LR

I did not listen to rock music when I was a kid.  It was something I had on my clock radio to make sure I got out of bed.   But one day, I was forced by circumstances to listen to a rock station.  Most of the songs were insipid and irritating,  but eventually a song came on that I had never heard before.  It was melodious and gentle and the singer had a softly sensual voice.  I was completely won over.  When it ended, the DJ said, "that was Linda Ronstadt with 'It Don't Matter Anymore.'"

I had heard of this person before and was even aware that she was from my hometown of Tucson, but I had never actually heard anything she had sung.  At the time, I filed the experience in the "well, that's odd" file.  Six months later, though, I was again forced to listen to a musical genre that I cared for even less than rock music...country/western.  I was cringing with the all the nasal twanging and all the steel guitaring.   But then a song came on that, while still very much Grand Old Oprey tradition, was so interesting and musical that for the first time in my life I could actually "hear" country music.  Then the twangy DJ told me that I had just listened to Linda Ronstadt sing "Silver Threads and Golden Needles."

I was stunned.  The only two songs I had heard from this artist had completely opened my ears to the musical genres they represented.  I had to hear more.  I bought my first rock and roll album of "Linda Ronstadt's Greatest hits." I bought it at the beginning of summer break and proceeded to play it nearly non-stop until school started in the fall.  I played that flimsy vinyl disk so much that I nearly wore it out and Linda began to sound more like Zasu Pitts.

During that summer, Linda Ronstadt became much more than my favorite vocalist.  She became my mentor, my hero, and my idol.  My conversion to Wicca was complete as she became the image of my higher power.  Curiously though, she did not become a love interest.  I may have considered her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and the walls of my room may have been covered with her likeness, but I never held up her poster with one hand. To even contemplate having sexual fantasies about  my beloved "LR" would have felt like sacrilege.   

I was utterly smitten.  I know that in those days I irritated friends by talking about her non-stop.  I wore every Linda Ronstadt T-shirt I could get my hands on.  And in my secret and fumbling first attempts at self-feminization, I tried desperately to paint my face to look as much like my ideal as I could.  (To this day, the makeup style for which I am often praised, is based on my attempts to copy her look.)

Eventually I did manage to go beyond platonic hero worship to more a more erotic interest in her.   I was once driving my old non-refrigerated honda though an intense Tucson June. When Ronstadt's cover of  "Ooh Baby Baby" came over my radio, the hot wind hitting my sweaty face and hearing her breathless near-begging-for-release singing made me feel like I was in the middle of an intense love-making session with her.  I actually had to pull over for a bit to calm down.  Because of that memory, that song is my favorite Ronstadt tune to this day.        

Because I was a so severely closeted double perv (both trans AND gay,) I couldn't figure out which I wanted more: to HAVE Linda Ronstadt or to BE Linda Ronstadt.  A friend recently told me that I probably wanted both.  I think she may have been right about that.

My obsession for my ideal abated a bit with time, but over the near forty years that I have adored her, Linda continued to act as my musical guru.  Her experiments with different genres opened my eyes to worlds of music I had never experienced.  I was introduced to the world of Gilbert & Sullivan (and ultimately to the glories of opera in general) because Linda appeared in "Pirates of Penzance."  I even wound up writing my own G&S based operetta because of her tutelage.    She showed me the wonders of 40's music when she recorded standards with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra.  And my passion for Cubano music was first inflamed by her recording of "Frenesi."  (which is still my favorite Ronstadt album.)

My world is so much bigger and richer because of my love for Linda Ronstadt and her music.  She has been an integral part of my life and will always be an essential part of me.

Zom-B-Gone

I've always found shooting to be the most effective deterrent to zombie attacks. Be sure to use a bow, though. A nice 60lb draw compound bow is nice and flaming arrows are the best. That way you can pull back the bow and say, "Eat fiery Amazon death, you dirty stinking MAN....I mean...nosferatu." Proper taunting and posturing is important for adequate male....I mean UNDEAD... mitigation.

I only attack male zombies, usually when they are coming out of the men's room at the Tempe Costco. Sure they're surprised and remarkably clean for being dead for so long, but I know they are really zombies. They just have that look, you know? And yes, their wives are usually irate and management calls the cops on me, but this is a small price to pay to rid the world of hideous crotch monsters. It is frustrating that with all that shouting and yelling, no one ever hears me say "you're welcome" as I make my retreat before the ambulances come.

