Odelay, Odelay

Posting this coming week may also be more scarce than usual. The project to which I have been have alluding from time to time still continues. Due to unforeseen circumstances, it has been delayed numerous times. Sometimes a transfer of information and documentation is more difficult than actually pulling together a written column. At least I have control over what I contribute.

I'd tell you the subject, but it makes much more sense if I keep it under wraps for the time being. Thank you for your continued patience.

Saturday Video

Punctured bicycle

on a hillside desolate 

will Nature make a man of me yet? 

When in this charming car 

this charming man 

Why pamper life's complexities

when the leather runs smooth

on the passenger seat?

I would go out tonight

but I haven't got a stitch to wear

This man said, "it's gruesome

that someone so handsome should care."

A jumped-up pantry boy

who never knew his place

He said, "return the ring"

He knows so much about these things

He knows so much about these things

I would go out tonight

but I haven't got a stitch to wear

This man said, "it's gruesome

that someone so handsome should care."

This charming man

This charming man

A jumped-up pantry boy

who never knew his place

He said, "return the ring"

He knows so much about these things

He knows so much about these things

He knows so much about these things

Roger

One day Roger came home from work very upset.

"I can't go on," he cried. "I can't go on, I can't go on!"

The next day was Thursday. Roger woke up, put his pants on, and went to work. -Tony Crunk

A Taste of Honey (Multitrack Recording)

A taste of honey

tasting much sweeter than wine.

I dream of your first kiss, and then,
I feel upon my lips again,

A taste of honey

tasting much sweeter than wine.

I will return, yes I will return,
I'll come back for the honey and you.

Yours was the kiss that awoke my heart,
There lingers still, 'though we're far apart,

That taste of honey

tasting much sweeter than wine.

I will return, yes, I will return,
I'll come back (he'll come back) 

for the honey (for the honey) and you.

Movie review: A taste of honey

A Taste of Honey is set in the industrialized, grimy Northwest of England, in a borough slightly outside the city of Manchester. There, we are introduced to a working class, seventeen-year-old schoolgirl named Jo. Though naïve in the ways of romance, as we will soon see, she’s nevertheless developed a hard shell due to a difficult childhood. Jo has often had to serve as a surrogate parent to her alcoholic, impulsive, irresponsible mother, who rarely admits her numerous failings.

By chance, Jo meets a black sailor named Jimmy one fateful day. The two begin a romance, which ends abruptly when Jimmy’s ship sails, with him aboard. After her mother remarries a much younger, but wealthy man, Jo strikes out on her own. While on the job, where she sells shoes to manage to live on her own, she makes a sale and earns an eventual roommate. His name is Geoffery, a textile design student and a talented artist. The two grow close, eventually becoming best friends in a relatively short period of time.

As they continue to build a friendship, Geoffery reluctantly admits that he is gay and that he has been recently kicked out of his previous flat. Though he can’t quite bring himself to vocalize precisely what happened, he implies that his landlady discovered him in bed with another man. With no reservations or hesitations, Jo offers Geoffery the opportunity to live with her. It makes good sense. The two feign a romantic relationship that often serves as cover for both. All is well and good until Jo returns from the doctor one day, having realized that she is pregnant with the sailor’s child.

Heavily conflicted, her feelings regarding the pregnancy vary considerably from day to day. She doesn’t want to have the child, but is unwilling to agree to an abortion. Geoffery cares for Jo as would a husband. He even goes as far as to express a willingness to raise the child as his own. Geoffery believes that the two ought to get married, at least for a time, until she can find new love and get back on her feet. Jo declines, but appreciates the sincerity and generosity of the offer.

This was risky, very adult stuff for its time. Britain in 1961 was a very different place than it is today, one where homosexuality was still illegal. A Taste of Honey, the film, was based upon the play of the same name. It had first seen release for a public audience three years earlier. The playwright Shelagh Delaney penned her first dramatic work at the tender age of 18, when she was not much older than her main character. A success as a play, it was agreed that a A Taste of Honey should next be adapted for the cinema. For the film version, Delaney jointly collaborated on the screenplay with the film’s director, Tony Richardson.  

Having come to prominence in 1958’s Look Back in Anger, this, Richardson’s next major work, would prove to be a critical success in the UK. However, the film passed almost unnoticed in the United States and the rest of the world. Richardson would not have to wait much longer before his directorial projects developed significant popularity. In the beginning, Richardson was just another creative voice, one part of an larger artistic and intellectual movement then very trendy. It was called kitchen-sink realism. The movement’s goal was, in large part, to provide a truthful portrayal of working class life.

