David Archuleta Apologizes After Showing Support for Anti-Gay Beliefs
David Archuleta has sent an apology to his fans after he echoed some anti-gay beliefs, which some believe were to support the new Indiana law that could have harmful effects to the LGBT community. The new Indiana law has received widespread backlash as it is seen as a way for people and businesses to discriminate […]
Category Archives: NEWS
Ireland Approves Adoptions by Same-Sex Couples Ahead of Marriage Vote
Ireland Approves Adoptions by Same-Sex Couples Ahead of Marriage Vote
Ahead of a marriage equality referendum slated for May, Irish lawmakers passed a bill extending adoption rights to same-sex couples by a sweeping majority.
Thom Senzee
www.advocate.com/world/2015/04/06/ireland-approves-adoptions-same-sex-couples-ahead-marriage-vote
The Night a Gay Don Draper Called Peggy Lee
The Night a Gay Don Draper Called Peggy Lee
Peggy Lee’s “Is That All There Is?” opens and closes Mad Men’s mid-premiere of its final season, and it’s the perfect anthem for the talented but self-destructive alcoholic, 40-something Don Draper. I was ahead of Don. It was the perfect anthem for budding alcoholic me when I was five in 1973.
That’s when I saw Miss Lee singing it on some variety show. I stood on the shag carpeting of my family’s living room in small-town Texas mesmerized. She stood in a white fog on the Zenith TV screen, like a glamorous ghost in a platinum-blonde Cleopatra wig wearing about 200 yards of white, diaphanous chiffon and blue-tinted sunglasses, lenses the size of my little head. She had a black dot on her right cheek, just like Miss Kitty on Gunsmoke.
The haunting, fatalistic song had me hooked from the first verse. Even though it was a very grown up song, it wasn’t that odd that it spoke to my five-year-old gay mind. It was a story song, after all.
In “Is That All There Is?” she assumes a louche, seen-it-all demeanor, and in a whispery purr of a voice as if she is singing only to you in bed, she sings verse after verse about a life of tragedy and disappointments, and when her father takes her to the circus, she describes it with an ironic wink in her voice as “Greatest show on earth.”
Her voice rises at the end in a question, so that you can almost hear her ask “Right?” But she doesn’t say it, it’s implied. Her bored assessment of the spectacle of clowns, and dancing bears, and pretty ladies in pink tights? “I had the feeling that something was missing. I don’t know what.” Her little girl, pragmatic answer to that disappointment: Let’s keep dancing… break out the booze, and have a ball.
Wow! That’s my kind of little girl.
Like a gay Don Draper, I escaped the sticks and landed in New York City in 1990 where I chased the Mad Men lifestyle long after the Mad Men era had ended but long before the term had become a beautiful cliché. I wasn’t in advertising in the 1960s. I was in the publishing world in the 1990s — less glamour and less money, but the same amount of sex and liquor. While I broke out the booze and had a ball, Peggy Lee’s “Is That All There Is?” followed me wherever I went like ghostly cigarette smoke in a bar.
On one of those break-out-the-booze nights in 1996 at four a.m. — when it was all still fun, but the ice was just beginning to melt — I found myself in my Manhattan brownstone apartment with my best friend, Mr. Parker, playing “Is That All There Is?” over and over and over.
Mr. Parker chimed in with a bray, “My God, that song is brilliant! She’s brilliant! You know, most people think of this as the ultimate downer song. I don’t. Conversely, I think it’s a celebration of the spectacle of life in all its joy and tragedy.”
“Well, she does say that she’s not ready for that ‘final disappointment.'”
“Oh! ‘That final disappointment.’ What a brilliant line. It’s a total alkie song!”
We took gulps of drinks and marinated in the meaning of the song as we let Peggy finish it uninterrupted. In the final verse she says that as fatalistic as her outlook may appear, she’s not going to end it all, and when that “final disappointment” comes she’ll face it, like she has faced the rest of life. She re-phrases the song’s question as a statement that she’ll keep dancing and drinking, “If that’s all.” Pause. “There.” Pause “Is.” Followed by a final vamp and bump bump of the tuba.
We sat in silence and drank, staring ahead.
Then Mr. Parker looked at me with a spark in his glassy eyes. “You know, I have her number.”
“What do you mean you have her number?” I asked incredulously.