The National Dyke Test

I want to talk to a special group of straight guys.  I'm talking about those men who have secret stashes of lesbian porn.....OK, I guess I'm talking to all of you.  Please note that having a sapphic cache of masturbatory images does not make you a lesbian.  If you want to see if you are truly a lesbian as opposed to a just a pervy straight guy, answer this quiz:

1) How do you feel about seeing a woman with more muscles than you?
2) How do you feel about dick?  Or if you are vaginally challenged, how do you feel about having a dick?
3) How does getting a whiff of male musk make you feel?
4) Have you ever even noticed "man stink?"
5) Ginger or Mary Ann?
6) How does the thought of male hands on female breasts make you feel?
7) Which of the following images do you find "hot"?:
         a. men kissing other men
         b. men and women kissing
         c. women kissing other women
8) Daphne or Velma?
9) One point for every character from the "L word" or the "Real L Word" you can name.
10) Is Lady Gaga a crypto-dyke?
11) Do you know what a crypto-dyke is?  No strike that.  No one knows what that is.  Stupid question.  Idiot!
12) What was your reaction to the first 15 seconds of OITNB? 
13) Do you know what OITNB even is?
14) When you see a "hawt" woman, do you first fantasize about:
     a) fucking her
     b) eating her out
     c) curling her hair, piercing her ears,  and talking with her about boys
15) Do you think Wonder Woman is gay?
16) Explain in 25 words or less why you would like to be a donut bumper?
17) Do you have Borderline Personality Disorder?  Are you attracted to women with BPD?

Answers will be graded on their correspondence to the way I think.

Spotlight Sizzles

I've been an aficionado of drag shows for over thirty years.  There was a time when "drag king" shows were little more than women painting on false mustaches, wearing grunge clothing, and WALKING around a stage.  Freddy Prinze Charming's "Spotlight Sizzles" show highlighted just how far the art form has come. 

The production value of these presentations is nothing short of amazing for a local production.  Each show is different and more spectacular (there is no other word for it) than the previous offering.  Even the costuming is totally different from show to show. 

There were some false starts.  Some of the performers seemed unaware that drag is an essentially visual art form akin to pantomime and dance.  If you're not actually singing, you just can't get away with strutting across the stage collecting tips. 

But in general the acts were fresh and exciting.  Mssr. Charming himself nearly brought the house down when he channeled Jerry Lee to do "Great balls of fire." 

Victoria Bacon's adorable queen acts demonstrated that size is no hindrance to providing quality entertainment .  I was so charmed by her routines that I could forgive her lack of a vagina. 

Ayden Lane's first number was so electrifying that I was completely distracted from the inadvertent video of JT dancing with naked women right over his head.

Of special note was Eddie C. Broadway.  Over the last year I've seen this performer go from terrified novice to true artist.  A good drag act should either be based on sex, spectacle, or humor.  Mr. Broadway somehow manages to combine all three.  His stage presence is phenomenal.  His male-illusion skills can't be beat.  And his "nose candy" routine was utterly hilarious. 

If I were to be critical at all, I would say that the show was a bit too long.  By the time of the finale, both the performers and the audience were showing signs of exhaustion. Had the performers done a single round of acts, no one would have felt cheated.  I was reminded of Gypsy Rose Lee's mother advice to her stripper daughter,  "get the audience begging for more, then don't give it to them."

The "Spotlight Sizzles" show was not just the best drag show I've seen.  It was in fact the best non-theatrical show I was ever honored to witness.  I can't wait to see what Charming and company comes up with next. 

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

I have been transitioning for four years.  Last year I'd finished all the legal huddles I needed to go through in order to be accepted for Sexual Reassignment Surgery (or "Sex Change Operation" for the clueless cis-gendered out there.)   I just needed 20 grand to pay for the surgery.  I had a good job and was actually able to save that sum TWICE last year.  I was unable to have the procedure (technically procedureS) because ....well, life happened.   And by "life" I mean a particularly angry and bitter ex who excelled at stripping me of all my funds and forcing me to start all over again. 

