From the King (or should I say Queen?), of specious reasoning comes this little morsel, courtesy of Radar, via Gawker.
I would be happy to leave Matt Sanchez where he belongs, on pop culture's slag heap (aka Ann Coulter) but I'll be darned if he doesn't keep poking at us with a stick. If he's determined to have his entire 15 minutes of fame, I'll be happy to give it to him. I find it makes watching my Rod Majors porn all that more enjoyable.
Oh, and it's not a fatwa, as gay men would never support anything with the word FAT in it. It's a fagwa, you dipshit. Although I have to admire anyone who can offend two utterly disparate groups in the same slur. I can only hope Hamas has his address and reacts accordingly.
[G A W K E R]
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Monday, April 02, 2007
I'm Back
So, in addition to workplace stress and a full moon, April 1st is also the day my grandmother died.
It was nine years ago now, and it never gets easier. Most of the light went out of my life that day; each day since then represents a single brick in a road. I have clawed my way forward this far, almost all of it by my fingernails. Though my will to live is often tenuous at best, my life's will to be lived burns with a kind of fury that most days was all that sustained me.
My grandmother wouldn't have wanted me to be so miserable, and goodness knows I don't like it much either. But then, I must, or I wouldn't have been like this for so long. During the recent self-portrait saga I took time to look back at pictures of myself as a kid. That happy little face bears no resemblance to the mask of tragedy I've been wearing. That's the real tragedy here; that I nearly let external forces ruin me, and any internal goodness which my grandmother's love instilled in me.
This blog is what that road has become, and now, instead of each day, each post is a brick. Instead of creeping my way forward on hands and knees I have picked myself up and am now able to make a stride most days, and some days even two.
Progress was the stated aim when I began this enterprise, and progress is still my byword today. Despite its foes and all their work to the contrary, progress will happen. Why anyone would trade the reality of today and the possibility of tomorrow for the myth of yesterday is beyond me. Hopefully, so are the worst days I have ever known.
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It was nine years ago now, and it never gets easier. Most of the light went out of my life that day; each day since then represents a single brick in a road. I have clawed my way forward this far, almost all of it by my fingernails. Though my will to live is often tenuous at best, my life's will to be lived burns with a kind of fury that most days was all that sustained me.
My grandmother wouldn't have wanted me to be so miserable, and goodness knows I don't like it much either. But then, I must, or I wouldn't have been like this for so long. During the recent self-portrait saga I took time to look back at pictures of myself as a kid. That happy little face bears no resemblance to the mask of tragedy I've been wearing. That's the real tragedy here; that I nearly let external forces ruin me, and any internal goodness which my grandmother's love instilled in me.
This blog is what that road has become, and now, instead of each day, each post is a brick. Instead of creeping my way forward on hands and knees I have picked myself up and am now able to make a stride most days, and some days even two.
Progress was the stated aim when I began this enterprise, and progress is still my byword today. Despite its foes and all their work to the contrary, progress will happen. Why anyone would trade the reality of today and the possibility of tomorrow for the myth of yesterday is beyond me. Hopefully, so are the worst days I have ever known.
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