British films prior to kitchen-sink had usually focused on the aristocracy, while showing the so-called lower classes to be loutish and stereotypically crude. From the late 1950’s into the mid-1960’s, kitchen-sink realism became much in vogue among critics, bringing to prominence an emergent group of first-time directors and writers. Along with Richardson, the list contained Lindsay Anderson, John Schlesinger, Karel Reisz, John Boorman, and Richard Lester. Each of them would achieve some degree of commercial success before the 1960’s were up. Richardson, Schelsinger, and Lester would be the most commercially successful of them all.

The films of what soon became known as the British New Wave focus on the lives of the city-dwelling salt of the earth. Notable contributors to the New Wave, in defiance of the rigid British class system, placed their settings well away from London and the South of England. Like A Taste of Honey, these films were usually set in far less glamorous locales. Most of the genre were inexpensively made, shot in black and white, and filmed on location. Social realism was the intent, seeking to get away from the days of Technicolor extravaganzas with massive ensemble casts, shot mostly on sound stages.

Ironically, Richardson would himself prove to be the undoing of kitchen-sink, this only two years after A Taste of Honey was released. Casting Albert Finney in the lead role of the rousing comedy hit Tom Jones, this effort was at long last a well-deserved massive success on both sides of the Atlantic. Eventually rewarded the Academy Award for Best Picture. Tom Jones’ playfulness and cheeky humor put an end to the uber-serious grittiness of what had come before it.

Next to follow was the cultural upheaval present as the 1960’s progressed, which encouraged radical cinematic experimentation. The fussiness of kitchen-sink was nowhere to be found, yet in some ways, its insistence upon accuracy over spectacle persisted. Kitchen-sink survives to the present day, still influencing filmmakers because of its daring.  

Baby Blue

This is a solid effort, though there are some rough spots with the vocal. I decided to keep it as is. The chorus shifts into a higher key, one that is out of my range. I could have switched to falsetto, but the volume would have diminished.  One can have an imperfect vocal with sufficient loudness, or a smoother one which is so soft that the guitar drowns it out.

That's the thing with live recordings. Otherwise, this song reminds me of a former lover.

Guess I got what I deserved
Kept you waiting there too long, my love
All that time without a word
Didn't know you'd think that I'd forget
or I'd regret

The special love I had for you, my baby blue

All the days became so long
Did you really think, I'd do you wrong?
Dixie, when I let you go
Thought you'd realize that I would know
I would show the special love I have for you, my baby blue

What can I do, what can I say
Except I want you by my side
How can I show you, show me the way
Don't you know the times I've tried?

Guess that's all I have to say
Except the feeling just grows stronger every day
Just one thing before I go

Take good care, baby, let me know, let it grow
The special love you have for me, my Dixie, dear.

Miscarriage of justice: the Jesse Shotts story

Twenty years after the fact, I return to a series of events that shaped my perception of not just American justice, but American society. What follows is part personal anecdote and part legal history. It challenges how we see our law enforcement system, in all its multitudinous ways, often more incompetent than malicious. Conspiracies require flawless, exactingly detailed work by everyone involved, with no accidental leaks to the media. Often, I see in its place a childish tit-for-tat retaliation with decisions motivated mostly by spite. 

Jesse Woodrow Shotts was a well-respected criminal defense lawyer from Birmingham, Alabama. He billed himself, informally, as the champion of the underprivileged. This belief was likely due to a substantial chip on the shoulder. Shotts had grown up working class in a city where the blast furnaces of the steel mills still pumped a thick, consistent cloud of acrid smoke over the entire metropolitan area. He’d had the intelligence and the ambition to be able to look beyond the back-breaking, laborious jobs that seemingly employed the entire city.

In high school, he'd been a scrappy, determined shortstop on the baseball team. His pugnacious, hard working attitude carried over into his adulthood. By the early 1990’s, Jesse Shotts, though his own hard work and diligence, had made a reputation for himself. He felt genuine compassion for the people he represented, who were often ex-cons or those with sketchy pasts. When most people would have kept their distance, Shotts put them under his employ and kept their heads above water.

Times had changed considerably in a city once considered the most segregated in America. Civil Rights drove whites en masse out of the city limits, over Red Mountain. The immediate downtown area was left impoverished and overwhelmingly black, including North Birmingham. When wave after wave of whites and white-owned businesses had flown the coop, he’d deliberately kept his law office and primary means of business there. 

Many of his clients were low-income people of color. As if to prove his loyalty, Shotts also owned and maintained a series of rental properties in the same part of town. Underneath a casual nonchalance, Shotts was really a liberal underneath it all. Not that he would ever embrace the label.

Shotts made mistakes. His biggest mistake was being good at what he did. A skillful criminal defense lawyer, he made his reputation by consistently beating the Feds at their own game. This won him friends but also the enmity of his enemies. Shotts could sometimes be cocky, which further enraged some fairly formidable foes, the Federal Bureau of Investigation being one of them. Even with that knowledge, I’m not sure he ever could have foreseen the direction his life was to take.  

