So where's OUR angry mob?

So I think we can all agree that what occurred as a result of Don (SL)Imus' on-air bile-spewing was pretty much the right thing. While I hate seeing anyone's 1st amendment rights being stifled, I don‘t really think that‘s what happened in his case. What happened was capitalism. Advertisers and executives saw a cash cow‘s saggy old teets suddenly drying up, and got scared that said bovine‘s nasty little methane emissions would turn up the noses of otherwise reliable consumers. Yes, what happened was a result of public outrage and protest, but the bottom line was all about money. In this day and age incendiary hate speech is totally unacceptable, unless said speech will spark a controversy that will draw an audience that will buy advertisers' products. One of the few ways people can truly illicit change these days is by threat of voting from the hip...and by hip, I mean pocketbook.

The point being that Imus said some nasty things that were racist and sexist and people were not just offended, but offended enough to make a scene about it. And it got something done... that hideous cash cow has been put out to pasture. While I would ordinarily be happy about such a show of public decency, I can't help but draw a parallel to another public-hate-speech controversy and its eventual (but lesser) outcome.

By now most every homo has heard about the antics of Isiah Washington on the set of "House's ER Anatomy", or whatever the show is called. In case you are fortunate enough NOT to have gotten caught up the celebrity gossip circuit: Mr. Washington uttered the "F" word while in a physical altercation on the set with another cast member. No, not "fuck", but "faggot". This was said about a cast member who later came out publicly as gay, making the snotty remark a little more impactful.

So-as one would expect-gay rights groups got mad about it, and raised a stink. Enough so that he apologized...much like Don Imus did. The execs surrounding "Grey's Anatomy", however, did not fire Isaiah, despite many previous documented cases of hate speech and violence on sets. So, surely, one would expect that civil rights groups would rally against such an obvious ignorance of misbehavior. Boy, did they ever: the NAACP gave Mr. Washington an Image award, and GLAAD (Yes, that would be the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against DEFAMATION people) gave the show an award. What. The. FUCK? What's next, recognition for positive depiction of gays for that Super Bowl Snickers ad?

Now, don't get me wrong...I'm not a thin skinned person. I don't think that saying something nasty about someone should always be made a gigantic issue. In fact, quite the contrary, I think that it serves to give the loud-mouth who said it just what they want: attention (see Ann Coulter). And sometimes people just slip up and say something stupid (see Roseanne). The problem I have is this: why, after all of the civil rights struggles of the past, are us gays still the one minority group it's still ok to marginalize and malign? Why is "nappy headed ho" worse of an insult than "faggot"? And what's more, who are we supposed to rely on to right the wrongs and injustices against us, if not civil rights organizations? Can we trust them if they look the other way when encountering things they should be correcting?

So, obviously, it comes down to us. You and me, average joes. We should be voting with our pocketbooks, and fighting to make our voices heard, right? So why aren't we? Admittedly, some moronic actor spewing insults is nothing in comparison to the civil rights struggles we face with that hate monger we put in the White House. But if we can't even get organized and angry enough to make ABC/Disney think twice about letting hate speech get off easy, how will we ever keep our kind from being the constant scapegoat for religious zealots and bigots alike?

Why can't we, as a minority group, be bothered to care enough to fight for our rights? Why do we spend more time and energy on celebrity gossip and reality TV than standing up for ourselves? Why do so many of us care so much more about fashion, getting laid, and the gym than what legislation is being introduced that will push us one step furthur out onto the plank? Why would we rather vote to see who is America's next top model-actor-crooner, than on things that actually have some impact on our lives?

So I'll ask you, dear readers (yes, both of you) why do you think it is that we gay folks don't pay better attention to what's going on, and get angry enough about it to fight back? Where IS our angry mob?

(Ok, I'm off my soap-box now.)

Born to be, like, wild and stuff!

