I suspect we are deep enough into January that most everyone will have returned to normal life, or at least tentatively peeked outside before finally stepping out of the makeshift shelters in which most of us attempted to weather the last couple months of the clusterfuck that was 2011. It was a brutal, unforgiving shitstorm, maybe not the worst in recent memory, but the worst we've seen since the Post-Patriot Act Debacle of '01.
Depending on when they went to ground, there are probably a few survivors refusing to believe that the worst is over, and so they wait like Japanese soldiers, too full of distrust and bitter resentment. My heart goes out to these shell-shocked remnants, in the sense that “there but for the grace of God” and et cetera. I only hope that we can correct some of the damage done while they're gone.
And here we may have our work cut out for us. The GOP have served as a fairly telling barometer for the times: candidates that appeared seductively sane and capable in the turgid months of 2011 revealed their twisted, unstable natures in the dawn of 2012. Three of the little shit-ticks have dropped off, defeated in the first few weeks of the new year, though two are left with their ugly, gnashing little heads still buried deep in their own moronic ideals, trying to suck the life out of the Republican nomination. I'm not a big fan of Ron Paul or Mitt Romney, either.
Meanwhile, Speaker of the house Boehner and his simpering peons spent the last year planting their heels and deliberately undermining progressive legislation in an attempt to protect their corporate masters. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnel openly attributed this behavior to their most vital goal of unseating the President, saying that this was the “single most important thing” the GOP wanted to achieve.
2011 is the year the Republicans were willing to default on our national debt, rather than raise taxes on the über rich. It was the year Japan was ravaged by a tsunami, and a handful of scum had the audacity to claim they deserved it. It was the year unarmed students were maced and assaulted by city officials as they peacefully protested economic injustice. Perhaps worst of all, it was the year the President, the same man who rode into office on a wave of “Hope”, signed into law the ability to indefinitely detain American citizens, without trial.
Thankfully, the opening of 2012 has helped us wash away much of the taste of bile and santorum. Between the “defeat” (read: postponement) of SOPA and the Keystone Pipeline, the new year already carries a grudging promise of change.
And of course, there's always the matter of the Apocalypse.
Logically speaking, there is no real reason to think that the world might end this year, regardless of what John Cusack might have taught us. And really, it's not the end of the world that interests us, so much as the end of the world as we know it that makes us feel so fine, the dramatic upheaval that rudely deposits the survivors in a world inherently different than what we once knew. In this sense, it is a promise of drastic change, which would bring about an entirely new world, with new rules for survival and prosperity, appealing to the pioneer spirit within us, that ambition to explore and discover that has quietly stagnated through collective years of public education.
Alternatively, there is the Apocalypse Hollywood has speculated about for years, along with what the days after the end of the world would be like. Heroic survivors pitting their mettle against the roving bandit hordes, the freedom to do as you wish, freed from the mundane shackles of the 9 to 5. This sparks in the mind of the anarchist, the idea of a universal “reset” button, wiping the slate clean and demanding mankind rebuild with complete impunity, where “anything that happened before the Big Bang could not affect what happened after.”
My logical faculties assure me that the ancient Mesoamerican astrologers had other reasons for ending their calendar this year, and I have noted with disdain as the Apocalypse has serenely passed me by twice before. I kept my feet firmly on solid ground as the Rapture came and went, and I doubt this Christmas will be any different.
That being said, I have always considered myself an optimist. In light of this, I will be throwing a grand party between the dates of December 20th and the 22nd. I'll be sure you all get your invitations.
And so it is that I shake the dust of 2011 off my boots and feel thankful to be rid of it. I have a full year to look forward to, and I intend to make the most of it.
* I do recognize that the last year wasn't a complete waste of our time. 2011 also brought us the first synthetic organ transplant, the death of Kim Jong Il, and the defeat of Don't Ask Don't Tell. It was also the year we killed Bin Laden, the Boy King's boogeyman, for whatever that's worth.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Jaded Optimist Votes Change!
Just recently, I received a little pink card in the mail, adorned with the logo of a bunny: a cute (if strange) reminder that I am registered to vote as a Missoula Citizen. Not that it was necessary...I am of a strong democratic mind, and early in life I was infected with a lust for politics, so naturally I vote whenever the opportunity presents itself.
The Missoula City Council has reached the end of it's term, and the old regime finds itself contested. In a vaguely intrigued way I am interested in the election as a whole, but one chair in particular. Ward 4 encompasses the southern half of Higgins, the Lewis and Clark Villages, and Pattee Canyon Road. Most of my poor student friends live in this area, and so it is my sincere hope that Missoula's Ward 4 representative have the best interests of our youth in mind. Sadly, for the past few years, this has not been the case.
Lyn Hellegaard is Missoula's current Ward 4 representative. She is 53 years old, a graduate of Sentinel High School, and executive director of Missoula Ravalli Transportation Management Association. Hellegaard cares strongly about taxes and government spending, and has fought hard for her beliefs. I only wish she would fight so hard for my friends.