Jack Montgomery was a Criminal Court Judge in Jefferson County, which contains all of Birmingham proper. Montgomery’s infamy and eccentricities were legendary. By turns racist, vulgar, and haranguing in the courtroom, the judge was the very definition of loose cannon. Having run unopposed for every term of office, in part by putting the fear of God into potential opponents, Montgomery’s behavior grew more and more outlandish and erratic with age. In 1992, the judge was caught red-handed accepting bribes and charged with racketeering, extortion, and bribary. This already sordid story soon took an unexpected and surprising twist. 

There is, of course, one more crucial distinction that needs to be made first. Jack Montgomery and Jesse Shotts were close friends.    

FBI agents executed a search warrant at Judge Montgomery’s house, which turned up $31,000. Montgomery resigned immediately.   

When taken to trial, Judge Montgomery tried a variety of stalling tactics which delayed the process for months. He consistently claimed to be physically and psychologically unable to stand trial. In time, his courtroom shenanigans exhausted, he was taken before the court and found guilty. While awaiting sentencing, the judge’s eccentricities reached new heights, as he broke a hip while running naked down his driveway. Following that, he cut himself with a chainsaw, for reasons unknown.

Two days before sentencing, Montgomery was found dead of a gunshot wound in his basement. Curiously, no suicide note, or murder weapon was found. This led to speculation that his fifth wife pulled the trigger, or that a vindictive FBI arranged the killing. Most people suspected suicide. In any case, Montgomery was nevertheless now unable to be formally pronounced guilty and sent to prison.

Taking down Jack Montgomery had been something of a holy grail for federal prosecutors. Having cheated justice with his demise, the FBI was deprived of the satisfaction of having attained a plum conviction. Accordingly, the Bureau began to formulate strategies to go after secondary targets. One of them was Jesse Woodrow Shotts.

If guilt by association is admissible evidence, Jesse Shotts would have found himself sentenced and jailed without the need for a formal trial. FBI wiretaps were said to have revealed a conversation between the late judge and Shotts discussing the legality of bail bonds. Bail bonds are a system by which a person pays a percentage of a court-specified bail amount to a professional bonds agent. The agent, in turn, puts up cash as a guarantee that the person will appear in court.

The prosecution insisted that Montgomery and Shotts had colluded when Montgomery signed a bond in a county over which the judge had no judicial authority. Shotts, in accordance with state law, as an attorney, was banned outright from owning a bail bonds company. The prosecution based much of its case upon the assertion that Jesse Shotts had been the proprietor of the bail bonds business. The defense vigorously disagreed and disputed this fact strongly.

During the first trial and the appeal to follow, the FBI relied heavily on the testimony of one witness. Her name was Kandy Kennedy. Kennedy was Shotts’ secretary, a woman with a checkered past of her own, who had spent time in prison. According to the defense, Kennedy had been threatened with additional jail time and turned state’s witness as a result. She stood accused of aiding in the destruction of other bail bonds that had been signed by Jack Montgomery. Any firmly established chain of events or timeline involved in said accusation was never proven in trial, one way or the other.

Shotts would be ultimately convicted on a 26 count indictment in 1995, three years after Montgomery’s death. An appeal to the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals in 1998 would reverse all but 2 of the charges. But by then, Shotts had been sent off to prison. The manual labor demanded of inmates created severe back problems. He retained his freedom on appeal, but left jail a broken man.

Fighting the case had depleted his savings and his health. Shotts even managed to employ legal heavyweight Alan Dershowitz to represent him for a time. For years afterwards, Shotts still continued to contest his case, even appealing to the Supreme Court. By 2003, the appeal eventually reached the highest court in the land. However, what had been a decade-long process reached its end when the justices passed on it. Fighting to reinstate his legal license, Shotts wanted most of all to reverse his conviction. He never regained the right to practice law. Shotts died a few years later of a heart attack.

Looking back now, twenty years after the fact, my understanding of the criminal justice system has expanded greatly. Our allegiances seem to fall somewhere in between a populist rancor at an authoritarian government and an incredible frustration at incompetence. Sometimes the systems that regulate our personal dealings are impotent, and sometimes they are overreaching. That being said, I have my own sympathies. I still believe that Jesse Shotts got a raw deal, in a frame-up by a group of men who wanted blood justice at any cost.

I would vindicate his name if I could, but I know that the real facts of the case may never be revealed. Many likely died with him. Like many lawyers, Shotts played it very close to the line and with a degree of relish. I’m thankful for the people who find trench warfare appealing, but I’m more conservative. Shotts’ case reveals to me that the lines between good and evil, legal and illegal, are much more blurry than we’d like to admit to ourselves.

