Mark Carson and the Terrorist Eddie Morales

That’s right, I said “terrorist” and I meant it. Morales and his ilk are not organized like an Al Qaeda cell, and they aren’t waging the type of society-wide warfare which characterizes groups like the Taliban. They aren’t cooking up bombs to put in trucks, backpacks, or their underwear. They aren’t burning crosses on anyone’s lawns, as have other homegrown God-fearing patriots of our past. Nay, these terrorists are (mostly) men who are so purposeless in their own lives, so self-hating, and so insecure about who they are that they are made angry enough and uncomfortable enough to kill.

M(oron)ales could not think of a *single better thing* to do with his time than grab a gun and shoot a gay man. What did he think he was accomplishing? Did he fancy himself a hero, a vigilante who prowled the streets of New York City at knight slaying the dragon of . . . love? Unnatural sex? Anyone who has ever had sex with Morales was guilty of bestiality, so who is he to judge?

It really *steams* me when this nation of values of mine, this culturally diverse, welcoming melting pot, teems with intolerant zealots who think the answer to every problem is death and/or threats of violence. These protectors of nature, or these justices in God’s court, these soldiers of straight-only sex, these minions of “proper” matrimony, are the same ones who want to be left alone, who want the government to butt out, their neighbors to mind their own business, to live and let live. They bristle at the idea of being the minority voice, though — oh, they do, and that is precisely why we have such rabid, vicious, sickening rhetoric out there. They are afraid. Afraid, because their cookie-cutter world of macho guys, guns, and God is being threatened. “American” as they know it is shifting into something unrecognizable to the gated community of their hearts, minds, and prejudices. They are acting on the most privative instincts we have: the us-and-them, the my tribe must survive, the selfish gene. Any difference which can be exploited is fair game, and it doesn’t matter, as long as they win an election, fly another drone, pass another Stand Your Ground Law, and kill another queer. The ends justify the means, for the end is a great big macho world of straight, horny militiamen who are afraid of fairies and dream of punishing female officials by shooting them in their vaginas and yearning to stare into their eyes and watch them die.
But it’s all right, Mark. Every aching heart, every screaming spirit, every family brutalized by this sick, twisted mind-set; every friend who cries, every son, daughter, parent, sibling, lover, spouse who suffers, every witness . . . we recognize their fear. It is the fear of the bully who is losing ground. It is the fear of the general who sees that retreat is inevitable, even if it is a slow retreat, even if he denies it with every phobic fiber of his bigoted being.
This is backlash; it is the backlash of success approaching, of conquests careening toward fruition, . . . and one day, Mark, one day not too far in the future, your name will be one of those that fill minds and hearts, that pours forth from lips, as a martyr, to the cause of the best human beings can be, rather than the worst. One day, the Eddie Moraleses, the Pete Santillis, the hordes of unnamed bullies of the past, as well as the ones now waiting in the wings, waiting for their own chances to terrorize innocent people, will be shuttered in a closet of their own making: a closet of shame and self-doubt, a closet whose shelves will be filled with the shadows and skeletons of their inglorious pasts, their wasted rants, their hard-boiled hatred. No one will think of outing them, though: the doors will be locked, and no one will even remember that they had keys, let alone where they were hidden.

Pete Santilli: The Missing Link

If you have ever wondered about the bridge between homo sapiens and their predecessors, look no further; it ain’t a pretty specimen, but it is living RIGHT here among us — yes, indeed. It even has an Internet radio show, and it has recently bleated (roared, bellowed, queefed — I’m sorry, no one has agreed upon a name for its oral ejaculations) that it wants to enter the world of national syndication. Wow — that’d be just like having a microphone out there in the wild, catching the sounds of defecating and rutting wildlife.

But that’s not all. This “missing link” to our past is a writer of verse, though we do suspect that it requires a lot of help with the spelling and word choice. Its primitive brain relies heavily on weapons imagery and it seems to be fixated upon the destruction of the genitalia of government officials. Here, judge for yourself:

The name’s Santilli, and my itty bitty willy,

Shrivels at the thought of blacks and women on the Hilly.

Gotta shoot ‘em in the nuts,

In the vagina for the sluts,

I mean every word of it, I ain’t just bein’ silly.

President Obama bin Laden and his bitch have made me sad an’

I Can’t think straight in this mushroom cloud of hate.