Despite the need to help out friends in far direr need than I and despite legal maneuvering of the erstwhile love of my life, I was able to get a substantial piece of the funding back together again.   I then lost my job.  The good news is that my employers gave me a generous severance package, so generous in fact, that I am very close to now having the money I need for my operation.

I have decided to trust the Goddess when she assures me that everything will be all right and that I should just "let it be."  I'm not going to let my ex's insanity rob me of this a third time.  So....

Yesterday I put down the deposit for my surgery.  I now have a date.  On November 26th,  I will be become a real girl.   (I'm like the anti-Pinocchio.)

It has been pointed out to me that the term "deposit" is inappropriate, since there is no way I can turn in my old organs for a refund.   I would say "down payment" but even that sounds weird.  I'm getting pussyplasty, not buying an old Buick.

I am terrified.  It's very bizarre to have something so fervently wished for so long actually come true (to say nothing of the 40 years of masturbatory fantasies.)  It's like a dream.   I'm still not sure where the total sum of the 20k will come from, but I'm not going to let the Lady down and will put it into Her hands.  

One thing is for sure....when I get my "customized lesbian vagina" and am finally whole,  I'm going to become the biggest dyke slut this state has ever seen.
      

Wonder Dyke

I love Wonder Woman but I really don't want to see a movie about the her ...at least not until she stops being a pussy and comes out of the fucking closet. A movie now would just glorify remaining secretly gay. It would be like an ad for reparation therapy. Marcus Bachmann would be her mentor, encouraging her with things like, "You go girl. You're a beautiful, powerful, straight woman. Don't ever forget that."

Come on, WW. You're not fooling anyone. Everyone knows you love tickling the taco. Do you really think no one noticed you checking out Batwoman's ass? You've battled titans and Nazis for crying out out. Is coming clean about who you love really that scary?

Not convinced she's gay?  Consider this: She's from Paradise Island where she never even saw a man until she was an adult and she spent all her formative years with all her VERY close friends training like a Spartan. She's never married and has never even been in a serious relationship in 50 years. And don't mention that twink Steve Trevor. Steve Trevor? It sounds like a flavor in a gay ice cream parlor. She's never kissed him and hardly ever sees him. He may as well be wearing a t-shirt that says, "WW's Beard"

Who deniers

I've loved Doctor Who for forty five years.  I've gotten completely caught up in the fantasy and have even been known to fashion my life after the Gallifreyan model.  But occasionally someone will say to me, "There is no Doctor.  That's just an actor named Matt Smith pretending to be something that doesn't exist.  Why are you being so stupid?"  Sometimes they will get very passionate about it, demanding that I admit that the Doctor does not exist.  Are they right?  Absolutely.  I know there is no such thing as a TimeLord running around space and time in a blue police box.  I choose to "suspend my disbelief" for a time  in order to enjoy the fantastic story presented to me. The Who deniers are completely missing the point of being a devout Whovian.

Critics of my religion work in much the same way.  Does the Goddess exist in any real sense?  No.  Absolutely not.  I know that.  But I don't care.  My love of the Goddess is very similar to my love of the Doctor.  (And if they ever got off their misogynistic arses and gave us the female Doctor we all want, my passion for the two would be similar still.)   My life is greatly enhanced by my devotion to the queen of heaven.  Those that loudly insist I am worshiping something that has no basis in objective reality are focusing on trivialities and completely missing the glory that is standing beside them. 

The Memorial Cemetary

Hi Mom.  It’s me…Jimmy.  I’m sorry it’s taken me eight years to see you.   I just don’t think I was ready to do this.  

If you don’t recognize me, I’m not surprised.  I don’t look much like that very sad man you knew.   I do wish that you had understood me when I tried to explain to you that I was a transsexual.   You were in fact the first person I told.  And while you were the first person to be confused about how I could want to be a girl and still want to date girls, believe me you were not the last.  You like everyone else just thought I was gay.  And well yes, I guess that since I’m a woman now and am only attracted to other women that technically I AM gay.  I’m just not gay the way YOU thought I was gay.  I realize now that you tried very hard to be understanding.  You were incredibly supportive of your gay son even if he didn’t actually exist.  I guess I should have thanked you for that.

