The pick up

This is long, but it’s exactly how it happened.

When no one was waiting for me in Schroon Lake, I panicked and then remembered I was supposed to call. There wasn’t a public phone in sight. The village center was at most two blocks long. One side of the New York Route 9 had no shops at all and the other side only a few. There was a café, an ice cream shop with a window for walk up service, a t-shirt shop, the bus ticket window, and a hardware store. The other side had the church, a small town hall, a miniscule post office, and a lodge of some sort. A block to the right was a drive-in sub shop. I dragged everything across the street, and using a borrowed phone from the ice cream shop called the retreat. I told the woman who I was and where I was. I told her the woman in charge was supposed to pick me up, and she said someone would be there shortly. I got an ice cream cone and dragged everything back to the spot in front of the church. It offered a great view both to the right and left, even down to the lake and was well out of the way of pedestrians. After about fifteen minutes, a dark blue Dodge sedan came into town from the north and slowed down across from me. It unloaded three teenagers who went into the ice cream shop and pulled away. I opened my guitar case and bean to play. After playing every song I knew, I checked my watch and saw I’d been waiting an hour. I called the retreat again and was told the woman in charge was still not in. I asked that someone, anyone, come pick me up as soon as they could and was assured someone would. I went back to my spot across the street and waited. Every car’s appearance lifted my hopes, but each time they drove past. The teenagers who’d been dropped off earlier walked down to the lake. I looked at my watch again and was startled to see I’d been waiting over two hours. I didn’t want to make waves, but was considering getting on the next bus and heading back to New Haven. I was very annoyed. Before I did, I thought I should call one more time. I was told someone would be right there. The letter in Ms sounded very professional. There would be group sessions, foot massage, reflexology, counseling, and recreational opportunities. I hoped there might be other lesbians I could talk to. I’d left my husband, come out to my family, friends, and co-workers, but had never had sex with another woman. What if I was really bad at being a lesbian? I’d already flunked heterosexuality. I’d waited for over three hours and was on a first name basis with the town policeman who periodically drove to the lake on his short circle patrol. I also knew the woman at the bus ticket window, the people in the café and ice cream shop. Maybe one of them would take me in for the night. Then I heard a car. Actually, I felt the vibrations before I heard the sound. Looking up, I saw a large brown station wagon, covered in dirt, its windows smeared with dirty streaks. I was aghast. I was waiting for a professional woman, someone who might wear jeans, but would certainly wear a knit pullover, someone with clean socks and a professional manner, and a clean car. This driver could not be the psychologist I had written. Its muffler throbbing loudly, the car pulled over at the sub shop and a small woman in jeans, a denim shirt and an extraordinary amount of hair got out. Whew. Then car came unerringly towards me then went past. Before I could sigh again, it made a U-turn and pulled up next to me. This was the car. The driver’s left hand rested on the steering wheel, holding a cigarette. Her right arm casually lay across the back of the front bench seat, an open beer car in her right hand. If possible, she had more hair than the other woman. Even with her sitting, I could tell she was tall. Her breasts were visible under the blue denim shirt she wore open to her navel. I focused on her eyes. I was considering running away when she asked if I was going to the women’s retreat. With no time to fashion a lie, I heard myself say, “Yes, I am.” She told me her name and patted the front seat. Clouds of dust rose, momentarily hiding her face. “Throw your stuff in the back and sit up front with us.” I wondered how easy it would be to get out if I got in the car. What if part of women’s liberation is that women get to be serial killers and advertise for their victims in MS? I opened the back door and noted the rear window of the station wagon was gone. The woman said, “Yeah, it sucks all the dirt in the county in here.” My pack and guitar case stored, I closed the door and opened the front door. There were seven inches of dirt on the front seat. At least seven inches. She patted the seat again and more dust arose. “C’mon.” I looked at my new gold brushed velour jeans, then at the dust on the seat. I knew that by sitting and sliding I would grind dirt into my new pants that would never come out. This wasn’t New Haven dirt. This was country dirt, and it was laughing at my pants. I got in the car carefully, lifting my butt as I moved. Perhaps the pants could be saved. She drove to the sub shop where the small woman was waiting. “Scoot over,” she said as she opened the door. Lift the butt. Move. Lift the butt. Move. Perhaps I could still save my new pants. “Here, baby,” the woman said. Reaching across me, she handed one of two Italian subs to the driver. Hmm. There was a real possibility these two women were lesbians. Not like any lesbians I had ever seen or thought of or imagined, but lesbians none the less. The small woman introduced herself in a husky voice. Where the driver was tall and ample, she was small and wiry. Her blue jeans were as tight as the other’s, but her denim shirt was only open to her breasts. Her sandwich in one hand, the driver juggled a cigarette and a beer in the other. “Hold this a minute, will ya?” She handed me the beer as she unwrapped the sub. With one end of the sub exposed, she reached for the beer can. A tomato, completely encased in olive oil, squirted out, slid down my new tan canvas jacket and settled on my pants. The woman to my right reached to grab it, inadvertently grinding tomato and oil farther into the fabric. Unfortunately, she was still juggling the beer can and cigarette, and the end result was a flurry of ashes, a tiny cinder, and a generous splash of beer all landing on my pants. Fortunately, the beer put out the cinder before it made more than a small hole in the material. It was over. I couldn’t save my clothes now. As we drove along the beautiful upstate New York roads, the women told me there were six other women at the retreat. When the car turned onto a dirt road I understood the full extent of problem with the rear window. Conversation became difficult, if not impossible as I coughed and choked on the dust. The driver stopped the car at a small bridge. On the right side of the road, she pointed out a small waterfall. The lake above the falls, she explained, was where they went swimming. It was a lovely spot, and I was glad I’d brought my camera. Suddenly a voice hailed us. At the top of the falls, a woman stuck her head out of the water and waved. Someone from the retreat, I learned. I smiled, and we all waved. Then the woman stood up. She was totally naked. She wore absolutely nothing. It was impossible to only look at her eyes. My mind was totally blank. There were no previous experiences to which I could relate this one. Southern girls just didn’t see other girls without their clothes. I don’t know why, but they didn’t. It was probably a good thing. I was aware of a buzzing in my head, as well as the car starting up again. And I knew my mouth, which had dropped open when the woman stood up, was still open. The two women in the car assumed I was the same person they’d picked in town, but they were wrong. The New Haven me, with my proper job at Yale, my religious family, and twenty-seven years of assumptions about life, was gone. The new me didn’t know anything about anything. Everything was up in the air. Not everyone looked as I did or thought as I did or behaved as I did. I no longer stood on solid ground, able to see where I’d come from and where I was going. I stood on the rolling deck of a ship at sea in the middle of giant swells, trying to keep my balance, feeling seasick, unsure of what was coming, aware of the danger of being swept away, but unwilling to miss the trip.