“I mean to say that I have her phone number. Right here in my wallet. A friend of mine managed to get it from some hospital she was in. You know she’s always in and out of the hospital.”
“Oh, I know. I read her autobiography,” I said with pride. “She described more ailments and near-death experiences than… than Elizabeth Taylor.”
Mr. Parker pulled out her number and waved it at me.
“Give me that!” Fueled with liquor courage I picked up the cordless phone and dialed.
Ring. Ring. Ri–
“Hello,” a young-sounding woman answered.
“Hi. May I speak to Peggy.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Jamie.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
Hold. Hold. I’m hold for Miss Peggy Lee.
And then: “Hello? This is Peggy.”
“Hi Peggy. This is Jamie.”
“Jamie… Anderson?”
“No. It’s Jamie Brickhouse. I’m a huge fan of yours. I met you back stage at one of your New York concerts,” I lied. I never was lucky enough to see her perform. “Peggy, I missed you at Carnegie Hall last year and I’m still sick about it. Do you have any upcoming New York dates?”
“No. Ever since the fall I can’t even get out of bed…” Her words seemed to sink into what I imagined was a cumulus, king-sized cloud of a bed where she was nestled in a quilted, white satin bed jacket, a princess phone cradled between shoulder and ear. She let her words lie there for a beat. And then with a twinkle in her voice she said, “But I’ve still got the voice.” I could almost feel her breath in my ear.
“Yes, Peggy, you’ve still got the voice.” I mouthed “Oh. My. God,” to Mr. Parker. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No? What are you doing?” Her voice was so sexy, the question could have been, “What are you wearing?”
“I’m sitting here in New York with my best friend. Drunk. We’ve been listening to ‘Is That All There Is.’ Peggy, I can’t tell you how many drunken nights you’ve gotten me through with that song.”
“Well,” breath, “I guess my life was worth living.”
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. After that, I didn’t need to.
“I guess my life was worth living.” What did she mean by that? Was it a sarcastic slap in my face that if she got some lush through another drunken night, then perhaps her purpose on earth was fulfilled, or was she truly acknowledging my reverence for her and the song, meaning that if she could move people so profoundly as she had me, then her life had meaning? I suspect she meant a bit of both.
I thought about the life I had been living in the six years I’d been in New York. This was long before I finally got sober or even thought I needed to get sober. I was living the kind of life I’d always fantasized about back in Texas: the charming Brownstone New York apartment, a career working with writers, a boyfriend (with some boys on the side), and a recirculating waterfall of booze and parties and more booze.
Greatest show on earth. Right?
But at the end of all those parties, after the last guest had gone, I’d always stay up for just. One. More. I’d survey the mess of the party and sit there listening to Peggy as I replayed what had become of my life. The people showed up. We broke out the booze. We had a ball. And then it was over.
I felt like Peggy at the circus. Or Don Draper in 1970. I had the feeling that something was missing. And I didn’t know what.
This essay is adapted from Jamie Brickhouse’s memoir Dangerous When Wet.
One Million Dollars To Whoever Can Make Sense Out Of This Hilarious Iggy Azalea Freestyle Rap
One Million Dollars To Whoever Can Make Sense Out Of This Hilarious Iggy Azalea Freestyle Rap
Eternally fancy Australian musician Iggy Azalea holds the title of female rapper with the longest-leading number one single on the Billboard Hot 100, but it seems her talents might best be served with a script.
An entirely indecipherable ‘free-style rap’ (if you can call it that) from Iggy recently cropped up online.
Here’s one attempt at transcribing it:
One expert in indecipherable music (we’re talking about dub step, naturally), REVOLVR, did their best to crack Iggy’s code, offering this partial remix:
Iggy Collab?REVOLVR & Iggy Collab? Lyrics: [unknown]
Posted by REVOLVR on Thursday, April 2, 2015
REVOLVR was shocked to discover his video reach over 5 million views so quickly, and has since promised a fully completed remix. He solicited potential track titles from fans, and received such gems as:
- Window Winner feat. Iggy Azalea
- Raptor Badger Window
- Badger raptor powpow
- Raptor Badger ft Igloo Australia (the Papa Johns Remix)
- When I win a window
Perhaps Iggy is best left to Sean Hayes and his hubby.
