While I’ll continue my hippie, tree-loving, carpet-munching faggot ways, I’ll certainly let off a little on writing so powerfully about them and try to focus more on lighthearted things…humanity, comedy, day-to-day funky shit. Textphish needs more funky shit.

So for our first bout of funky shit for the year….

INTRODUCING THE DAILY PENIS EUPHEMISM PICK!
Today’s euphemism is courtesy of Cracked.com, a place for people involved in a constant and consistent circlejerk. You word for mankind’s favorite tool today is “spam javelin”.

Just sit and think about what kind of an image that euphemism conjures up. You’re sitting at home, on the floor in front of a roaring fire upon a bear-skin rug, and your lover sidles up, whispering all the right words…“hey, baby, want a taste of my spam javelin?” Yeah, you know you want that. Don’t deny the rhythms of love.

In keeping up with the normal chaos that makes up my life, my coworker is snoring at his desk, and last night Syd answered a phone call from her cousin that went something like this:

“Hello? ….murderous dancing teachers? ….oh, turtles. Okay.”

I spent the whole of yesterday taking down our Christmas tree. I was so happy to see it go, and even happier when it actually fit back in its box. Fuck, have you any clue how hard it is to stuff a plastic thing into a long, rectangular box with a cat trying to chew your ankles off and duck tape stuck to your butt? Shit’s not easy, but I did it anyway. Syd and I set her art desk back in its place and organized all of our knitting projects from our skeins and hanks of yarn that we buy only because we hope to use it but never really do. We tried to clean the house after that, but failed.

Instead we went out for groceries and cheeseburgers from our favorite roadside diner, sucking down Ale-8-1s and water to quench the heartburn from so much greasy goodness. We bought the cat a laser pointer and any cleaning that we had planned to do went right out the window because of that. Marlowe had never seen anything so wonderful in all his life, and since we had found something he could chase around the house for hours on end, we decided to make him run in little circles for twenty minutes, grew bored, and then played Nintendo.

The fish was not amused. But is he ever?

This morning I could barely wake up. I lay in bed for a good thirty minutes before I finally convinced myself that I had to go to work, and ended up getting dressed and primped to what I supposed to be fairly decent and all the way out to the car with a cigarillo between my lips when…I realized that I had locked my keys in the house. “Motherfucker!” So I climbed in through the front window and nearly broke the art desk using nothing but the cosmic weight of my ass. Fortunately I fell off before it broke. I gathered my keys, straightened my clothes, and walked out of the house as if this were all perfectly normal.

It is, in any case. But I had to save face because the little three year old that lives in the house across the street was staring at me, a big delighted grin on her face.

Kyle, I love you.

Now to business. It’s 2009 already, can you believe it? A year ago I couldn’t believe it was 2008. I suppose I am doomed to live in the past. In honor of the new year, I’ve dragged out an ancient layout and made Textphish over slightly new. I’m going to be organizing the blog a little better, starting with categories for entries and shit, etc, etc. The gallery will probably be made over, as it has yet to actually become organized. I can never find the time or the motivation to do this kind of stuff. However, I think that the blog has been around for so long that it practically deserves some special treatment. Many of you don’t know but Textphish has been up and running since 2005, if memory serves correctly. Somewhere along the way I got fed up and deleted a crap ton of entries. I do that sometimes, mostly because I read through them and become appalled at myself.

I haven’t been broadcasting on Dazed Radio lately; my broadcaster shut down and my desktop is running on its last leg. I’ve been thinking about reformatting it, after some suggestions from my fellow DJs. It refuses to run properly on Windows Vista and I’m tired of waiting three fucking minutes just for Firefox to load. That, and I’ve been thinking about buying a tablet to use for Photoshop and such. I’m already somewhat talented in that area–if I have a tablet, I can work on getting better. A friend is selling a hand-me-down for $100; I think that’s my ticket.

Other than that, there’s not much new to report. I have a lot to say about my vacation and all the crap that went down during Christmas, but at the moment I’m at work and my time is limited. For now, I’m off to file documents and answer phones, and do all the menial shit I hate, and later I’ll get back to the important crap.

Happy new year!

Muahahaha.

I’m finding myself for the moment a bit tired of the blogging scene. Every once in a while I grow bored of being a slave to my internet habit and find I need to take a holiday. Computer screens can’t replace a tree or a pile of dirt or that wild armadillo I saw rooting for food in the woods a few days ago. The prospect of computers and technology and the drama that I get caught up in and let myself get caught up in within it makes me sick sometimes. I believe a few days away from Textphish might do me a little good.

Sooooo….I’ll see you when I return to Kentucky.

Recently, I caught a bootlegged version of Milk, which I absolutely adored. I fell in love with the movie and its message, the hope and the raw humanity portrayed. Sean Penn did a phenomenal job, as did everyone cast for the film. I was moved to tears many times and I was filled with hope many times. All in all, it deserves the “Best Film” nomination. Really.