Maybe it's what is commonly referred to as "spring fever", or maybe just the nature of our addiction to travel, but John and I have been feeling the let's-get-the-hell-outta-dodge-even-if-it's-just-for-a-day itch a lot lately. So the other day we decided to dust off our motorcycles and hit the road. We didn't have anywhere specific to go, so we headed up to Globe. (Hey, it's not the destination that's important, it's the journey).

The ride up was really nice, and quite relaxing. I sometimes forget how much I like the no radio, no cell phone, no chatter, no distractions aspect of a long ride somewhere on a motorcycle. It really lets you think...or, as is often the case with me, get some totally annoying song stuck in the random jukebox that is my head. The worst part about that is that I seem to only remember certain sections of said tunes..."...her name was Lola, she was a show girl...and..uh..something something something la la la...". Tell me that doesn't happen to you too. Go ahead and lie.

Anyway, we got kind of a late start and it started to get a little cool out...especially with whatever added wind chill factor 65 mph of velocity adds. So we stopped into a dollar store of some kind and bought these totally stylin' college-preppie-on-the-outside-lumberjack-on-the-inside shirts to add to our wind resistance.

Sportin the super styiln shirt in front of a two cars John was trying to buy.

After we ate at this place called Kelly's Brewery on Broad St. It was housed in a cute building that our waitress informed us used to be a JC Penny. The floor was all wood, and they had this HUGE and ornate wooden bar that we sat next to. Throw in a pool table, some peanuts on the floor, and a hundred or so furry, drunken bears, and it could have been the Lone Star in San Francisco. The food was good, (though we didn't exactly choose the healthiest options on the menu) and the service down-homey.

John being eclipsed by the ginormous bar thingy.

Well, there was at least ONE bear there.

Gigantic cash register or antique transforming robot with death ray? You decide.

It was nice to see that the downtown Globe area still has a little bit of the quickly dwindling small town Arizona feel to it. The streets are modernized, of course, but some of the buildings still have that early 1900's feel and look to them. One can actually picture what life might have been like back then. All around this little pocket of history, however, the usual Wal-mart brand of homogenization has occurred.

Yeah, I know, it's a church...but it's still kinda pretty.

On the ride home, we were both glad we had our fashion-forward dork shirts on. The sun was down, and the dark certainly didn't help make things any warmer.

Video Fun

While this is not my favorite song that they perform, this is a rather fun video from a group that IS one of my recent favorites. In it Of Montreal animate "Wraith Pinned..." in a cutesy fun style with a little Happy Tree Friends influence thrown in for good (?) measure.

Hee hee...

I'm sure I passed the sign for this restaurant a few hundred times in Phoenix while traversing Central Ave. I think I may have even eaten at this place a long time ago. Unfortunately, however, I never noticed the truly awesome tag line until John pointed it out as we were driving by it last week. He wants a T-shirt with that logo & motto on it now.

Random Beef #3 (Big, sweaty, liftin mens edition)

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only homo in the world who likes watching The World's Strongest Man competitions...with a box of tissues nearby. (I'm kidding...mostly.) They'll occasionally show these sweat, grunt, and flex-fests on ESPN 2, (you know, when they take time out from their busy poker, bowling, and professional eating contest lineup to show something that actually takes a little bit of *gasp!* athleticism).

Needless to say, there is never a shortage of beefcake in any of the aforementioned contests. This episode's Random Beef is no exception. Don Pope, from what I could find out, has only been in a few WSMs, and hasn't ever won. But with a big, woofy smile like that, who cares?

The first rule about embarrassingly obtained injuries is: you don't talk about embarrassingly obtained injuries!

Ok, so John didn't win our latest round of husband boxing...nor did I get in a gritty bar fight...nor did I even lose control of some ridiculous amount of weight I was attempting to hoist at the gym. No, the real culprit for this little beauty is far more embarrassing: a general lack of grace or cat-like reflexes. Not that I've ever been accused of having said qualities, but they certainly would help me to look a little less like a Judo class' sparring dummy.