Quote of the Week

"If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism."-Oscar Wilde

The Last Person I'd Ever Expect

From my perspective, I don't think that truthful, accurate stories about bisexuality and bisexuals are very plentiful. They're often painted with a lurid, sensationalist brush. So, I suppose I'll just write my own. Might as well.
 _______________________

The Last Place I’d Ever Expect

“I never thought I’d see you here”.

Ex-girlfriend encounters could be safely expected at any number of places downtown. I knew to brace myself at the concrete and armpits dive bar, a biohazard, where everyone always wanted to go. While making my way from the parking lot across the same few familiar avenues and streets, the unexpected was always a possibility. I’d let my guard down for a few hours, expecting to focus on something very different. Of all the gay bars in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

A moment. Let us lay our scene first. We now enter a universe where repression gives way to hedonism. This setting, a perpetually dark, smoky place where bad dance music plays around the clock is what passes for atmosphere. When you enter the establishment for the first time, the polite bartender asks you if you’re comfortable. He’s just making sure.

A large purple sign affixed to the main entrance screams out a warning in all caps. All those who would enter should leave immediately should they find the contents objectionable in any way. 

“You do know what this is, don’t you?” Few people have any pretenses otherwise, but he asks anyway.

His accent betrays his country roots. An effeminate inflection presented alongside a strong southern drawl sounds amusing at first. You have to make sure not to laugh, that is, unless his stated intent in speaking is to be campy and a little over the top. Sometimes even I can’t really tell the difference between the two, so I instead stay stoic and stone faced.

When you order a screwdriver, it is provided with possibly the weakest concentration of vodka conceivable. One is never sure whether the bartender expects you to have a low alcohol threshold or wants to make the hard liquor stretch a bit longer. In any case, I never found myself reaching anything remotely close to intoxication. It kept me on my toes, though I was much too inhibited to dance.  

Danielle was never one to beat around the bush. Her directness was one of the reasons I found her appealing in the first place. Auspiciously enough, we met in a human sexuality class while the both of us were in college. Asked to work together as part of a group assignment, we soon knew more about each other’s baser desires in three weeks than most couples learn in a year.

Labeling the parts of the female and male anatomy can be stimulating in strange ways. It wasn’t difficult for the more clinical aspects of sexuality to give way to the earthier variety. This may have been an unorthodox way to start out, but we went for it.

“So, I take it you’ve given up on women?”

One could probably make that assumption, being that I’d just had my arm around another man’s waist. Even so, assumptions should not be confused as truth. Danielle looked the exact same as she had when we’d last parted ways. Same blonde hair. Same blue eyes.  By now they were boring a hole into my own. I’d been asked a colossally awkward question that knocked me completely off stride. Though I could have dodged it, I decided to be honest instead.  

“No. You don’t ever stop being bisexual, as much as some might believe.”

This was an especially sore point with me. At minimum, two past girlfriends had been tremendously skeptical at the outset of our relationship. I had to use my best skills as a courtroom lawyer before suspicions and anxieties were set aside. Danielle wasn’t unsympathetic, but a part of her always had doubts. This may have explained why she married the very next boyfriend after me. She swung from one extreme to the other. He was about as heterosexual as a man could be, but to his credit, I knew him to be surprisingly tolerant.

“Did you know that Dan and I have a yearly membership here? He and I come to dance all the time.”

This I did not know. By now, she’d stopped acting like I was a character witness on the stand. She always had a way of being able to shift from intense to coolly detached in a half-second. It was a curious transition and even more curious to observe. I admit I had never fully understood. I wondered if her husband could make more sense of it than I. Danielle was a mysterious one. I’d stopped striving for comprehension a couple years before and found myself happier for it.

It was still strange to see her with an engagement ring. I feel the exact same way with every former relationship partner who is now betrothed. Ancient fault lines resurface. The dull ache of remembered rejection returns. Of course, we’d never progressed far enough along to even consider marriage. Our relationship had been conducted as though it had a 90 day trial in place. It concluded with the both of us agreeing to part ways without too much fuss or drama.

It wasn’t long before she moved on again, making her way to the outside patio, which served as a respite from the hyperactive energy going on in front of a set of huge mirrors. Walking a bit off balance, pushing her way through the crowd, she disappeared from sight. I last saw her sipping a drink with some difficulty through a tiny straw. I returned to what I'd been doing before, staring at the latest shirtless, sweaty exhibitionist considered a resident heartthrob.

And as always, I paused to reflect. In a perfect world, would I still feel sawed in half somehow? A part of me always got the shorter straw. Attraction never felt seamless or streamlined where sexual orientation was concerned. It was all women or all men, and this transition in particular was lumpy and difficult. For tonight, I knew where I’d stay and maybe even where I’d end up the next morning.

Thinking beyond the immediate present only caused pain and worry. The future was too daunting, too potentially injurious. And, in fairness, I was like every other man crammed inside, illuminated momentarily by the intermittent strobe lights. 