Part of what I really enjoyed about the film was the fact that it was not only excellent, but it was educational. Seeing the gay rights movement in its budding days was very powerful: the carelessness of others, especially police officers, and the hatred and discrimination that ran so rampant and STILL runs rampant hit me hard. The Castro, the gayborhood of San Francisco, had an entire warning system built on silver whistles, which they would blow when someone was in trouble to alert others.

Now, with so much violence rising against gay people globally (it raised 26% between 2006 and 2007, and is expected to grow worse as 2008 and 2009 progress) I wonder if those days of the silver whistles are really that far behind us. The stately Ecuadorian gentleman who was savagely beaten on the streets of New York because some assholes mistook he and his brother, with whom he was walking arm and arm, for gay men comes to mind, as do the countless suicides that have happened over the years because the young and old alike could not bear the pressure of their sexuality. While I’m at it, I’ll mention Matthew Shepard, Duanna Johnson, Lawrence King, Harvey Milk, and this entire Wikipedia page.

The violence is wide and varied. Transwomen and transmen and gay men and gay women and bisexuals of all color and queers of all shapes and sizes are afraid. We are a minority group that is quickly losing the chance for equal rights everywhere; gays are hated. Wherever they go, there is that stigma attached. Wherever I go, I am conscious of myself and my area. Wherever we go, we are always aware. It could happen at any moment, to anyone.

It’s not always violent, either, the bigotry displayed against people like me. Take Kathyrn Kutil and Cheryl Hess, who had their one year-old daughter, whom they had raised since birth, removed from their care by a judge who thought that the little girl needed a “balanced” home, i.e., a home with a woman and a man. Or Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Or the Defense of Marriage Act. Everywhere you look, there is a gay person (or those suffering from HIV/AIDS) somewhere affected by antigay laws, ruling, violence, and discrimination.

I have family members that read my blog (Hi, Grandma and Dad)! It’s in my best interest to make what I put on my blog reach out to people, whatever I write about aside. I hope this entry reaches out to you guys, that you know how important an issue it is to support my community. You’re supporting me. Because I see myself as an activist, I see the importance in educating anyone–anyone at all–about the things I believe in. I believe in equal rights for everyone, especially those that don’t have equal rights. I hope that my activity in promoting the LGBT community won’t go unnoticed, or have been in vain.

On that note, I’d like to link to several pieces of a documentary on Youtube, which I found a few years back when I picked up my first issue of Curve and saw Chrissy Gephardt on the front cover. I give you For The Bible Tells Me So, a beautifully compiled documentary covering gay people and their familes, and their journeys towards acceptance and even activism:

For The Bible Tells Me So Part 1
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 2
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 3
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 4
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 5
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 6
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 7
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 8
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 9
For The Bible Tells Me So Part 10

Be warned, I found it slightly biased in some parts (the cartoon, for example) but the stories that were told were beautiful and very moving. I suggest that if you have the time to watch, please watch. It’s certainly educational, and the old Kentucky couple that the movie starts out with are just so sweet. I wish I could drive to their home and shake their hands.

I am an activist for gay rights because people have died for being who they are. Because people live lives hidden every day because they don’t feel comfortable enough to live the lives they deserve. Because there is pain. Because there are hurt people, because people deserve better than that.

But I am also an activist because we’re close to overcoming that. And I hope that people can learn from our efforts that we’re not sick, we’re not evil, and we’re not pedophiles. We are normal, just like you. We are, just as you are. We are human beings.

What is so wrong about that?

If you have not seen this movie, please, please, please, please, please. Find out where it’s showing and go see it. See it over and over and over again. I guarantee you that is a movie ticket well worth buying. It was amazing.

Okay. Shoes.

My very good friend SteadyCat suggested that I write about my favorite shoes. Little does she know that she has opened the proverbial can of worms. Heh heh heh.

Allow me to set the general mood. It is 6:10 AM. I can’t sleep. There’s a cigar burning in the ash tray and a mess of Russian Nesting Dolls, pens, Bible (I was revisiting the Gospel of Luke–so beautifully written), candles, and books, including the Dhammapada, collected poems of John Keats, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and the Whole Lesbian Sex Book, which my freak-loving conscience told me I had to buy when I saw it on the shelf.

My favorite pair of shoes takes me away from here and puts me right smack in the middle of a 108 degree day in Bastrop, Texas. It is July 4th, and I’ve just gotten off of my Saturday shift at the pharmacy/ice cream parlor. I’m wearing my usual jean-and-tee-shirt combination and I look rather rag-tag. My jeans are full of holes and my tee-shirt has…well, holes, too. My hair is an uncommon mess of curls hanging sticky against my back. I’ve just graduated highschool, and will be heading off to college in a few months. The air is sweet and sticky with the smell of hot bodies and bar-be-que roasting for tonight’s parade. Just down the street, the head pharmacist (and a dear friend of mine) and his family are holding a garage sale, trying to lessen the load of possessions that his mother recently left them after passing away in her sleep not a week before.