The other culprit, you see, is my job. Which I love dearly, don't get me wrong. It's just that I need to learn how to navigate the inherent dangers a little better. For those who don't know, I'm one of those little guys you see scurrying about underneath you when your plane pulls into it's destination. I "download" (read "toss") your incoming bags, "upload" (read "heave") your outgoing bags , and "push out" ( read "drive a $40 million aircraft via a tow-bar attatched to a golf cart on steriods") your plane from its gate so that it can taxi out onto the runway safely. I'm what they call a Ramp Agent.

Part of a Ramp Agent's duties also include driving your incoming bags to a place where they can be put onto a conveyor belt that magically delivers them to you, the passenger, at Baggage Claim. This job in particular is both more simple, and more complicated than it would seem. Simple, because you're really just tossing bags onto a moving belt from a stationary cart. Complicated because it's very easy to jam the system, and the conveyor is filled with delicate sensors that attempt to prevent such an occurrence. If any jam-like conditions are found to exist...WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!...an alarm goes off. Bags piling atop one another like methed-out party tweakers at a clothing optional pool party? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Bags too close together? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Bag riding along with too high of a profile? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Accidentally fart a little too close to one of the sensors? WOO...well, you get the idea.

I tell you all this because, in the event of an alarm, one has to crawl down into the system and fix said problem. Which is made more fun, because the crawl space is something even a petite dwarf would have trouble navigating. So a couple days ago I had just finished loading the last bag onto the belt, and then...

System Alarm: WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!

Me: "Fuck."

Thus it was time to traverse the mouse trap to try and fix the problem. I couldn't get in via the normal rolling door, so I had to crawl in from the side that you would normally huddle around as you wait to pounce on your bag, should it shoot out. I had another flight waiting for me, so I was in a hurry...and irritated at this (self-caused) delay to getting to it. Hastily, I ape-walked my way into the tunnel to try and find the cause of the problem. But the door on that side wouldn't open either.

Me: "FUCK!"

It's now that I should mention that I always wear a baseball-cap type hat at work to keep the sun off my noggin. I wear it pulled down kinda low, so that the brim shields my eyes from bright light of day. The brim thus blocks my view of anything above eyebrow level. Including the big, concrete support braces that horizontally line the ceiling of the tiny corridor I was crawling in.

My head (upon swiftly meeting said concrete structure): "BAM!"

Me: "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!!"

After the sparkly things had cleared from my eyes, I picked myself up off the belt. Gathering the sunglasses that had come out of my shirt pocket, I felt a trickle of something on my brow. I rose my forearm to my forehead. Yup, blood. Goody. I rushed-albeit a bit more carefully this time-the rest of the way up the belt so I could let the Baggage Rep know that I couldn't find the source of the problem.

Our Bag Rep is this really sweet, and totally flaming, 40-something guy from somewhere in the south. I rushed over to let him know to call my supervisor so he could see about fixing the problem with the belt system. I also vaguely mentioned smacking my melon in a totally no-big-deal-but-kinda-funny-to-share sort of way.

Him: "Ok, sure. I'll go ahead and...YAA! YUU! YOU'RE BLEEDING!"

Me: "I know, I know...I'm fine...do me a favor and please call the supe so he can fix the belt?"

I really didn't want my head thing to be a big issue. I was totally pissed at myself for not paying attention, and totally embarrassed too. I really didn't want too much of anyone to know about it, if it could be helped. I'd rather just hide it under my hat and sneak it by every...

Him (on his radio, sounding panicked): "Ramp supe, we need you to come see about the belt, it ain't workin'...and we have an injury here!"

Great. So much for that idea.

So everyone found out, and I had to tell them how it happened, and for the next few days I got to hear "Don't hit your head on that *snicker*" in just about every situation. So my head's bruised, my ego a little more so, and I think I learned a valuable lesson: hide your embarrassing wounds from excitable co-workers.

Oh, and be more careful around head-level things that are made of a material more impact resistant than your skull.

Random Beef #2 (viedo edition)

John somehow ran across this on the web the other day. It's Russian (we think) and fun to look at!