I think I came here to apologize.  I’m sorry for all the times we quarreled and wound up not talking to each other for years at a time.   I’m sorry that I was so completely unable to accept your limitations.  When you went all schizo on me, I should have taken an adult stance.  I should have realized that you were unable to control your behavior or what you saw that no one else could see.  You certainly didn’t want to be schizophrenic any more than I wanted to be trans.  I should have been the one to be understanding.  Me.   But you were my mother and when you flew off on your crazed rants, I became a little kid again, crying behind the dresser and wondering why I couldn’t have a normal mom.    I’m so sorry.  

I do miss you.  I know it’s probably hard to believe because it’s taken me eight fucking years to come out here to see you.   I do wish you were still in my life…but don’t take that as an invitation to go all dybbuk on me.   If I see any manifestation, I will exorcise your ass, you understand that?

I guess that’s pretty much all I have to say.   I’m not here to ask you for anything.  I don’t need you to watch over me or to heal me or get me a bike or whatever the hell it is that religious people ask their dead parents for.    I just wanted to say that I love you, Mama.   I always loved you and I always will love you.

The Bald Soprano (part 2)

I know a trans-man who is so similar to me that it's almost like we're the same person...just going in opposite directions.  We are both transgender and gay.  We are both insanely intelligent,  both wordsmiths and good spellrs, and both indescribably beautiful.  We were recently talking about bottom surgery.  He said that he would most likely not be getting the procedure as it's expensive, painful, and so dangerous that a lot of surgeons won't even touch it.  "I probably won't need it anyway," he said.  "I'm satisfied with how things are developing."  He held out his thumb and forefinger to show me relative size.

"How curious that is, my dear sir. How bizarre.  The hormones I'm taking have made me almost exactly the same size.  It's like we're meeting in the middle."

The last timelord

from "Elementary Obfucational Equations (nth edition)"  

Of course the idea that the Doctor is the last of his kind is patently absurd.   Temporal terminology is only meaningful within the confines of a single time stream.   So what if all the Gallifreyans were destroyed in war?  They are TimeLords.   They are still out there, all flying through every point of space-time imaginable.   There are just as many TimeLords enjoying Foie Gras at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe as there are TimeLords gnoshing on Chicken Nuggets at the Big Bang Burger King.

“The last Gallifreyan” would only have meaning within the context of Tardic Time, as in the phrase “I’m the last surviving time lord in THIS Tardis.”   But that has only limited applicability, as the same thing could be said about any Gallifreyan in any tardis.   One could not say that the Doctor is the last Gallifreyan in any tardis because the time stream of each tardis is orthogonal to the time stream of every other tardis, just as they are all orthogonal to the multiverse they travel through. The very meaning of "orthogonality" implies that direct comparison is meaningless.

Personally, I think this whole "Oo, poor me. I'm the last of my kind" shtick was the Doctor trying to get some sympathy out of Rose Tyler. He knew perfectly well he was speaking rubbish and was just trying to get a "Oh, you poor thing!" out of her just before he dug his head crying into her boobs.
 

Lost verse to Clouds

Lipsticked kisses in the dark

Laughing horse rides in the park

Grasping nails make shoulder marks

I’ve looked at sex that way

But now I see a mirrored face

Same enraptures, same embrace

Love’s not changed, just life replaced

With straight the same as gay

I’ve looked at sex from both sides now

From yin and yang

and still somehow

It’s sex illusions I recall

I really don’t know sex….at all

A Critique of Trans Reason

They are all over the place these days.  You can’t watch a simple show about lesbians behind bars or some faggoty dance competition without seeing them.  You know who I’m talking about.  Those damned “transgenders” (or whatever the hell they call themselves these days.)  They are a particular thorn in my side

Trannies have no sense of humor.  There are notable exceptions, of course, but the vast majority of the “gender non-conforming” wouldn’t know a joke if one bit them on their injection-mark covered asses.  There’s a saying in comedy, “Never tell a tranny a joke, ‘cause while she’s figuring it out, they’re sweeping out the theater.”  I hate doing comedy with trannies in the audience.   I don’t know if the funny has been beaten out of them or if being trans has made them all paranoid, but when the rest of the audience is falling off their bar seats with laughter, the trannies are cocking their heads to the side like confused dogs.   If they do understand the joke, a lot of them will actually respond by explaining the joke to you.   “Oh I see what you did there.  When he said, ‘Hu’s on first’ you thought he was asking the question  ‘WHO’s on first.’”