At this point in my life, I am freshly 18. I have no clue what to do with myself. I have very, very little money to my name, much less than it costs to buy a new pair of jeans and a tee-shirt without holes. Everything I own has either been saved from my life living with my mother and stepfather, or bought from thrift and consignment stores. I don’t mind that so much; as a matter of fact, I’ve spent so long being dressed in preppy, ironed clothes that I don’t give much of a damn how I look, as long as I’m clothed and there are jeans involved. I take my comfort from those that offer it freely–and in this small town, comfort is aplenty. Currently, it takes the form of the garage sale I am walking to.

As is typical, the men are on the porch, chewing the fat and talking of their cows and the wild hogs that tear the earth up thereabouts, and if their friend would come shoot the damn nuisances so they could have some ham. The women are fanning themselves in the open garage, sucking on Popsicles and melting into their overalls and shorts. “How on Earth are you wearing jeans, honey?” they ask me. “I do everyday,” I reply, and they shake their heads in amazement. It’s true, though. I’m not much one for shorts unless I have to wear them.

One of the cats, Little Sister, is weaving around our feet. This family has three animals, two cats (Little Sister and Pissant) and one ancient, lovely old lady dog (Big Sister). Running around is a tiny, chubby three year old with sticky fingers and sticky lips. She attaches herself to my hip once she realizes she can sit in my lap and I’ll bounce her for as long as she wants. She shows me tiny blue flowers and I put them into her hair, behind her tender little ears. She reminds me of my little sisters.

After talking with the women for a few minutes, I get up to go look through the rummage pile. There are nifty things here–I am by nature shabby chic–things like antique Mason jars and old tee-shirts, porcelain mugs and throw pillows, and…I stop.

Sitting on a table, looking quite nonchalant, are a pair of boots: six-stitch leather cowboy boots, the heel worn down and the insides broken thoroughly in, the tip of the boot curled up with use. Whoever these boots belonged to must have loved them something awful, I think. I pick one up and look at it, fingering the stitching, cupping the heel in my palm and squeezing the leather to hear it creak. The smell of beer, bread, and many trails bursts from my hands. A pair of boots like this would be worth $500 at Cavender’s–each.

“You like ‘em?” Speaking to me is the head pharmacist’s stepdaughter, a well-meaning woman with bushy hair willing to sell anything on the table for any price, as long as it just gets off the damn table. “Those were owned by my great uncle. He wore them every day. He was a music man.” I think of the Coupland Dance Hall, empty now, filled with life and roaring country music, a man wearing these boots full of laughter and melody. These boots, I know, are calling to me. “How much?”

$8 for a pair of $1,000 boots.

$8.

The money is dolled out almost immediately from my back pocket. I don’t even care if these fit or not; the fact of the matter is that these boots belong to someone who loves them. I shove my jeans up my calves and jam them onto my feet. To my surprise, they do fit! Slightly. Eh, they’re a little too big for me, but I tromp around with them in pride. Boots!

I wear them for the rest of the evening, helping the women and men pile what is left of the garage sale (after I’ve finished collecting cups and shirts and pillows for my dorm) to take to the local thrift store. I stay for lasagna (the BEST I’ve ever had) and the parade, which marches down the street just as the sun is setting and the sparklers are flying into the night. The air is still sticky–and the darling three year old is climbing in my lap, begging me to bounce her–everything feels real and absolute, pure and unfiltered and innocent and right.

In the following weeks, I and my boots travel all over the historic district of Bastrop. They are apart of my daily uniform, and I walk the crap out of them, eventually wearing the padding inside down to shreds. I take the padding out and walk around without it–I don’t have the money to replace them, and anyway, these boots are made for me. They fit like a set of too-big feet.

I think the most important things about these boots is the fact that they make me feel powerful. I am a scared young woman on her own in the world, trying to figure out what happened to her life the day she turned 18. I’m trying to mend broken things in all the wrong ways and I’m trying to understand where the flow of my life is headed. The boots are my foundation, the hard heel that I can pound into the street with determination and strength. They are what keep my feet steady, no matter how my path twists and turns.

They are the boots of a music man.

–
The cigar is out. I let it go; I was getting hungry for cereal. That world seems so long ago now, a small southern town deep-in-the-heart-of-Texas (*clapclapclapclap*) on the verge of melting into a great soup of sweat and overalls and cows. It’s a beautiful memory, that simple day when I bought my boots. As anyone will tell you, I have an undying love for buying shoes (shoes make a STATEMENT, people!) but out of the Mary-Janes, the silk slippers embroidered in vines, the dancing heels, the kitten heels, the tennis shoes, the nice tennis shoes, the stripper boots, the Bob Dylan boots, the courderoy slides, the Mia clogs, and oh-so-many-others, the cowboy boots of the music man are my favorite shoes. They set the foundation for the girl that walks the street.

And so far that girl is doing fine.

Sort of.

Hee hee.

The subject can be anything. Literally, anything (except, of course, for the shit I usually rant about). I want to know what you can come up with, and I want to know what I can spit out in response. Please do me the honor and give me something to write about! Be creative, too, I don’t want to see any politics or gay rights or medicinal cannabis in my comment section. Something other than this. I beg you.