Dan Tracer
Guerilla Artists Erect Massive Bust of NSA Whistleblower Edward Snowden in NYC Park: VIDEO
Guerilla Artists Erect Massive Bust of NSA Whistleblower Edward Snowden in NYC Park: VIDEO
A massive bust of NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden made of hydrocal was erected overnight in a park in Fort Greene, Brooklyn by a group of guerilla artists and their assistants, ANIMAL New York reports:
The group, which allowed ANIMAL to exclusively document the installation on the condition that we hide their identities, hauled the 100-pound sculpture into Fort Greene Park and up its hilly terrain just before dawn. They fused it to part of the Prison Ship Martyrs Monument, a memorial to Revolutionary War soldiers. As of press time, the sculpture was still there.
The idea for the Snowden tribute was conceived about a year ago by two New York City-based artists with a history of pulling off notable public interventions. They linked up with a renowned sculptor on the West Coast who was sympathetic to their cause. The artists admit that Snowden probably wouldn’t approve of the project, since he never wanted the leaks to be about him, but they hope he’d understand why they did it.
The group released a statement about why they did it:
Fort Greene’s Prison Ship Martyrs Monument is a memorial to American POWs who lost their lives during the Revolutionary War. We have updated this monument to highlight those who sacrifice their safety in the fight against modern-day tyrannies. It would be a dishonor to those memorialized here to not laud those who protect the ideals they fought for, as Edward Snowden has by bringing the NSA’s 4th-Amendment-violating surveillance programs to light. All too often, figures who strive to uphold these ideals have been cast as criminals rather than in bronze. Our goal is to bring a renewed vitality to the space and prompt even more visitors to ponder the sacrifices made for their freedoms. We hope this inspires them to reflect upon the responsibility we all bear to ensure our liberties exist long into the future.
Watch the video of the installation, AFTER THE JUMP…
NOTE: The bust has since been covered with a tarp. Towleroad’s Michael Goff walked over to it this morning and took the photo below. He reports that the area was crawling with police and additional personnel who looked like Secret Service.
Andy Towle
Church Says It Was Barred From Easter Parade
Church Says It Was Barred From Easter Parade
An annual Easter parade was marred by controversy, after an Arkansas church congregation was asked not to participate.
Federal Judge: California Must Provide Trans Inmate with Access to Gender-Affirming Surgery
Federal Judge: California Must Provide Trans Inmate with Access to Gender-Affirming Surgery
A federal judge has ruled that a transgender inmate in California must be granted access to gender-affirming surgery that her prison doctors have deemed medically necessary.
Mitch Kellaway
My Life Would Not Be Possible Without Feminism
My Life Would Not Be Possible Without Feminism
I recently got married. I have two children. I own a house, and I have a full-time job. At first glance, none of these circumstances may strike you as remarkable. In fact, maybe you share in many of them. But if I had been born even 50 years earlier, I wouldn’t have many of the rights that I have now to love who I love, make choices about my body and own property.
I don’t want to bore you with a long history of feminism, first and foremost, because I don’t know the long history of feminism, but I do know this: Without it, my life would not be possible. In the mid-1800s, women in the U.S. earned the right to own property. This might not seem like a big deal, but at the time women were property.
That’s right. The husband owned the wife, the land and the money. If the husband died, sometimes the wife was allowed to own his property, but she wasn’t allowed to do anything with it. It just had her name on it, which was actually his name. The whole point was to keep the property — the woman and the land and the money — in the family or owned by the brothers, the sons and the fathers. This had far-ranging implications.
It still forms the foundation of many of our current arguments about pro-choice and abortions. It still impacts the laws that we have about who can marry and why. It’s the reason that we objectify women’s bodies and try to outlaw yoga pants. But here is how it affects me.
After I graduated from college, an idea that only made sense if I was going to contribute something to society besides children and clean laundry, I got a job. My job paid me money. I used that money to pay my rent and go out to eat a lot. This is the first way that I enjoyed feminism.
While eating more than my fair share of blue cheese and paying my fair share of rent using money from my new job, I met someone and fell in love. This person also happened to be a woman with her own paycheck, her own cheese and a house that she had purchased by qualifying for a loan at a bank.
After a little more than a year of dating, we decided that we wanted to be together forever, but we couldn’t get married because there were no laws indicating that a woman could own another woman. In fact, the idea that two women would want to merge households was a concept that had been overlooked entirely. There was no law for it. And no law against it. Just blank space.