©2009 jgschenck

[Via http://jgschenck.wordpress.com]

Lambert's AMA performance on target

Adam Lambert’s performance on last night’s American Music Awards may have been a lot of things, but inappropriate isn’t one of them.

The performance of Lambert’s latest single featured about three seconds of Lambert shoving someone’s face into his crotch, as well as a passionate kiss with a band member. And this was the closing number of the night – viewers could see worse on other shows that typically take that time slot. Much ado about nothing.

No one cared when Lady GaGa wore a flesh-toned body suit – one that made it look like she was wearing a strap-on at that – and broke liquor bottles on stage when she performed. No one said a word about Rihanna’s rings of clothing that left little to the imagination or when she entered the stage bound up BDSM-style. But when a fully clothed gay man mimics a few seconds of fellatio all hell breaks loose. Lambert’s number wasn’t inappropriate, it was right in line with the other outrageous performances of the night.

Lady GaGa at the AMAs. Photo from Google Images (TheSuperficial.com).

Rhianna at the AMAs. Photo from Google Images (TheSuperficial.com).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After all the press about it, I expected to see Lambert on stage with his pants open and a partner gleefully pleasing the pop star for a vast majority of the song, so when I watched the clip for the first time, I completely missed the controversial act entirely.

And trust me if GaGa – or even Britney – had done it, no one would even bat a false eyelash.

But Lambert’s new album drops tomorrow. I’m sure his camp isn’t all that upset about the hype.

Adam Lambert performs “For Your Entertainment at the AMAs

Lady GaGa performs “Bad Romance” and “Speechless” at the AMAs

Rihanna performs at the AMAs

[Via http://stuffqueerpeopleneedtoknow.wordpress.com]

Dim...

Nov 18th 2009

All I want to do is sleep…I had to make myself get out of bed today, and I’m sitting here wondering what the point of getting up was in the first place? The inside of my brain feel’s so bizarre today…I assume it’s because I’m taking a new antidepressant?