Our situation’s growing dire,

They’ll continue to conspire,

Unless we blow the balls off every enemy of our state.

http://www.mediaite.com/online/right-wing-radio-host-pete-santilli-hillary-clinton-needs-to-be-shot-in-the-vagina/

Libel as Satire Update

I have received an apologetic email from the individual about whom I wrote in my previous post, and I have been assured that the offending post has been “happily taken down”. We are continuing a very courteous and constructive dialogue. Dingleberries are easily wiped and flushed away, and besides, they are the remnants of vital ingested nourishment. (wink)

Libel As Satire

All of you who are familiar with me and/or my blog know that I use verbal warfare against hypocrisy, bullies, and the tyranny of governments, corporations, and individuals. You also are aware that I am a staunch defender of the First Amendment (for both public and personal reasons). However, everything must have boundaries and limits.

In my post “Fans Really Blow” I discuss how simply and thoughtlessly we gleefully flay celebrities. Even the average person, thanks to social media, is not guaranteed freedom from ridicule on TMZ, SNL, and their ilk nowadays. Where should the line be drawn? Does anyone recognize a line any longer? I bet we would if it happened to us, or someone we love, or someone we know personally on any level.

I came across an exceedingly offensive link, which, at least for now, I will not copy here. I do not want to give this person any unnecessary publicity.

He wrote what appeared to be an analysis of an artist’s lyrics and interview comments, against a backdrop of outright fiction concerning the artist’s life. He made up events which never happened, calling the individual a drug addict and severely mentally ill as a result of his drug addiction. He went on to use some of the artist’s lyrics to buoy his made-up world, and added comments from others to suggest that this drug-fueled journey into mental illness killed a once-successful career.
Of course, there were plenty of events and accounts that were so absurd (and admittedly funny, in a pass-the-roach-and-the-corn-chips sort of way) that a discerning reader would not have been fooled. Anyone with knowledge of the individual’s circumstances and past would not be misled either. However, how many discerning readers and minders of reality do you know, as opposed to the millions lurking about and hungering for the next scandal, the next sensationalist taint of the celebrity, the public official, or the kid next door?

After his libelous machinations, he inserted a disclaimer stating that much of the information in the post “never happened” and that it was satirical. He also said “Fact-checking is futile. Don’t waste your time.” He should go work for one of our political parties or Fox News.

I wrote this person a sharply worded email, telling him that I would bring the post to the attention of the artist’s publicist if he did not remove it from his blog.
Just because someone is in the public eye, whether on stage, on television, or on line, does not give *anyone* the right to play with the facts of his or her life. It is virtually impossible to remove things from the Internet once they are out there, but the least we can do is minimize the damage.

Spreading God’s Love in Georgia

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/18/world/europe/gay-rights-rally-is-attacked-in-georgia.html?_r=1&

Amen

Ask yourself this question: If some secular beliefs or philosophies were used to justify the situations shown here, would they not be human rights violations? Would they not merit an outcry, tremendous outrage, and push back? It seems we all can agree that when religious fanaticism leads to terrorist acts which impact us directly, it is time to act, yet it is still considered politically incorrect or intolerant to question or condemn the beliefs behind the act.
This doesn’t even address the travesty last weekend of Orthodox Jews spitting upon and chastising young girls and women for praying at the Western Wall, females having the sheer audacity to demonstrate their religious beliefs. They had to be guarded by police. Women have also been arrested for praying there while cross-dressed in the prayer shawls designated for those “true Jews” equipped with a penis. Then again, such people restrict who is a rightful Jew. Funny: you would think the one who created humankind in his own image would welcome one and all, their beings as well as their devotion. According to some, you would be wrong.
I know more condemn a belief in God, Jesus, Allah, etc., than I do condemn belief in unicorns, ghosts, or the existence of the Illuminati, but I refuse to be tolerant of those who act upon them at the expense of others’ supposed “free will” or personal space, thought, and freedom, or those who espouse death for non-believers or skeptics.

Fans Really Blow

I do this over and over again. I find a web site, a Facebook page, a newsgroup, a listserv, a blog . . . devoted to a celebrity, author, or some other notable that I really, really admire, enjoy, appreciate, and/or lust for. I devour links, pages, interviews; I plow through this and that and the other thing, and I jump in once in a while with a comment here, a like there. I *want* to know what he or she is up to, what he or she is doing, talking about, experiencing, at least in the sense of what we get to know. And yet . . . I hate it.

There’s something about being a “fan” that disturbs me. There are a lot of good actors and actresses out there, many inspiring people doing great things, and musicians whose music brings me hours of listening pleasure. But there only a handful that I consistently want to *know*: I’m talking about chatting with them about their craft, asking them, conversing with them about why they chose this interpretation of a role, or what this particular lyric meant to them at the time it was written.