So, we did the next best thing, we bought property together. We also got a joint checking account. And for many people, including our employers but excluding our government, this demonstrated enough commitment to each other that we could get other benefits, like paying for each other’s health insurance and getting a couples discount at the gym.
We still got asked if we wanted separate checks at restaurants and when I bought a car, the dealer suggested that I talk to my husband before I made a final decision, so I went shopping elsewhere. We suffered these indignities with stoicism and sarcasm, and then 10 years and four dogs later, we decided that we wanted to have children.
This, again, is where property, in the form of cold, hard cash, came to bear. I bought blood tests and lab results, medical procedures and tissue donations in the form of human sperm. Most of this was not covered by our medical insurance, in spite of the fact that I had a very generous plan and a supportive employer. After three years of credit card loans and psychological torture, I gave birth to a baby girl. And almost two years after that, I had another one.
In the eyes of the law, I was the parent and my spouse was not, so she adopted our children. What does this mean? It means that we paid someone, social services, to evaluate our house, our relationship and our circumstances to determine if she was worthy to be a parent. It means that I went to court and testified that, yes, in fact, the woman I would marry if the law would allow such a thing, was the other parent to my children and she was not coercing me for the opportunity to live with them, wipe their noses and badger them about picking up the pieces of their Barbie playhouse.
She was, in fact, in love with them. She was there when they were born. She got up in the middle of the night to comfort them when they are sick and defend them with the ferocity of a wild animal when a mean gesture was made in their direction. And then, one day, months after my oldest daughter had started kindergarten, and I was taking the youngest back to daycare after a visit to the dentist, I got a call.
“The Attorney General is issuing marriage licenses,” my spouse said.
“He is? How ironic!” I said. “Do you want to get married again?”
“No, do you?”
“Not really. But if it’s important to you, I will.”
The week before, we had just returned from a trip to Chicago where we had flown together without friends or family and without much warning to tie the knot. We were waiting to see if a “gay marriage” law would pass in Colorado, but it was the end of September and we were running out of time that year. So we bought plane tickets, made a beeline for the marriage license office, enjoyed a day in the city, said “I do” and came home.
It’s been a tremendous amount of work exercising the rights I’ve been granted and being responsible for the property I own. We have bankrolled the entire thing with 78 cents on every dollar that a man would have had for the same job done. We have filled out forms and jumped through hoops to take what might have been granted easily or celebrated more if we were a man and a woman with jobs, a house and children. But I’m still tremendously grateful for what I have. Many people have much, much less.
So when Nicki Minaj, Shailene Woodley and Carrie Underwood are not sure if they are so “extreme” as to be feminists, I would suggest that they have another look at the string of diamonds, the mansion or the record contract that drives their privileged lifestyle and ask themselves if they would like to have all that freedom and independence transferred to their father or their brother, because women shouldn’t own property, they should be property. Your choice. And that alone, having the choice, is feminism.
This post originally appeared on Bluntmom.com.
#MarriageMonday: Celebrating Lennie and Pearl
We’re This Close To An Official Lego “Golden Girls”
We’re This Close To An Official Lego “Golden Girls”
Why there isn’t already a Lego version of America’s favorite geriatric gal pals is beyond me, but luckily Sam Hatmaker isn’t asleep behind the wheel. The intrepid New Yorker built a scale model of the iconic set from The Golden Girls and has submitted it for official Legos consideration:
It has been meticulously recreated to have opening cupboards and fridge in the kitchen, Wicker Sofa and Chairs, a hallway backdrop, a storage closet in the kitchen, and an outdoor area with potted plants and a hose.
The only thing missing are a pair of Lego culottes for Dorothy and, naturally, the lanai. Where are they going to have their mojitos and play naughty bachelorette games every time one of them gets engaged? — which, as true fans of the show know, is pretty often.
Below, check out some classic GG scenes rendered in Lego by this hero among heroes and vote, dammit. Vote, vote, vote!:
Dorothy grabbing that dough
Rose’s frozen head dream
Rose snatching her teddy bear from Jenny Lewis, the most evil Girl Scout in herstory
That time Rose shot Blanche’s vase and almost poor Lester
And of course, Dorothy and Sophia as Sonny and Cher
Les Fabian Brathwaite, travelin’ down the road and back again.
Les Fabian Brathwaite
