No Respect

I, like the late, great (?) Rodney Dangerfield, do not get respect.

The line be deliberately misquoted. While he, Rodney, did not receive respect from his fellow man, I do not get the need to dole out respect to certain individuals.

...I never said I was a comedian. If you're looking for comedy, try Sarah Palin's "book".

I like being respected. I like Pleases and Thank Yous and smiles from the occasional non-creepy passers-by. I was raised to be a polite, tolerant, even-tempered human being.

I am, however, violently sick of being told that I must respect the fundamentally, or, dare I say it...the moderately religious.

Even Christopher Hitchens, the fundie-bashing genius that he be, stresses in a passage of his MAGical book, God is Not Great: he genuflects before entering a pew in church, he bows at all the correct intervals, he respects his fellow man's religious rites and rituals. I understand, obviously. In no way do I find it permissible to walk into a church, tear up a few hymnals, and turn them into an open air litter box. I am tired, however, of being told that a church is entitled to tax exempt status, that I should respect the "right" of the Mormon church to literally scare up a gargantuan fortune for the express purpose of preventing homos from obtaining the right to marry (the fortune would probably have fed thousands of starving Haitians for weeks, by the by), that I should respect those whom, with oh-so-compassionate "moral" fortitude, smile upon me, tell me they love ME, they just hate my SIN.

Allow me to point out a similarity between the activities that occasionally take place in the basement of the average Christian fundamentalist church vs. the basement of your average BDSM club frequented by homosexuals: from time to time, someone's getting sodomized. In the BDSM club: ready-and-willing, consenting adults. In the church basement: thirteen-year-old boys. The club is required by government law to pay taxes. The church is not.

In the words of Will Ferell...I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

In my opinion, religion should be used as a basic moral blueprint, at best. By that, I mean people can logically deduce that SOME Christian/Islamic/Jewish teachings can be beneficial in your day-to-day life, i.e. turn the other cheek, respect your parents, etc. (These teachings are also, one might argue, common sense. They can exist independently of religious dogma. When wanting to thrust a chopstick into the eye socket of a shrill-voiced Greenpeace street bully, I've never felt the need to turn to Jesus for a moral power up. I don't want to go to jail for the fleeting satisfaction of watching an under-sexed self-righteous enviro-nazi roll around in a pool of her own blood. Logic.) The second you turn to religion/god for actual guidance/comfort/advice, i.e. praying...you've lost me. I'll never feel the same way about you again. I'll refrain from mocking you in public (unless you're Ted Haggard), but you'll forever have lost most of my respect.

Allow me to do some 'splainin': if I met a grown woman who still really, truly, fully believed in the mythical Santa Clause, and she really, truly, fully believed that, if she just wished hard enough, that he would bring her presents...I would immediately chalk her up as unstable. Mentally bankrupt. Intellectually inferior.

Thousands of grown adults with access to billions of tomes chock full of scientific literature still look to the sky and pray (read, wish) that a magical (yes, mythical) sky being will grant them their fondest desires...if they just pray hard enough.

I cannot respect it. I've honestly tried. There was a time when belief in gods was a permissible idea: we had to explain lightning/pregnancy/the general malaise and chaos that circles the human condition somehow. It is, however, time now, kids. It's time to accept that the scientific method is a much more practical way of dealing with the crushing complexity that is our humanity and environment.

I think that true wisdom will only begin to come to one the day that one truly realizes that one is nothing but an ignorant bag of shit. Stephen Hawking, brilliant theoretical physicist, knows only an infinitesimal fraction of all there is to know about this boundless universe that surrounds us. He is, an ignorant bag of shit. And I'm quite positive that he knows it. The day one makes that realization, with any luck, one will have the common sense to learn as much as one can within a human lifetime. That still will not entitle one to wisdom, or even elevate one above ignorance.

Such is our condition.

