Showing posts with label Seattle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seattle. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

197. CASUAL AND MEANINGLESS PRODUCTS

From the Archives

(March 2006) As some readers know, I love the Pacific NW and would like to retire to Whidbey Island or thereabouts and spend the rest of my days kayaking in Lake Washington’s bird sanctuaries (where I will photograph and sketch birds) and off Vancouver (where I will cavort with the killer whales pods) and at Ebey’s Landing (where I will paint watercolors and watch birds).

I’d like to write on the deck of my tiny cottage and take long ferry rides and walk the wind-swept beaches while admiring the Olympic mountain range, then drive to Hurricane Ridge with my windows down and finally make use of my copy of How to Make Totem Poles (but I will never never ever kayak through the busy locks again as the huge boats nearly wash me into the walls).

Here’s something I don’t like about Seattle though: The Center for Science and Culture at the Discover Institute (which may sound like an organization that uses the scientific method to study and understand the world, but it’s really a bunch of so-called researchers who advocate the theory of intelligent design) is there.

(And I've already noted C-YA’s presence there.)

So, even though the Seahawks finally reached the SuperBowl (a game a coworker described as “they try to get more balls through the goalposts than the other team, right?”) and even though there’s all that water with mountains and fabulous sunsets and rain in one cool place, Seattle is nevertheless a little bit less appealing to me now.

The city's hosting the 14th Annual Women of Wisdom 2006 Conference (Return to the Well) though, and wow do I wish I could go to this crystal-squeezing feel-good event.



And speaking of evolution (heh) have you noticed that the Catholic church doesn’t promote the fact that Pope John Paul II said (in 1996) that evolution is “more than a hypothesis” ?

He qualified his statement though:
Evolution in the sense of common ancestry might be true, but evolution in the neo-Darwinian sense—an unguided, unplanned process of random variation and natural selection—is not.

Whereas the new homophobic pope Benedict said that humans “are not some casual and meaningless product of evolution.”

And there you have it folks: two men in skirts who devoted their lives to scientific exploration in accordance with professionally established evidence-based methods of scientific inquiry have, in the typical voice of the (white male) expert, solved the vast mysteries of creation for us all.

Meanwhile Christianists recently coined the term “evolutionism” to categorize people who use the theory of evolution to refute what the Christianists call God’s hand in creation.

(Or was that a Martian’s hand? You can never be sure with their so-called Intelligent Design.)

Meanwhile, in the About Time category, a recent Supreme Court ruling said that Ashcroft’s Federal Department exceeded the proper bounds of its authority when it tried to undermine Oregon’s assisted-suicide law—or, as the Times says so well, the decision “rejected Mr. Ashcroft’s attempt to impose his religiously conservative ideology on a state whose voters had decided differently.”

Mastuh Ashcroft first tried to trump the election results with a federal law that was overturned. Then, as attorney general, he announced that the Controlled Substances Act granted him the authority to prevent doctors from prescribing lethal drugs for the purpose of suicide.

Clever little troll, isn’t he?

The current Bland Old Party is, when you think about it, amazing. Frist announces that he is capable of medically diagnosing a patient via video; Ashcroft announces that physician-assisted suicides are not a “legitimate medical purpose”; and Bush announces that he can wiretap anygawddamnbody he chooses because he is the commander-in-chief of the known universe.

(um that’s of the armed services, dude)

The GOP clearly believes that they, not doctors, can define the parameters of medical practice...

....Meanwhile, it is 78 degrees outside, so I am going to walk in the great outdoors now, where daffodils are suddenly popping out everywhere, and banish any images of Karl Rove from my skull.

Ciao.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

46. ADULT VIDEO (ALL SWIM)

From the Archives

(March 2005) So the obviously hetero DirectVideo & DVD has placed a full-page ad in On Our Backs that includes a photo of two women who do not even remotely resemble any of the dykes photographed throughout the rest of the rag—in fact, they mostly resemble sorostitutes, a term my pal Opera and I use to refer to the halter-wearing belly-button-showing overly made-up trying-to-look-innocent-for-the-boys’-fantasies young sorority girls who invade a bar near Opera’s house with their cell phones at the stroke of midnight.

The following is a list of titles this company is offering for the discerning straight man er lesbian reader:
Old Woman Love Young Chicks
• My Mothers Best Friend
• Hardcore Lesbians
• Office Lesbians
• Young Lesbians
• Girls in Love
• Lesbians in Leather
• My Lesbian Neighbors
• Girls Locker Room
• Jungle Lezzies
• Wives and their Girlfriends
• Black Girls Eating Pussy
• All Girl Toy Party
• All Girl Massage
• Young Girls Who Love Girls
• Lipstick Lesbians
• Girls in Love2
• Woman Kissing Woman
• Anal Lesbians
• No Men Allowed

Other factoids gleaned from this issue of On Our Backs (which I’m really happy to see again):

• There’s a website for folks who want to purchase medical fetish materials: enemas, strait jackets, mummification, sound sets, uniforms and outfits, nurse gallery ... and they have a new color catalog you can buy for just $7.

