December, 2008

I just birthed a new word

Saturday, December 6th, 2008

New word: PUNWIT (noun) plural: PUNWITS.

Any combination of a supposed non-biased talking head, pundit, or anchor who creates issues out of the news to give him/her a perch from which to spout nonsense about nothing.

copyright, Dec. 6, 2008.

What is wrong with Georgia?

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

The sleaze bag known as Saxby Chambliss has won the runoff against Jim Martin in Georgia. I realize we’re in a forgiving time due to our President-Elect, Barack Obama, and I admire him for that, but Chambliss forever will be a sleaze bag and bottom feeder to me because of his campaign against Max Cleland 6 years ago. It was worse than anything we saw during this last election cycle and that’s saying something. On this one, I will hold a grudge! This means, too, that Mitch McConnell will rear his gorged flappy jowled head as often as he can slither to the television cameras.

January 20, 2009 gets closer everyday!

“Milk” Mustache, Part 2

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

After I saw “Milk” last Friday, I walked home, closed the door and broke down.  I cried for hours, I couldn’t stop.  My stomach cramped up.  I remember the day Harvey Milk was murdered, along with Mayor Moscone — I hadn’t thought about that day in a long time.  Memories crashed down on me like bricks in an earthquake — suddenly, unexpectedly.  Milk was killed 5 days and 15 years after JFK.  During the 70s, my life evolved like a movie on fast forward, like a 78 record spinning on a turntable.  It was dream-filled and dream-fueled.  As quickly as the 70s had arrived and passed, the 80s slammed down, a deadly barricade against the future.  Milk died before the carnage.  He would have been a leader during the maddening early years of the plague, later AIDS now HIV, when my lovers and friends became sick overnight, when nearly everyone I knew had friends and lovers and family members who became sick overnight with unexplained and undescribable illnesses.  Panic gripped everyone.  I felt my lymph nodes a hundred times a day.  But, oh, there was Kevin, he wasn’t afraid — raspy voiced, 24 year-old Kevin, a man I loved in a way I had never ascribed to love.  He was pissed.  His startling blue eyes threw a javelin at me when I described to him an article I’d read in the Village Voice about how the “gay cancer” might be caused by having sex.  I nearly lost my mind when he died a year later, abandoned by his family, in isolation at Harborivew, nurses and doctors gowned and gloved, masks on their faces.  I recorded a cassette tape of Joni Mitchell tunes and took it to him with a cassette player on one of my daily visits.  I refused to wear gloves and a mask.  It was a few days before he died.  He could barely talk but I understood the message from his eyes — he hated Joni.  It was Laura Nyro he loved.  And I knew that.  But I forgot.  He died before I finished the Laura Nyro tape.