Saturday Video

Too many people going underground
Too many reaching for a piece of cake
Too many people pulled and pushed around
Too many waiting for that lucky break

That was your first mistake
You took your lucky break
and broke it in two

Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two

Too many people sharing party lines
Too many people never sleeping late
Too many people paying parking fines
Too many hungry people losing weight

That was your first mistake
You took your lucky break and broke it in two
Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two

Too many people preaching practices
Don't let them tell you want to want to be
Too many people holding back
This is crazy and, baby, it's not like me

That was your last mistake
I find my love awake and waiting to be
Now what can be done for you?
She's waiting for me

Friday Work

I've decided to devote today to working on my assignment. Will be back shortly.

I Fell in Love with a Fantasy

I started performing music live with no pretenses and no surprises. While living in a different city, I’d recognized that long hours and low pay was unavoidable. At least I didn’t fool myself. I’d regularly be the opener for a not very remarkable main act at a nondescript restaurant out in the suburbs. I understand why it’s easy to develop an alcohol problem while being the night’s entertainment, especially if audience alone is not underwhelming enough.

For the whole of the night, enthusiastic people in attendance always bought me drinks.  I never lacked for booze, often wishing it could be exchanged for money. That not being the case, instead I drank. Intoxication can be a humbling experience while on stage. I shall say no more.

I’ll admit that, like many musicians, I used my talents partially as a social icebreaker. When sets were over or when it was time to take a break, I headed directly for those in the audience who had been sufficiently snake charmed. Every man with the courage to play a guitar and open his mouth before an audience knows exactly what I mean. Nothing opens doors quite the same way. For the chronically introverted, like yours truly, the hardest part of talking to complete strangers was thereby established. The first move had already been made for me.

Women who are much older than me hold a mysterious appeal. Much of it is a desire to learn from someone with more experience and more knowledge. The physical attraction is present as well, of course, but I suppose I must have my baser reasons.  On the opposite side of the coin, I know now that I’ve been used a time or two to assuage cravings for youth and attention. Prior girlfriends miss being as desired as they were in their prime, when they were much younger.

For those who never found me too much of a baby or too much like their grown sons, I assume that same need must have also been present. I always sought more than a one-sided pairing and learned to cut ties with women who saw me as a fountain of youth. It took me one particularly bad experience to adapt and change for the wiser.

She was different. She was youthful without trying too hard to be young.  Her height stood out most. Long legs dangled off of the stool just as mine did during a performance. A singer/songwriter, what she wrote was grounded and calm, not full of angst and confusion as mine were. I wanted that for myself. Call it maturity, stability, or peace of mind, I was instantly certain I knew the very thing that I had been lacking. Thoroughly fascinated with her songcraft, I wished to learn more. My eyes now projected the same glassy, impressed stare I had seen in many others.

The tables had turned.  Shyly approaching her as she left the small café, I’m sure I was typically awkward and untypically gushy. The look she gave me was kind, but cautious. The message had been relayed. I was asked whether or not I wanted to see her next performance at another venue later in the week.  Entranced, for the next several weeks I stayed out late many nights during the week when I’d much rather have been at home. I already played until the wee hours on weekends. Though the setlist became increasingly familiar, the person playing remained elusive, confounding, and unattainable. 

I’m glad I wasn’t asked to wait too long. Late one night, the audience long since departed, we finally addressed the subject of a relationship. We couldn’t talk long. Bartenders were already straightening up and restocking for another night. They all knew her personally, which allowed us to linger for longer than normal. I knew eventually we were going to be kicked out, and my impatience reflected it.

Very matter-of-factly she invited me home with her. The delivery was typically businesslike and sober, the statement phrased more like a transaction than anyone’s romantic fantasy. I did not critique, I merely followed.

After that, we tried to make what we had work, even when the both of us kept weird hours. Fellow musicians could have put two and two together by our regular proximity and frequency. Even so, she insisted on at least the façade of strict discretion. She was twenty years older than me and I imagine the relationship was a combination of pride and discomfort for her.  She never went into detail about much.

Once she alluded to a past struggle with cancer, and then never mentioned it again.  She had never married and rarely talked about past partners. Two personalities could not be more different. She was restrained and tight-lipped, whereas I wore my heart on my sleeve and vocalized my feelings. 

We tried to play music together, but found that the convergence in styles didn’t match. She was an extremely fussy musician, insisting upon to-the-note perfection, and not particularly appreciative of my contributions. I recognized eventually that much of that supposed calm was contrived. In reality, she was extremely controlling of her own work and also of me. While on stage, I noticed how she stared down other women in the audience that even dared to look at me during a performance.