I will never respect the Ted Haggards, the Jerry Falwells, the Pat Robertsons, the Anita Bryants, the George W. Bushs (any Bush, for that matter) of the world. Ever. If there is such a thing as willful ignorance, they actually long to possess it. Embracing Christianity means looking life full in the face, and rejecting the opportunity to become something other than an ignorant bag of shit...only to become an even BIGGER ignorant bag of shit.

Let me just state that I do not find myself to be better than anyone else based upon what I believe (or don't believe). The road of an atheist is a sad, lonely road littered with glaring billboards advertising my own mortality. I just know that when I die, nothing's going to happen. My brain will blink out. I'm fucking dead. Forever. Nothing at ALL I can do about it...but at least I've done enough research to know it.

I also fully advocate the teaching of religion in schools. All I ask is that, in this class, there be two books that are required reading: the Bible, and God is Not Great. We'll see who comes out smelling of atheism.

HALLELUfuckyou.

I've seen the light! I don't know what I was thinking! I've let God's light into my heart!!

I've been reading some posts by some very dedicated Christians, and their arguments have really hit home. Of COURSE marriage should be between a man and a woman, otherwise how will our nation continue to produce children? And, following along this brilliant vein of logic, we really should revoke the marriage rights of infertile couples or couples who would (GASP) actually CHOOSE not to pump out babies! How dare they, wanting to prove and solidify a commitment to each other without the intent of filling their house with the sound of pitter-pattering little Christian soldiers? I mean, everyone knows infertile women are basically worthless. Let's revoke their citizenship, while we're at it!

Another absolutely breathtaking piece of wisdom I SOMEHOW missed: changing the definition of an institution that has remained the same for thousands of years?? I SHUDDER TO THINK. Marriage has been defined as a union between a man and a woman for CENTURIES, HOW could we think of overturning such a sacred precept?! EVERYONE knows that the way things have always been is ALWAYS the best way, right? Duh! Change is dangerous, silly, detrimental! On that note, let's revoke women's right to vote, own people who are a different color than us, and why the hell not, shove some Jews back into the ghettos they belong in! TRADITION!

I don't know how I've been missing this all along, I feel so ashamed of myself. If men are allowed to marry other men, then maybe pedophiles will be able to marry children!! GASP. How could I be so stupid, of COURSE a grown, consenting adult marrying another grown, consenting adult is EXACTLY the same as an underage child, unable to give legal consent, being forcibly married to a mentally unstable adult! LOGIC.

I've seen the light! The man in the sky hath waved his magical Jesus wand and changed my life! All of my future decisions will be based upon a compilation of racist, sexist, violent, and often severely contradictory texts, also known as the bible.

God, I am so fucking brilliant, I amaze myself. See y'all at church!

Prop 8 Fiasco

Prop 8 and all the nonsense by it spawned is all bullshit. Here's my two cents as to why ('tis a bit wordy, I apologize).

Untitled from Tracy Kapp on Vimeo.

The delayed closing and the muttered "Shit" under my breath was because I thought I had fucked up and not recorded that whole thing :P

Tribute to a Strap-on

Beads of sweat upon my palm are pressed into the lacquered grain of the door. I press, it jingles, swings. The scuttle-footed lady at my back stays close, breath at my shoulder. The shop is well-lit, sparse, artistically and lovingly arranged. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, saucer-eyed kids in a very naughty candy store.

Tubes and shafts and oblongs, curlicues and cylinders and unnameable blobs. Oh, my. Some glitter, others glow. A few feature vein-y protrusions, as though they are flexing for our benefit. I wonder, vaguely, if cocks can technically flex. Hmm. Anyway, must focus. Focus on the fake cock shopping. Oh god, we're cock shopping. Another gallon of fluid coats my already sopping-wet palms.

No big deal, really. We can't exactly mask our intentions. I mean, if there was a variety of produce on one side of the store, and a menagerie of love-rockets on the other, one may be able to meander amongst the starfruit and kumquats, frowning in a disapproving fashion upon prospective dong shoppers, before hastily purchasing a dong of one's own. Nope. No fruit stands here. Just rows and rows of synthetic cock. Both beauty and bane, this knowledge. Knowledge that we are all here for the same thing.