Every once in a while, when there is someone who is, in my estimation, grossly under-appreciated, I will try to get others interested through word of mouth. I did a blog post on Roscoe Born, for example, because I think he deserves more notice.
Very recently, I discovered that one of my very, very favorite, disgustingly under-rated artists, Colin Hay, is touring after a significant hiatus. I rushed to buy tickets. I really enjoyed Men at Work during their short stint, but I was thrilled with Colin’s first two solo albums, though he has never again reached Men at Work-era status. Many solo albums later, he is still one of my absolute favorites. I have always loved his quirkiness, his poetry, the themes of love, heartbreak, loss, the ocean, and the rough-edged world in which we abide. Most would not call him a superb singer, but I find his voice captivating, magnetic, and able to impart a lot of emotion. Oh, and full disclosure, I *love* his speaking voice: an awesome mix of Scottish and Australian. I would love to hear him read an audiobook. (Yes, there are times when Braille would be an inferior reading medium, though rarely.)

Colin Hay is one of the artists with whom I would love to discuss his songs, especially the deeper, philosophical ones. I would love to compare my interpretation with what he meant to convey. Normally, I am content to imbue what I desire into lyrics; I figure the artist puts it out there, thereby taking on the risk that he or she will be completely misunderstood. But I want to know; I want to understand, . . . and that is why fandom just isn’t my thing.
Fandom lacks sincerity, no matter how sincere the fan. It lacks guidelines; it lacks boundaries. Anyone can be a fan, can claim to be a fan, from the most superficial individual who barely scratches the surface of their idol’s talent to the obsessed, potentially psychopathic, stalking type. A “fan” can never be more than that, no matter how hard he or she tries. Even when meeting a favorite artist or celebrity (I’ve had the good fortune to meet a handful), it is usually more parts disappointing than thrilling. “Pleased To Almost Meet You”) You know nothing more after the meeting than before; there is no real connection. Anything you say has probably been said before, with different degrees of fervor and/or genuineness.
When I have a favorite, he or she truly is a favorite. This is a person I want to *talk to*, spend time with, write songs with . . . I want to witness his or her creative process.
I suppose this is coming up now because after buying the Colin Hay tickets, I became very deliberate in my choices of music, not merely listening to his music when it came on Slacker Radio, or when one of his songs played on my iPhone. I pulled out his first two solo albums (on cassette, which were buried amid other life’s relics) and felt the same pleasure I felt originally (though one album was no longer playable; all three cassettes, an original and two duplicates were goners).
(I purchased an audio CD of one, and received the files for the other from a sensationally awesome individual; the album is out of print, and everywhere I looked it was super-pricey).
That old desire to know is back, and that old futile search: combing the Internet, the fan sites, the Facebook page, in a quest for the out of reach, the unavailable, the realm beyond the atmosphere of the world of fans, a world in orbit around Real Life, not Media Life.

So, basically, fandom becomes depressing, an unanswered question, a void that can only be filled with tidbits and gossip and half-knowledge, and in that quagmire, the man or woman, the human being, the creator, is lost, or at least missing.

Some have remarked that after I met a certain celebrity, I wrote about him and talked about him much less. That is because I did not really meet him, not really. I met an image, an icon, a role being played. Our interaction was one that has been repeated over and over and over and over and over again in his life; I was a grain of sand trod upon and swept into the depths by the tidal wave of his fame and the erosion of the shallow world of the fan. It just isn’t for me. It left me emptier than before I met him.

So . . . where is the place for such a “fan”? What is a better name for those of us who feel this way, and yet still yearn to know more, to touch their lives in perhaps a tiny significant way, while they have, and they continue, to touch ours in such a tremendously significant one?
I think fandom has become even more dysfunctional since I was a lust-filled, starstruck teen. With YouTube, TMZ, Twitter, Facebook . . . celebrities have become fodder for the worst we can hurl at people. The voyeuristic zeal with which we gobble up the latest rehab stint of this person or the domestic dysfunction of that one is astonishing in its meanness, judgment, and hunger for more. We degrade those we say we admire. We fork over money to see them, to purchase their merchandise — and we revel in their scandals, their gaffes, their humiliations; we ridicule or grossly exaggerate their importance to the political causes of the day; we put them on pedestals and spit on them in utter disdain if they fall. We act as if they are gods, then treat them as maggots, sometimes with an astonishingly brief time in between.
No, I am not a fan. I am incapable of being a fan. Yet, I desire to be something; I desire a name that carries within it true appreciation, not just for the person’s talent, skill, or devotion to art or cause, but which also recognizes, remembers, and celebrates that this person is a human being, just like me, with a lot to offer, just like me, and a lot to lose, just like me.
Perhaps, one day, before I make my final exit, I will have the opportunity to get to know one of these very special people who brings something extra to my world, and in so doing, gives up so much of him/herself, often to a press and a mob that is fully versed in what they are, but often does not give a shit *who* they are.