Within a few months of dating, I recognized I had fallen in love with a fantasy. I had been seeking stability in someone else, a major no-no. My fascination by what I thought was wisdom and truth was actually an-all-too-trusting belief in subterfuge. I was confusing a front for what lay beyond it. We parted ways soon after, when I could no longer tolerate her lack of trust in me. I avoided even having to see her, making sure not to attend the places where I knew she’d be. Though I live elsewhere now, I’m still afraid I’ll run into her someday by random coincidence.         

Feminism's nervous embrace: male allies

The stated agenda of many feminist groups is, plainly put, to empower women. Due to unbalanced gender dynamics, wherein most participants are female, attitudes towards men and male allies have been often contradictory and sometimes strained. Never of a sufficient critical mass to band together in solidarity, the presence and participation of self-identified male feminists is often short-lived. Without much of an infrastructure in place to determine role and need, male allies have to blaze their own trail, alone. Some feel comfortable in this role, many others do not.

In great contrast, one observes the wealth of resources and guidance provided women. An entire field of study has taken hold over the past several decades. Books, authors, films, and pedagogy are earmarked and dedicated to what is considered essential outreach. Though not nearly as prominent in areas with less concentrated wealth, bereft of a nearby elite academic institution, these opportunities for education do exist in many locales. Studies of masculinity and men are very rare. Men who would devote themselves to the causes upon which Feminism places much emphasis have to be their own advocates.

Groups and notable feminist thinkers have taken positions along a continuum on this topic, often unable to reach consensus. Some groups, namely radical feminists, a generation prior to ours, barred men from participating altogether. Others have welcomed them, albeit tentatively and nervously. Many aren’t quite sure how to engage male allies in conversation or to incorporate them fully into planning or drafting a discourse. When men are so often shown to be disappointing, untrustworthy, and even needlessly brutal, it’s difficult to shift gears, to examine two very different manifestations of masculinity. Speaking in the abstract about societal ills and sexism, to cite one example, is very different from speaking to someone in person.

This unwitting isolation is, in part, a result of a long-running statement of purpose for the whole movement. It seeks to add women’s voices to the dialogue and pushes women’s equal participation in every conceivable way. However, it has skirted around a basic logical inconsistency. It cannot entertain the conundrum produced by its core philosophy. Do men in positions of power or influence legitimize or delegitimize the movement?

Informing men about their still predominant impact and place in society is a high priority. Alongside it is a desire to directly call out men who transgress publicly, never sufficiently held accountable for their high crimes and misdemeanors. If, however, the movement achieved its intentions and successfully educated men, some might believe that women might well be left out again, but now for a different reason. In a time where women are still passed over and excluded in the workforce, in a variety of occupational settings and career options, where does the movement draw distinctions? What’s the difference between a man who understands and has educated himself about the message and a woman who has learned to conceptualize the same?

These beliefs fall uncomfortably close to reverse sexism. Men are to be informed of their privilege, but might even be distrusted or held at arm's length should they develop sufficient comprehension of gender inequalities. In an ideal world, and Feminism is certainly built upon idealism, how would men and women share power? The notion of zero-sum game and scarcity can be an appealing viewpoint, even if it may not be particularly well-reasoned. Should a more enlightened viewpoint descend on a wholesale basis, would Feminism know of subsequent steps to take?

Or, is its stated intention not really intended to find a solution? In its world of frustration and righteous indignation, an imbalance of power is consistently expected and vocalized. It forms the backbone of identity and is attached to specific causes, theories, and intersections between them. If a man were to take a successful leadership role among women, advancing women’s causes just as deftly, would he be allowed? Let us entertain the possibility that a male leader might accomplish even more, based on his greater agency. In what light should we view this hypothetical situation? Taken this way, a stated meritocracy has severe limitations.

Feminism varies from place to place, college to college, group to group. It cannot be said to be a totally organized movement coalescing around identical core tenants. Yet, each of these factions and clusters of thought has a common denominator. They still are unsure what to do about the men who arrive in their midst. These men offer assistance as genuinely and freely as any current women’s studies student would. They wish to do good, to push our collective understanding further. The movement might consider developing space for male allies to spread their wings, otherwise, they will float in and float out. If enthusiasm and energy dissipates from lack of guidance, an opportunity has been lost.

Moving On

Well, I may be right or I may be wrong
but you're gonna miss me when I'm gone

-Johnny Cash, "Rock Island Line"

Oh, Pretty Woman

I felt blogging guilt, so I recorded a video first. Screenshots never do me justice and this one is no different. Otherwise, I modified some of the lyrics because I simply can't imitate them.