This knowledge is absolute. This being a rather upscale toy store, one would not find a gaggle of middle-aged bar-blonde harpies giggling over cheap vibes as potential gag gifts. No flickering neon XXX lights glaring in the window. Only blonde wood displays, subtle track lighting, black velvet cushions upon which precious merchandise may rest. This is a serious operation, which belies serious intent. A holy intent. Therefore, we are all aware of one another's desire and devotion, want of benediction and penance, our blazing need to worship at the altar of FUCK.

Right. Well, we all know what's up. So just pick up the fucking harness.

I look at her, she looks at me, scratches her nose and shrugs. I cough, and recommend a leather one to prevent chafing. She clears her throat and says okay. We lift a strappy contraption from the bar upon which it hangs, fiddle with the buckles. She holds it up to her pelvic region for the purpose of determining relative sizing. And then the dreadlocked shop girl proclaims loudly that there is a room upstairs we can use if we wanna try it on. Why, thank you, oh-so-helpful shop girl, with your multitude of piercings and excellent vocal projection. We both bid her a boisterous thank you, and scurry up the stairs as though the cops and clergymen were hot on our heels.

In the upper room, amongst zippered leather hoods and kits specifically designed for "medical play", she slips the leather over her jeans, steps back, slaps her hands to her thighs, looks at me. And when her eyes meet mine, the knot in my chest unravels, and I laugh. She laughs, and we laugh. And I kiss her. And I feel silly, but safe, because I'm with her.

We flounce back downstairs together, hand-in-hand, pore over the display case. She vetoes a pink piece, I veto a monstrous one. We settle upon a middle-of-the-road, sleek, black number, head to the counter. We giggle like school girls over bejeweled butt plugs as the shop girl tallies our purchase, which we split right down the middle. We chuckle, again, that this is to be our first piece of common property. We say our goodbyes, the shop door jingles, and we head out into the softly falling snow.

And I feel silly, but safe, because I'm with her.

The Moennig Letters: Chapter One

My Dearest Kate:

You may not know me, in fact I have no idea why you would know me, being the lowly plebeian lesbian that I am, but I humbly beg of you to allow me to offer an homage.

I've seen thee, my loveliest of Kates, taking out your garbage, walking to your car, modestly closing the shade when you get undressed. You may have noticed me clawing at the fence of your gated community, or pasting pictures of you to various parts of my body using my homemade glue of xanthan gum, loneliness, and lesbian tears. Upon inspecting the contents of your aforementioned garbage, I have discovered your love of Mother Earth (you recycle, obvi :)!), you prefer O.B. tampons (which promote a healthy vaginal environment, well done), and that your toenails have a delightfully piquant flavor (I'd pair them with a light, sunny Riesling).

One day, my sweet, you'll cease to sic your large bodyguards upon my humble personage, and realize that we were meant to be. I mean, who else would carve your initials on their labia minora with a rusty bow knife? Seriously, I totally could have gotten tetanus (don't worry, the doctors amputated in time ;) ).

Sincerely, With Utmost Love (and a High-Definition Camera),

Ariel

Phase, My Ass.

I have been pretty fortunate in what's known as my "coming out." Sometimes this process can take several years (in fact, I think that's pretty typical, from my own experience, and from stalking my gays ;)), and often goes in stages, i.e. rage, denial, tolerance, acceptance, etc. This is in NO way a typical sequence of events, just a general representation. Some homos, upon leaping gracefully from their walk-in closet, are immediately cut off by their redneck parents, and are thereafter subject to their everlasting rage and are permanently ostracized. Other queerbags (such as myself) have families that learn by osmosis (because my mother has a big mouth and thought it was novel, for Christ's sake), and it went like this: I sat down for Thanksgiving dinner one year, and everybody had big smiles on their faces. Being a naturally curious individual, I inquired, "Um, what?" and they burst out laughing and started to tease me about whether or not I used whipped dairy products in the bedroom with my girlfriend. I shit you not. It was definitely good-natured teasing, mind you, so I've been insanely lucky in that regard.