In 2007, Hellegaard expressed concern about our community, saying that she felt our wishes had been largely ignored by the City Council. However, in March of 2010, she also expressed concern for the Bigfork community by voting against Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance, citing concerns that the bill violated the Constitution...that is to say, presumably, that she fears equal rights for everyone might infringe on someone's constitutional rights.
Luckily, Hellegaard is not unopposed. Caitlin Copple is a co-founder of Missoula's celebrated LGBT newspaper, Out Words. Currently 28 years old, she graduated the University of Montana in 2007. She has previously been employed as the marketing and communications coordinator for YWCA Missoula, and the associate director of the Montana Innocence Project. She has also worked extensively with numerous non-profit organizations, and throughout she has promoted the rights of women and the LGBT community at large.
In the clusterfuck legislative session of 2011, Copple stood in defense of Missoula's city council, and in defense of local control. In the face of the petty and bigoted pro-discrimination ordinance, House Bill 516, Copple stood before the Montana State Senate. She spoke on behalf of the LGBT community, and on behalf of Missoula.
“As LGBT Montanans, we are a minority and we lack basic rights at the state level. But Missoula came together and decided to award us some basic rights through the city ordinance, and it sent a message that, regardless of your sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, that you belong in Missoula Montana...That all of you belong, and I belong too, and my relationship belongs...and isn't that what we all want? To be part of a community as equals, and to believe in each others' right to live a life of peace, justice, freedom, and dignity? In Missoula we are little bit closer to that ideal because of this ordinance...please don't take it away from us.”
The young adults of Missoula, especially those of the LGBT community, have finally started coming into their own. We are actively involved with the world in which we live, shaping policy, in spite of the countless voices set against us. At its core, the race for Ward 4 representative has become a simple question between a stagnant consistency in clinging to fading ideals, or optimism through social innovation.
So, do you want to stay the course? Or do you want to change the world?
The Missoula City Council has reached the end of it's term, and the old regime finds itself contested. In a vaguely intrigued way I am interested in the election as a whole, but one chair in particular. Ward 4 encompasses the southern half of Higgins, the Lewis and Clark Villages, and Pattee Canyon Road. Most of my poor student friends live in this area, and so it is my sincere hope that Missoula's Ward 4 representative have the best interests of our youth in mind. Sadly, for the past few years, this has not been the case.
Lyn Hellegaard is Missoula's current Ward 4 representative. She is 53 years old, a graduate of Sentinel High School, and executive director of Missoula Ravalli Transportation Management Association. Hellegaard cares strongly about taxes and government spending, and has fought hard for her beliefs. I only wish she would fight so hard for my friends.
In 2007, Hellegaard expressed concern about our community, saying that she felt our wishes had been largely ignored by the City Council. However, in March of 2010, she also expressed concern for the Bigfork community by voting against Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance, citing concerns that the bill violated the Constitution...that is to say, presumably, that she fears equal rights for everyone might infringe on someone's constitutional rights.
Luckily, Hellegaard is not unopposed. Caitlin Copple is a co-founder of Missoula's celebrated LGBT newspaper, Out Words. Currently 28 years old, she graduated the University of Montana in 2007. She has previously been employed as the marketing and communications coordinator for YWCA Missoula, and the associate director of the Montana Innocence Project. She has also worked extensively with numerous non-profit organizations, and throughout she has promoted the rights of women and the LGBT community at large.
In the clusterfuck legislative session of 2011, Copple stood in defense of Missoula's city council, and in defense of local control. In the face of the petty and bigoted pro-discrimination ordinance, House Bill 516, Copple stood before the Montana State Senate. She spoke on behalf of the LGBT community, and on behalf of Missoula.
“As LGBT Montanans, we are a minority and we lack basic rights at the state level. But Missoula came together and decided to award us some basic rights through the city ordinance, and it sent a message that, regardless of your sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, that you belong in Missoula Montana...That all of you belong, and I belong too, and my relationship belongs...and isn't that what we all want? To be part of a community as equals, and to believe in each others' right to live a life of peace, justice, freedom, and dignity? In Missoula we are little bit closer to that ideal because of this ordinance...please don't take it away from us.”
The young adults of Missoula, especially those of the LGBT community, have finally started coming into their own. We are actively involved with the world in which we live, shaping policy, in spite of the countless voices set against us. At its core, the race for Ward 4 representative has become a simple question between a stagnant consistency in clinging to fading ideals, or optimism through social innovation.
So, do you want to stay the course? Or do you want to change the world?
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Sakuracon for the newbie
It's been a long time since I collapsed from exhaustion. I've been drained before, my seemingly limitless stores of psychotic energy quite simply run dry, but never quite like this. I feel wrung out, my vital essence sapped as creative fuel for the greatest, most frantic explosion of excitement and joy that I have ever seen: Sakuracon anime convention.
To the layman, an anime convention is an event in which any number of people, of all ages and walks of life, may come together in celebration of whatever brought them into the fandom. In practice, Sakuracon is just too great and fluid a thing to be so neatly defined, especially while neck-deep in giant-eyed revelry.
I would say the constant barrage of color and surrealism takes some getting used to, but the implication would be that one can grow accustomed and learn to function normally here. This idea is insane. Surrounding yourself with this caliber of person, typically unique and startling in their individuality, is to cast off from the world you knew and surrender to the seas of something greater and as yet unknown. Be cautious: here there be monsters, and they will glomp you.