Today, my only wish is for death to come for me and take me away to a better place…Somewhere where I can feel loved, because today I feel completely numb…I can’t even shed a single tear today as a result, and this is a very dangerous sign for me, because I have no way of releasing what’s bound up inside me…I’m not suicidal, I would never take my own life…But at times, I feel like I need physical pain to cope with what’s going on inside of my damaged brain…I have no intentions of turning back into the dark realm of BDSM though…I will just have to keep learning how to undo what’s already been done, but without the desire of escaping my inner pain with feeling physical pain..I’ll never be dominate or submissive to anybody ever again nor will I ever want to be flogged again either…But, how do I fill that void now? Often I ask myself the question, “what am I supposed to do now?” Although the answer is always, that I just need to feel loved…But I feel that I’m hopeless where love is concerned also…Because I know the answer to my own question obviously…But sadly, there is NOT enough love in the world to save me from how I’m feeling at this very moment…I can’t even feel God’s love for me right now…All I feel is this endless void within me, filled with nothingness and emptiness…Meanwhile, I remain broken in spirit and cannot find some inner strength to pull myself back together again…So for today I think loving myself is out of the question as well…Hence, I hope for death…To come for me and erase me from this life…I feel like a cruel trick is being played on me, because one day I’m fine and feeling great and the next day I’m so sad that I’m praying for death…Honestly, I can’t control my thoughts anymore, they control me…I can’t control my moods anymore, and they control me too…I can barely manage to get out of bed to come sit here and express myself…And here (this one and only blog of mine) has become such a dark place lately…My positive thoughts used to heavily out weigh my negative thoughts…And now, not so much…I have my support system to help carry my burdens, but I won’t pick up the phone or reach out for anybody’s help…I can only come here to release everything, where I feel no effort (on my part) is required, and I feel safe…I don’t have to see anybody, I don’t have to talk to anybody and I don’t have to interact with anybody, period…I don’t want anybody to know that I’m this weak right now…I have become so pathetic to myself…I feel helpless and hopeless…If I’m not escaping through sleep, I’m awake and therefore I must to be listening to music to keep my demons at bay…That’s the only thing that help’s me when I’m feeling such loneliness and despair…Music! Although at this very moment, I’m sitting here in silence and I’m attempting to release myself from the internal enemy of depression…By expression…

All that I can do now is end with a prayer…

“Father God and Divine Spirit of Love please come and help me”

the entitlement of "ordinary men" to rape, molest, abuse

Lots of interesting information in the study released by the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York about clergy sex abuse, most of it disheartening.

I know it says that there is no connection between homosexual identity and sex abuse of minors, and that is good to have the statistics to back up what we all know. Stop blaming the queers.

But the study also says this:

clergy abusers tended to be maladjusted men rather than the pathological abusers…they tended to have few victims and often committed a range of other crimes or improper behaviors, which is similar to the profile of abuse in the wider American society. “These are ordinary men,” Smith said, echoing the verdict of a 1970 study of the psychological profile of priests. (New Catholic Sex Abuse Findings: Gay Priests Are Not the Problem)

Ordinary men.

Certainly, Pope Benedict will be happy to use this idea of how modern culture corrupts, proof that his “modernity is the cause of everything bad in the world,” so that women need to stop seeking their own authority and queers need to get reverse engineered. As in the past, the Pope’s rhetoric will address declining morality among societies (that means all people, all genders) as shown through the acts of depraved men. This reminds me of how that great patriarchal architect, Sigmund Freud, developed his theory of normal human psychology by studying sexually abused young women and claiming they only fantasized about having sex with their fathers.

But I wonder if this idea of “ordinary men” says something more disturbing still. What do we teach our boys about being men, if “ordinary men” have such a sense of entitlement that they seek sexual and ego gratification even from the helpless, even at the cost of violence, because they refuse to negotiate mutual relationships?

The Church will like the notion that sexually predatory priests are just “ordinary men” — as much as Evolutionary Psychologists, I assume. The idea that men-will-be-men, that men are bred by evolution and god, apparently, to take sex wherever they can get it. Instead of this being an issue of a corrupt ideology of gender roles, it’s merely an issue of curbing excess and providing services to those entitled to something they may not deserve. The Church for one; properly-conditioned women for the other.

It’s much easier when women have reached maturity with their corrupt role message intact, so that they acquiesce to the old tale that men can’t help themselves. A woman’s self-violence and self-abuse is a blessing for an abuser. It’s what makes battered women stay in unlocked houses, what makes them accomplices to the crimes not just against themselves but against their children — from kidnappers, to sex traffickers, to genital mutilators.