Pretty woman, walking down the street
Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet
Pretty woman


I don't believe you, you're not the truth
No one could look as good as you

Pretty woman, won't you pardon me
Pretty woman, I couldn't help see
Pretty woman

That you look lovely as can be
Are you lonely just like me

Pretty woman, stop a while
Pretty woman, talk a while
Pretty woman, give your smile to me

Pretty woman, yeah yeah yeah
Pretty woman, look my way
Pretty woman, say you'll stay with me

'Cause I need you, I'll treat you right
Come with me baby, be mine tonight

Pretty woman, don't walk on by
Pretty woman, don't make me cry
Pretty woman, don't walk away, hey...okay

If that's the way it must be, okay
I guess I'll go on home, it's late

There'll be tomorrow night, but wait
What do I see?

Is she walking back to me?
Yeah, she's walking back to me
Oh, oh, pretty woman

Pardon My Preoccupation

I've been focused almost entirely on a large project for the last several days. The work has been fun and rewarding. I would share the subject with you, but I'd rather keep it under wraps until I submit it for publication. It's rare for me to get a big assignment like this, so I might as well take advantage of it while I have the opportunity.

Later this week, I'll make time for blogging.

Quote of the Week

"One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done."-Marie Curie

Internet Romance in a Different Era

These days, I read every month or so about the latest internet scandal involving teenagers and nefarious conduct. Though I concede I lived in a very different world, my own experiences in cyberspace were most often positive at that age. Back then, almost everyone between the ages of 14 and 20 had an AOL Instant Messenger account. Usually abbreviated as AIM, it was never difficult to find someone with whom to chat. Frequently, my online interactions became romantic interests.   

In the mid-1990's media-driven horror stories were somehow nowhere to be found. There was a kind of innocence present in our own adolescent, slightly existential dialogue and relationships. No one worried about sex offenders posing as someone significantly younger than their actual age. I rarely heard of anyone blackmailing or injuring another person based on their sexual orientation. Almost everyone with whom I spoke was highly tolerant. In fact, I confessed my bisexuality first to my online friends, well before my family.

While I admit I found a handful of bullies, regardless of reason, most of my conversations were convivial and cheerful. The amount of trust we displayed to each other was, in hindsight, quite remarkable. But then again, our circumstances were similar. We were coming of age in a time period of insecurity and face wash, often stuck at home and unable to flee the banality of small town life or suburbia. We had nowhere else to go and, above all, we needed each other.

Would it even happen now? I seriously doubt it. In the beginning, the internet was the domain of lonely, often isolated teenagers. Before business and the rest of humanity saw a compelling need to add its presence, we were the ones online, running up massive dial-up bills for our parents. To some extent, I feel like I was present when the internet changed for the meaner, for the worst. All of the other problems with everyday life appeared and took root.  Along with their introduction, the very things we were seeking to escape became inescapable.

Though I have often downplayed my successes, I have to admit that I became very good at finding internet crushes. Most of these were women, and each was within a few years of my age. The confidence I had always lacked in finding romance, to say nothing of personal dealings, came easily in a computer environment. My triumphs built up what had always been a tenuous self-esteem. I was forced to concede that there really must have been something about me that was appealing and attractive.

These experiences built my confidence and granted me what I had been otherwise severely lacking. Online romances were a stepping stone to the face-to-face relationships I had been craving and would eventually pursue. But in the meantime, memory holds several stories of meeting offline those who I had originally met online. Most of them have been found to be interesting by listeners. I even took extended car trips to visit a few of my love interests, but not before parents were informed of my plans first. My parents nervously assented to my visits, but were insistent I come up with a detailed plan of action first.

During one of these excursions, I was even allowed to tag along at high school with my crush. I got a chance to observe the daily routine of her high school, one far removed from my own. We would have dated if seven hours' drive hadn’t separated us. That story is sweet and a little melancholy, but mostly happy. A complete rendition may be shared someday, along with the others. In a moment of vanity, I admit I'm saving it for a book or a short story.

I was so eager for love, affection, and acceptance that no distance was too daunting. Did others follow my same path? If they did, I've never heard an account told in my presence. But I'd be surprised if I was the only one.

Shortly before I left for home, I had a picture taken of the two of us. In it, I look remarkably young and much thinner than I am today. We are posed against the bland backdrop of the seating section of a fast food restaurant. In the small Midwest town where I touched down, signs of civilization were difficult to find. I stayed two nights at the one and only motel present. What I remember most about the lodgings was that I found a pair of green panties underneath my bed. I speculated that the room might have been part of some couples’ extramarital affair.

Returning to the photograph, the attraction between the two of us is obvious. I can tell this by the way she smiles at the camera and leans close to me. When I examined it much later, I remembered again how beautiful she was. I couldn’t believe anyone that attractive would have wanted me. It was a confidence boost then and it still is today. The memory has lasted, the relationship has not. Sadly, I no longer have a copy in my possession. Taken in the days before digital cameras, I managed to lose the image, plus the matching negatives, during a move.

