religious data some of these reprobates openly celebrate their sinful lack of pigment, freckled skin, and burning bright hair as if they deserve to be equals among us! Shameful!
 
We firmly believe that being a red-head is a choice. Sure, some might be born that way but they could easily assimilate into society if they accepted their deformity and decided to live as the rest of us, and remedy it with a quick dye job.
 
These freaks of nature must not be allowed to live openly in our society. What about our children? We all know the evil inside the Ginger heart. They want to convert our kids. And what will we do once our children start painting their hair red and painting freckles all over their body? Oh, I shudder at the thought.
 
We must protect them from this Crimson Tide bubbling to the surface of our national awareness. It is more important now than ever! The Ginger Rights Movement is demanding that it be made LEGAL for them to marry EACH OTHER! Holy Christmas! Can you imagine what will happen next? You guessed it: A godless red nation of milky-white sin and orange flair debauchery. 
 
It is a historical fact that Ginger equality caused the fall of the Roman Empire. Is this what we want for our beloved America? To be brought down by Gingers?
 
If only our government would take a stand against these mongrels as they have against the other misguided miscreants our society has tamed and tolerated over the years.
 
Why can't they treat them like we do the Gays?
 
Our government has made it clear; you are not a full citizen if you are not a heterosexual. Gay Americans don't have the same rights as NORMAL Americans: they can't marry, they can't join the military, but they must pay the same taxes. Heck of a deal, if you ask me. They subsidize our narrow way of life ....just as God intended.
 
I know the Declaration of Independence states that all men are created equal. And yes, we hold the truths to be self-evident. How could we not? But I stipulate here today that if the implication of the language the Forefathers used in the phrase "all men" also applies to women (we believe they meant HUmen) then I argue today that it implies the additional qualifications for equality: Caucasian, Republican, Wealthy, Christian, Heterosexual, non-Ginger.
 
So, you see, my friends, that yes, America is the land of the free and land of opportunity - but only within limits. I mean, let's be real here. As a species we need our hierarchies.
 
Gingers and Gays need not apply. 

Singer/frontwoman/activist/poet Otep Shamaya has led her band Otep through 4 albums of NIN/Sonic Youth inspired metal. Check out her own blog at http://www.imnotamonster.com/ and Otep online at http://www.myspace.com/otep