(What, exactly, is mummification? I mean, I have an idea but discovered when I nearly crawled out of an MRI in a panic attack that I ain’t letting anyone put me in any enclosure voluntarily. That one’s not for me.)

• Greenery Press, who published The Ethical Slut—love that title—now offers Radical Ecstasy, which explores “the state of ecstasy and BDSM as transcendence. Through their discussion of Tantric practices, breathing, spirituality, and their own intimate experiences ... [the authors] invite readers to think about ecstasy as a true state of being and living, while at the same time, sharing how BDSM practitioners are using various extremes to better reach ‘sacred sex.’ ”

• Fireside has published Jen Sincero’s Straight Girl’s Guide to Sleeping with Chicks, which includes a section on “how to give it to a chick” with illustrations of various sexual poses done with Barbie dolls. Whee!

• Midori, a OOB columnist who offers “non-scientific conclusions gained from my most recent slutting around,” travels the globe in an attempt to correct the assumption that lesbo sex only ever happens in San Francisco and New York. She writes that London’s organized lezzie sex scene is “Dead. Kaput. Sterile. You’ll see more tits at the National Gallery. ... I have no idea where the rough-n-ready sexed-up dykes were.” Note to self for future travel plans.


And, finally, here’s another reason to like the Pacific NW (as if I needed another reason!):
• If you thought they only had scary mullets and old flannel, you’re stuck in the eighties, grrl! Wake up and smell that strong Seattle java. Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver form the Wild West Pussy Trail.” Seattle, she reports, boasts The Wet Spot “a sex-positive community center run under the best set of rules I’ve come across since Amsterdam. They treat you like an adult able to make your own decision on who to be and how to fuck.


The Wild West Pussy Trail. That’s a good place to end this entry.

40. LETTER IN AUTUMN

From the Archives

(March 2005) Today’s Writer’s Almanac features a sad but beautiful poem that Donald Hall wrote after losing his wife. It’s from his collection Without.

LETTER IN AUTUMN
by Donald Hall

This first October of your death
I sit in my blue chair
looking out at late afternoon's
western light suffusing
its goldenrod yellow over
the barn's unpainted boards—
here where I sat each fall
watching you pull your summer's
garden up.

Yesterday
I cleaned out your Saab
to sell it. The dozen tapes
I mailed to Caroline.
I collected hairpins and hair ties.
In the Hill's Balsam tin
Where you kept silver for tolls
I found your collection
of slips from fortune cookies:
YOU ARE A FANTASTIC PERSON!
YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE
WHO GOES PLACES IN THEIR LIFE!

As I slept last night:
You leap from our compartment
in an underground railroad yard
and I follow; behind us the train
clatters and sways; I turn
and turn again to see you tugging
at a gold bugle welded
to a freight car; then you vanish
into the pitchy clanking dark.

Here I sit in my blue chair
not exactly watching Seattle
beat Denver in the Kingdome.
Last autumn above Pill Hill
we looked from the eleventh floor
down at Puget Sound,
at Seattle's skyline,
and at the Kingdome scaffolded
for repair. From your armature
of tubes, you asked, "Perkins,
am I going to live?"

When you died
in April, baseball took up
its cadences again
under the indoor ballpark's
patched and recovered ceiling.
You would have admired
the Mariners, still hanging on
in October, like blue asters
surviving frost.

Sometimes
when I start to cry,
I wave it off: “I just
did that.” When Andrew
wearing a dark suit and necktie
telephones from his desk,
he cannot keep from crying.
When Philippa weeps,
Allison at seven announces,
"The river is flowing."
Gus no longer searches for you,
but when Alice or Joyce comes calling
he dances and sings. He brings us
one of your white slippers
from the bedroom.

I cannot discard
your jeans or lotions or T-shirts.
I cannot disturb your tumbles
of scarves and floppy hats.
Lost unfinished things remain
on your desk, in your purse
or Shaker basket. Under a cushion
I discover your silver thimble.
Today when the telephone rang
I thought it was you.

At night when I go to bed
Gus drowses on the floor beside me.
I sleep where we lived and died
in the painted Victorian bed
under the tiny lights
you strung on the headboard
when you brought me home
from the hospital four years ago.
The lights still burned last April
early on a Saturday morning
while you died.

At your grave
I find tribute: chrysanthemums,
cosmos, a pumpkin, and a poem
by a woman who “never knew you”
who asks, “Can you hear me Jane?”
there is an apple and a heart-
shaped pebble.

Looking south
from your stone, I gaze at the file
of eight enormous sugar maples
that rage and flare in dark noon,
the air grainy with mist
like the rain of Seattle's winter.
The trees go on burning
Without ravage of loss or disorder.
I wish you were that birch
rising from the clump behind you,
and I the gray oak alongside.