But if that doesn’t get the job done, and women don’t volunteer for service, there’s always conscription into the ranks of sexual service through rape and molestation and victimization under authority of ”ordinary men.”

lady of the waves

for G

when you whisper in my other ear

and the ocean’s roar is all I hear,

I’m afraid 
you may just be enough



when your undertow destroys me

so effortlessly

I’m afraid

it’s too late to call this off

and when your silver tendrils

lock around my helm

and port and starboard

and everything in between

glitter fingers

rainbow kisses

and kelp-heavy treasure chests spilling 

Wonder Wheel wishes,



I’m afraid

we may just be making history—

and knowing the moment while making it is such luxury

even if all that matters

tonight

is that

I am happy



I told you that sometimes

memories take time to rise,

so you took my hand,

led me out on the sand

and we just walked along the tide



oh it’s strange,

this art of making waves—

how conscious and divine,

to feel my cells shifting

to welcome your drifting

from the country of yours

to the island of mine

and when the horizon lights 

disappear and salt spray battens 

your picture windows, I’m still here—

I am the sand you’ll write your name on with your toes

and the ocean who swallows you whole.

You are the dolphin with secret teeth,

belly upturned at low tide

who flips, presenting dorsal fin. I ride. you.
Who knows—in a thousand years

when you put your ear to a shell

you may still remember me 
the day I fell

asleep by your side

under tiny blue lights

in your moon-quilted ashram by the sea.



© Sarah Noack 2008

Zorg & Dawg Invade Earth

“From this moment forward Dawg, we speak only in Earthling English.  It is imperative our mission is  successful, we must be ready for anything.”  Zorg pulls his black elastic hood tightly over his large green scalp, tucks his collar tight under his pointy grey chin, clicks his eye shield & protective goggles firmly into place activating ultraviolet night vision, while sparks flicker deep within its dark lenses.  He dusts down his skin-tight, leather-like alien commando engagement suit, systematically initiates an array of guerrilla gadgets & multi-coloured intelligence icons while he conducts his final equipment check with the utmost precision.  –

“Always remember, 717 years of evolutionary development theoretically provides us with the stealth and intellect to outwit an earthling at any hour, however do not underestimate the unpredictable tendencies and seductions of the human mind.  The dangerously deluded spirit offers many distractions.  Be alert my brother, remain watchful at all times.”

Dawg follows his twin brothers lead, activates goggles, pauses for 3 seconds to center his Terrestrial Chi and claps his heavily gloved 3 fingered hands together, “Lez hit it cuz!  Andromeda is all ova dis piss-ant puny-ass poor excuse for a Galaxy !!”  In a 3 fingered A sign he knuckle-shuffles a leathery finger across a lone infra red sensor protruding from the cockpit dashboard, synchronizes wrist-dash with UV Heat shields, and counts down…

3’

2’

1’

…and in an instant the two vanish, sucked at high pressure through the check valve airlocks beneath, hurtling them simultaneously into the pitch black vacuum of space.

***

Senseless Scribbling of an Idiot #25: Gay by God

So, the other day a friend of mine posted a question on her Facebook.  She wanted to know if people thought gays were born that way or somehow became gay in life.  Basically, it’s the old nurture versus nature question.  She said the breakroom became quite intense when she posed the question.  Some people feel like they were born that way; some people believe gays are born gay.  Others believe that they’re nurtured to be gay.  Who even knows?  Only science can tell.  Or maybe God.

What do I think?  I think gay people are born gay.  I believe it is a natural occurence.  People shit themselves when it comes to the subject of homosexuality.  Normally, I don’t even like to get into these types of discussions because people get so riled up that the whole thing will just come to blows.  I’ll have to shank somebody just to get them to listen to my point of view.  But since this is my blog and I can damn well write what I want, I’m going to go for it.

If you hate it, then click away and get lost.

Someone once said to me that he noticed that suddenly there were a lot of gays.  He said it must be “something in the water,” meaning the way parents were raising their children and the oversexualisation that we see in the media.  He said it seemed like being gay was the cool thing to do.  I told him that there appears to be an abundance of gays because people are now more comfortable with themselves and they don’t feel like they need to hide who they really are.  Since this is the new millennium and everything, some people just feel like enough is enough.  Let’s let it all hang out.

In my opinion, I do not believe there are more gays now than there were, let’s say, 100 years ago.  There were simply more people hiding the truth from themselves and others.  If you really look back in history, there’s plenty mention of gay people.  Even the Bible has tales of homosexuality.  I’m not talking about the supposed commandments against homosexuality, I’m only talking about the mere mention of gayness.

There are many people that believe that homosexuality is against God’s wishes.  Well, since these people believe that God created everything, then why did He create gay people?  Oh, that was the work of the devil?  Well, then explain to me why God would simply not just strike down all these abominations?  Why let them roam the earth freely contaminating the rest of us?  He let six million of the chosen people go to the exterminator, but gays are free to fornicate at will.  This makes no sense to me.