Trannies love defining crap.   You get five trannies in a room together and you will wind up with eight different opinions.   I doubt there is a single one out there that doesn’t have hir own definition for the words “transgender”, “transsexual”, and “queer.”  Anyone who doesn’t accept those definitions as written in silicone is an ignorant buffoon in need of education.   The word “gender” seems particularly prone to clarification.  Once upon a time, everyone understood what “gender” meant.  You were either a man or a woman.   Transgender theorists (yes that is a thing) came along and split hairs upon already split hairs so that (at last count) there are seven different facets of gender :  biological gender,  subjective gender ,  social gender, gender roles,  gender expression, gender identity, and gender identity expression .  Being unaware of the semantic spaces of these terms will get you branded as a transphobe.

How many transgenders does it take to screw in a light bulb?  100.  1 to do the screwing.   99 to discuss the proper definitions of the key terms “bulb” and “screw.”

The ways transgenders react to anyone using a word “incorrectly” points to the biggest problem I have with the whole community. Trannies have incredibly short fuses.  To talk to a tranny is to feel like navigating a mine field.  Because trannies have “triggers”…lots of triggers.   They patrol those triggers like spiders tending their webs.   You just never know which set of triggers will set your tranny off into a hormonal fire storm.  Some trans-women will jump down your throat if you call them “he or him.”   Whether you did it from hostility or from habit doesn’t matter.    Others spit nails if you simply use the phrase “transgendered.”    And woe to the poor slob who uses the word “shemale.” 

The most common tranny trigger by far is the term “tranny” itself.  This word has become so anathema that merely saying it will transform the typical T-girl into the goddess Kali, all fiery eyes and eight weapons flashing.    That the term originated in Australia and was always used affectionately means little.  The “T” word now has exactly the same usage as the “N” word for blacks.  We can say it when referring to ourselves,  but if you say it you will lose your radio show.

Paranoids are so convinced that people are against them that they will actually make people turn against them.  Trannies are so quick to judge others for slights (either real or imagined) that they wind up alienating those that had been allies and turning them into enemies.   

The great bugbear of the trans community is Cathy Brennan.  Her site “Pretendbians” is a repository of all that is misotransgynecous  (my own neologism.  Yes, I do it too.)  Call her on her venom and she will post infantile pictures of a man who has castrated himself and say “sorry about your dick.”   She even works on trying to take away what meager rights trans folks have been able to scrape together.   The problem is that she was not always thus.  There was a time when she was a firm friend to the trans-community.  Then once upon a time, she wrote a paper calling for a woman-born-women conference.  The rationale for her trans exclusion was that women who had been socialized as females their entire lives had issues to address that trans-women who had been socialized as men most of their lives could never share.   At the end of the article, she even explained that though trans-women would be excluded from the conference, it was important to note that they were women too and should be respected as such. 

Well, the trannies went ballistic.  “Bugbrennan”  was inundated with angry protests saying that her woman-born-women conference was a slap in the face to the trans community.   The air was blackened by the cries of “transphobe” and “cis-privilege.”  The response was so vehement and so unending, that she ran out of cheeks to turn finally said a collective “fuck you” to the whole lot of them. 

Susanne Moore is another victim of pissed off trannies with word processors.   In a piece about female body images, she made the unfortunate mistake of saying that women feel they should have the idealized figure of a “Brazilian transsexual.”  Any way you look at it, her comment was meant to be a compliment.   But not to the trannies.   All they heard was a feminist writer mentioning them.  They immediately pounced and forced her to make a retraction.  They forced anyone defending her comment to make a retraction.  They will most likely force me to make a retraction for daring to defend the defense.   

I have been in this community of unconventional conventioneers  for many years now.   There are so many trans-folk that I dearly love and some I even consider family.   My daring to criticize the language and paranoia of the trans community has branded me an inauthentic trans-woman and little more than a man in a dress.  I don’t care.  To my hyper-vigilant brethren and sistren I say, “get over it, Maria” and I  give a collective “fuck you too.”