My e-book Pledge: iBooks, Nook, Or Kindle?

It should be no surprise to anyone following the Amazon/Kindle saga that Kindle accessibility falls far short of what it should be, particularly in light of Amazon’s desire to have Kindle content permeate schools and places of higher education.

https://nfb.org/images/nfb/documents/pdf/kindle%20letters%20to%20state%20department%20of%20education/after-the-new-kindle-app-for-ios-update-5-6-13.pdf

I am glad for the Kindle app, but just last night, I practiced something which I am about to preach, and thereby promote:

When iBooks has a title I desire to read, I shall buy it from the iBooks store — even if it costs a bit extra. Why? Simple: Apple was the first company to take seriously and effectively implement off-the-shelf accessibility for the print-disabled, and I am never going to forget it.
I saw a few advertisements this week for James Patterson and Maxine Paetro’s Twelfth of Never. I saw that iBooks, Nook, and Amazon all had an eBook, and in this instance, all were charging $11.99. I purchased it from iBooks, and I will do this always and forever, unless Apple for some inexplicable reason does an about-face when it comes to accessibility, which I do not expect to happen.

Amazon does not take accessibility at all seriously, as evidenced by the hurdles one has to jump through when one encounters a capcha on their site, e.g., to change a forgotten password. There is no audio capcha; the only thing to do is contact Amazon, and let them do things for you: separate *and* unequal.

So, barring extraordinary changes, iBooks will always get my money if it has the title I desire, followed by Nook. Kindle will always be the last choice. A drop in the bucket of power, I concede, but drops tend to add up, and I ask others to join me. Speak with your money. That’s something companies hear loud and clear.

I Always Hated Condoms (not what you think)

I know, I know. I should be simply reveling in the abundant availability of books, newspapers, and magazines which are immediately accessible to me now, something I burned, yearned, and pined for most of my life. You cannot have everything. That is just how life is . . . and yet . . .
Words and I have always had a searingly intimate relationship. Words are communication. They are hugs, punches, kicks, and kisses; they are joy, pain, negotiation, and roadblocks; they are the essence and the void, the life and the death, the heart and the mind . . . and I never feel quite as close to them as when I can touch them. (Unless they are in a song which grabs me, of course; then they take on an even more corporeal nature, reaching in to grab at me in a different way. But that’s a digression not for this post.)

Reading Braille is not just reading for me; it is an experience. When I listen rather than read with my fingers, something vital is missing. It’s like a literary condom. Just ain’t the same.

So Now that I’ve got iBooks, and Read To Go, and Nook, and Kindle . . . an ocean pulsing with waves of words, tides of text, . . . I now yearn for the ability to purchase a Braille display, not a tiny, 18-cell job which will frustrate my ability to zip through reading material the way I can off a hardcover page, but a light, portable, 40-cell, or even 80-cell, display which will give me a truly phenomenal reading experience, the kind I want, the kind I crave.
Well, yes, even an 18-cell display would be something, a little tongue for my kiss with literacy, if you will. But alas! Braille displays are mighty expensive, and there are more practical acquisitions which trump my hunger.
Ah, sweet sorrow! I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, this is not a real problem; in fact, to most it will seem petty, the murky depths of crass shallowness, the nadir of nit-picking. So be it. Louis, the ocean beckons; I will surf, I will swim; I will dive, roll, and enjoy every liquid stroke . . . but without your gift, the water will always be the wrong temperature, somewhat polluted, and choked with unnecessary debris

Hay! I Wanted Better Seats!

So the other day, I can’t get a Colin Hay song out of my head. (Freedom Calling). It has been quite a long time since I remember him touring in the U.S.
Then, I have a dream of being at a Men at Work concert. So, for the hell of it, I check
http://www.colinhay.com
and lo! Colin has some U.S. tour dates. Within five minutes of discovering that he will be at the Town Hall on October 12, I was on the phone with TicketMaster, asking for their best available seats. Unfortunately, Row N in the Orchestra was the best available.
Never been to Town Hall before . . . who knows? Maybe they’ll add dates, maybe come to Westbury Music Fair. But at least, at long, long last, I will hear Colin James Hay live! *happy*