Look, I am a FIRM believer in God.  I believe He is the Truth, the Light and the Way to whatever eternal glories are waiting for me in the afterlife.  Except for about 15 minutes when I was 17, I have always believed this, and I will never not believe this.

I now have a confession to make:  I used to have a huge problem with gay people.  I used to think that it was the worst thing ever.  I used to believe that it was against God’s commandments.  I used to believe that it was an abomination.

I know that I have a lot of gay friends, and I was comfortable being friends with them because I always knew that our eternal salvation, or damnation, is personal.  When we die, we die alone.  We stand before our Maker alone.  All my sins, even the ones I committed with my best friend, are aired out for me and me alone to make atonement.  So I would think, he’s gay, he’s going to hell, but he’s still cool though.  My soul was safe because their gayness doesn’t contaminate me.  I really believed that.  I never told my gay friends how I felt because I always felt like they didn’t need to hear one more person telling them they were going to hell.  I’m sure they would find out when they got there.

But after Shannon posed her question and I was reading some of the responses, I had this epiphany.  Seriously, a light went off in my head and it was the strangest thing that I just did this huge 180.  First of all, how can I assume that I know what God really wants?  No, really.  Who am I to say, “God doesn’t like that!”  I’m not sure why ever went off on the this is not what God wants routine.  A lot of people do that, assuming they know what the truth is.  We’re all just floundering in this flotsam, trying to get by in life.  We’ve subscribed to whatever religion, whatever thought process and we’re just hoping against hope that we even picked the right one–provided that anything is even waiting for us when we get there.  And you know, that’s a story for another day.

Secondly, who would really choose to be gay?  I know this does not apply to every gay man or lesbian everywhere, but we’ll take some American examples.  In most states gays cannot marry whom they love.  Imagine spending all of your life with the man or woman you loved and when they died, they could leave you nothing because of you happened to be the same gender as your one true love?  Even in the states they are permitted to marry, they still have to battle their unsupportive friends and family.  They get to listen to horrid gay jokes.  Some of them have been abused, maimed, even killed because they are gay.  They suffer isolation and humiliation.  Fathers have turned against sons.  Mothers have shunned daughters.  Siblings alienate siblings.  Families have been torn apart.

The cruellest punishment is rejection, and it hurts like a thousand needles in the eye when it comes from your own family.  Why would someone choose this life?

And then we come to gays who cannot stomach the consequences and they take themselves to crazy heights trying to pretend they aren’t.  I’ve heard of camps where they go to get the gay beat out of them.  Supposedly the power of the Lord will preach the gay out, like exorcising some demon.  I know a man who forced himself into marriage with a woman.  He had hoped to have a child and somehow that would make him not gay.  Instead, the wife found out about his natural tendencies.  She divorced him and took him for every penny he had.  Now he’s miserable.

Who would choose this?

I know there are some gays that do not have it this hard.  They are comfortable who they are.  They have supportive families.  They live in pro-gay marriage states.  This is not a blanket statement for everybody, but merely an outline of what some people are up against.  I know a lot of young gay men who are only half-way out.  They jeopardise relationships and their personal happiness because they can’t share their joy with everybody they know.  One partner feels ashamed and the other just wants to be normal.  With all the “regular” problems in relationships, why would you purposely add that on?

My sister said there was some priest on Oprah who said that being gay was a gift from God to show people lessons in hatred.  I think that sounds pretty horrible, but I am now convinced more than ever that we are either born gay or straight.  There’s nothing that the parents did to make their child gay.  He or she is simply the way he or she is.  Maybe you don’t realise it till you hit puberty and you start contemplating all those raging hormones, but I’ve know a few gay men who said they were quite sure they knew they were gay from a very young age.

And for all of us who are straight, did you wake up one day and decide that you wanted to be straight?  I didn’t.  I know that I did not make conscious decision that I would be straight.  One day I was like, “Oh, that boy is cute.”  I didn’t say, “I should like boys over girl,” or “Liking girls is wrong, so I’m going to like boys.”  None of us made any decision that day we woke up and started noticing sex.

I’m not a scientist or a doctor.  I’m not a priest or any other religious figure.  I’m just some random person with an opinion, like any other random person.

I know there are passages in the Bible that speak against homosexuality, and I’m really trying hard not to take this blog down that route.  It’s such a can of worms, but we have to remember that for awhile it wasn’t so hot to be black, or Jewish, or whatever.  Marrying outside of one’s religion was an atrocity.  Marrying outside of one’s race was a crime against nature.  Marrying the same gender is the new abomination.  I believe it is the last hurdle–at least until we can come up with something else to hate.