I wonder where she is today. Is she married? Does she have kids? Where does she live? If she thinks of me at all, I hope she thinks of me fondly. Internet relationships like ours were sometimes painful by their conclusion. I remember aching with desire and longing, but being unable to achieve the very thing I wanted most. Miles and miles separated us, and in the end, neither of us could hold out against the pressing need for constant contact and daily affection. Still, as learning experiences go, these were some of the best.

Saturday Video

And the sky was made of amethyst
And all the stars look just like little fish
You should learn when to go
You should learn how to say "no,"

Might last a day, yeah
Minus forever
Might last a day, yeah
Well, minus forever

When they get what they want
They never want it again
When they get what they want
They never want it again

Go on, take everything
Take everything
I want you to
Go on, take everything
Take everything
Take everything I want you to

And the sky was all violet
I want it again, but violent, more violence
Well, I'm the one with no soul
One above and one below

Go on, take everything
Take everything
I want you to
Go on, take everything
Take everything
I dare you to

I told you from the start
Just how this would end
When I get what I want
I never want it again

Go on, take everything
Take everything
I want you to
Go on, take everything
Take everything

The Demise of Diplomats and Compromisers

In today's world and for many years prior, politics and government are kept strictly separate from religion. The fears of cultural contamination drive many to extreme ends. Some fundamentalist Christians try to self-isolate as a way to prevent the corruption they assign to a sinful, fallen world. This takes the many forms. One is homeschooling children and seeking to keep them more or less perpetually inside a protective bubble. Decisions like these are radical interpretations of a basic standard observed by many faiths. Namely, they seek to live in this world, and yet not be of it.

Biblical authority provides few laws and commandments that might overrule the hand of government in religious groups or houses of worship. Though he lived in a very politically charged, uneasy time, even regularly interacting with political groups, Jesus is mostly silent on the issue. The closest he comes to making an expressly political statement occurs when he is being asked whether Jews should pay taxes to the Roman Empire. Deftly sidestepping the question, he changes the context, replying that God’s needs are different from those of the Empire.

Jesus responds to Pontius Pilate about the nature of his kingdom: "My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews. But now (or 'as it is') my kingdom is not from the world" (John 18:36); i.e., his religious teachings were separate from earthly political activity. This reflects a traditional division in Christian thought by which state and church have separate spheres of influence.

But, in all fairness, the breadth of the separation between church and state extends well beyond one passage and one anecdote. Ideological identity determines the distinction between acceptable and unacceptable government intervention. Regardless of what system of belief we hold, each of us reveals a hand’s off perspective regarding governance in our daily life. It just depends upon which issue we are discussing.

This is especially true with particularly sensitive topics. We also decry government enforcement of the law when we believe that our basic freedoms are being impugned. This is not to come down hard on one side or the other, but instead to show the similarities of our grievances. The worries and fears are the same, regardless of the context.

The arguments that progressive religious groups make and have made over time argue that a common, universal good overrules discriminatory attitudes. This was true with suffrage for women, Civil Rights for African-Americans, women's rights to become ordained ministers and church leaders, and now marriage equality for LGBTs.

Conservative Catholics and other Christian denominations believe that they are being railroaded, forced to accept secular doctrines and dogmas that they find morally deplorable. They do not see the religious under-girding of fellow believers. Like Rick Santorum said about Barack Obama, liberal Christians aren't "real" believers. Unfortunately, Christians of these stripes have a habit of believing that they are the keepers of the truest, purest version of their faith.

This is a dangerous, if not self-defeating line of logic. Purity contests usually put up walls, preventing compromise and greater understanding. While it is true that left-leaning believers can at times want to reduce faith to a form of least possible potential offense to anyone, purity provides no answers for how to live together with the rest of the world. More often than not, it suggests that circling the wagons and preserving a particularly static theology is of utmost importance.

Should we take on that same conundrum, we will behave like historical re-enactors and cultural preservationists. And who among us would wish to live in a museum?

In truth, the religious left and the religious right are expressly political, even as they push government away from their own affairs. Under a sharp examination of perceived bias, each side’s argument is not nearly as damning, nor as potentially dangerous as thought by its opposition. The real problems arise when communication breaks down and opposing groups fall into a chaotic spiral of paranoia and fears of imminent destruction.

Once that stage has been reached, it feeds upon itself until pent up anger becomes direct aggression and provocation. Wars and other similarly impulsive, rash behaviors are the inevitable byproduct of these feelings.

This is what we must guard against, as future victories and setbacks dot the landscape. People have long been predicting some sort of epic conflagration. I’m not much of a believer in the end times, but I do know that we’re now no longer talking to each other. Instead, we’d rather talk past each other, our voices raised, hearing nothing besides the sound of our own voice.

Stirring up a response for the sake of debate was fine when debate was actually practiced. Now, everyone wants to throw rocks at the hive. We have forgotten that it is entirely feasible to be a diplomat when needed and a compromiser when the situation demands it. Civility is one thing, but anger management is another.