The one thing that chaps my big gay ass, however, is people who are generally tolerant of "deviant" human behavior (and it cracks me up that people consider homosexuality to be "deviant". Bitch, you ain't seen nothin' yet.) and whom I believe are genuinely tolerant of homosexuals, "But", they quip, "in YOUR case....I don't know if you're tooootally gay."

Gold stars, feel free to disregard this information, as it will most likely not speak to you. Oh, and for those not familiar with the phrase "gold star", it refers to a lesbian who has only had intercourse with other women, and never in her life with a man. I think my grade of star hovers somewhere around aluminum, but whatever. I consider it invaluable experience. H'anyway, just in case any of you persons were unsure about my sexuality, I'm now engaging exclusively in physical and emotional liaisons with those of the same sex as myself. To the layperson: I bed women. And buy them pretty things. Unless they like boy stuff. Then I buy them Legos and shit. I'm not saying that could NEVER change, but I'm pretty damn self aware, and find it extremely unlikely that I will ever swing back around. To you skeptical bastards who insist otherwise, allow me to paint you a metaphor:

You are an ice cream lover. You have been since you hit puberty. You think ice cream is the bee's knees, man, and you eat it as often as you are able to coax that carton of ice cream into bed...I mean into a bowl on your kitchen table. All your life, however, you have been exposed EXCLUSIVELY to vanilla ice cream. Despite the monotony and lack of...flavor overload, if you catch my drift, it's fine, you still eat ice cream, because you think it's delightful and you'd rather shave off your own eyelids with a rusty Bic than give it up altogether. Then, one day, someone introduces you to mocha chip rocky fuckin' road with crack sprinkles. It's the closest thing to heaven you'll ever be (in my case, being an atheist, quite literally I suppose). Now, you could go back to vanilla, it's still waiting there, cartons and cartons and cartons of it. You could go back...but why the motherfuck would you?

I did not detest sex with men. I know some lesbians who'd sooner douse their own genitals in liquid nitrogen than allow a man to get within five feet of her junk, but it was not that way with me. It's just that...something was missing. And it turns out that something was a vagina.

I love women. The way they sound, taste, talk, the things they read, the way they walk, the sound of a woman moaning. Men do all those things, but they're muted somehow, as though a gray veil of mediocrity coats my vision when I attempt to consider them romantically. I could try to claw my way through the gray, or I could (forgive me)...taste the rainbow ;).

And boys, if you're still skeptical: know how much you like tits? Yea. Me too. Hope that helps.

This is Time That Could Be Spent Feeding the Homeless, You Fat Christian Fuck.

H'okay, so, I used to go to church. Born n' raised catholic, attended catholic educational institutions until I was 14, intimidated by nuns and leered at by clergy (though I lack a phallus, and was therefore spared the wandering hands of the holy ghost, if you will). I used to actually parTICIPATE in this bullshit. Something tells me this is NOT what Jesus had in mind.

I'm not gonna embark on a 20 minute rant, because they are not worthy of my overly-flowery diction, or TIME, for that fucking matter. Couple of main points:

1. There is no cure for gay. It's pretty much ingrained. A guy I know, we call him J Kitt, strutted the fuck out of the womb in prada heels, ostrich feathers, belting Rent and waving a glittery rainbow flag. You could lobotomize, electro-shock, fuckin' Chinese water torture that motherfucker till he goes blind, but he'll still be groping for cock when you let him the fuck out. No camps, programs, handshakes from Jesus can cure that kinda hunger. Your "rehabilitated" gays are for sure blowing each other in the confessional when your back's turned. Trust me.

2. I don't fuck on your altar, stay the FUCK away from my pride parade.

There's this one bitch who's always at the Philly gay events, and she wears this unforgivable ankle-length denim skirt EVERY time. She screams shit like, "Homosexuality is a SIN!!" in this atrociously nasal falsetto, like a dumbass stripper voice, and every time I really wanna say, "So's your skirt, you fucking sand-vagged cunt." That's it, just made up my mind. I'm gonna.