Any newcomer to anime or manga will most likely be struck by the wild swings of tenor and tone that results in fits of laughter during what would otherwise be a disturbingly dramatic moment, or sharply pulled heartstrings in the subtext of lighthearted antics. This fluidity is characteristic of the medium, and an appreciation for it is what keeps us crawling back.
Reverence of this feeling, and of the source of our appreciation, translates visually into a dream-like fantasy world. Though not the absolute rule, cosplay is in the distinct majority, which only helps to shrug off the restrictive tarp of the expected norm.
The effects of most drugs can be replicated in this fluid environment, the unlikely combinations coming together in ways the most fantastic sci-fi writers could never have foreseen. Robots bump tin-and-plastic elbows with anthropomorphic animals, two-dimensional characters step off the page to share space with video game veterans. Meekly smiling catboys thrill the eyes even as they dart from sight, and ever-present are glimpses of flitting, flirting Panty and Stocking. I am surrounded by a sea of familiar faces in a crowd of folks I've never met before, and the sense of home, of belonging, embraces me always.
We are of all walks of life, together in this place, our different creeds and backgrounds forgotten in favor of the one thing we share in common. Freed of obligations or expectations, we are free to do as we wish, a freedom which proves surprisingly peaceful as we discover ourselves naturally predisposed to coexistence.
This is a level of peace I'm not accustomed to, and I have found it amidst a riot of happy-hardcore jubilation.
I've been home for a week, the dream-state lingering like smoke, sticking like glittering cobwebs, even through the eight hours it took to return from Seattle, even well into the next day, leaving me confused and disappointed when it finally fades. I may have returned, but even a week later I'm still not quite back. I'm hooked now, itching to return to an otaku Narnia, but the next Sakuracon remains resiliently a whole year away.
On the other hand, I've discovered that I'm just in time to sign up for this autumn's Yaoi-con.
To the layman, an anime convention is an event in which any number of people, of all ages and walks of life, may come together in celebration of whatever brought them into the fandom. In practice, Sakuracon is just too great and fluid a thing to be so neatly defined, especially while neck-deep in giant-eyed revelry.
I would say the constant barrage of color and surrealism takes some getting used to, but the implication would be that one can grow accustomed and learn to function normally here. This idea is insane. Surrounding yourself with this caliber of person, typically unique and startling in their individuality, is to cast off from the world you knew and surrender to the seas of something greater and as yet unknown. Be cautious: here there be monsters, and they will glomp you.
Any newcomer to anime or manga will most likely be struck by the wild swings of tenor and tone that results in fits of laughter during what would otherwise be a disturbingly dramatic moment, or sharply pulled heartstrings in the subtext of lighthearted antics. This fluidity is characteristic of the medium, and an appreciation for it is what keeps us crawling back.
Reverence of this feeling, and of the source of our appreciation, translates visually into a dream-like fantasy world. Though not the absolute rule, cosplay is in the distinct majority, which only helps to shrug off the restrictive tarp of the expected norm.
The effects of most drugs can be replicated in this fluid environment, the unlikely combinations coming together in ways the most fantastic sci-fi writers could never have foreseen. Robots bump tin-and-plastic elbows with anthropomorphic animals, two-dimensional characters step off the page to share space with video game veterans. Meekly smiling catboys thrill the eyes even as they dart from sight, and ever-present are glimpses of flitting, flirting Panty and Stocking. I am surrounded by a sea of familiar faces in a crowd of folks I've never met before, and the sense of home, of belonging, embraces me always.
We are of all walks of life, together in this place, our different creeds and backgrounds forgotten in favor of the one thing we share in common. Freed of obligations or expectations, we are free to do as we wish, a freedom which proves surprisingly peaceful as we discover ourselves naturally predisposed to coexistence.
This is a level of peace I'm not accustomed to, and I have found it amidst a riot of happy-hardcore jubilation.
I've been home for a week, the dream-state lingering like smoke, sticking like glittering cobwebs, even through the eight hours it took to return from Seattle, even well into the next day, leaving me confused and disappointed when it finally fades. I may have returned, but even a week later I'm still not quite back. I'm hooked now, itching to return to an otaku Narnia, but the next Sakuracon remains resiliently a whole year away.
On the other hand, I've discovered that I'm just in time to sign up for this autumn's Yaoi-con.
Monday, May 02, 2011
a decade in the making
Where were you? What were you doing? We'll be hearing those words a lot in the coming weeks. What were you doing, and what did you do when you heard?
I was with friends, learning how to play backgammon and tossing twisted political humor over pizzas and coffee. I got a call from an old friend, a one-time “partner in crime” telling me something that just refused to register.
“I'm serious, it's playing on every channel!”
Something I could work with. I told our host to turn on the news. NBC came on, framed in an official-looking red globe graphic, and for several seconds it still refused to compute. It certainly could not be real...it was on television, for Christ's sake!
It took some of the fire out of me. I found a repressed nugget of hurt, long-forgotten, cooling and falling away as it lost its target of retribution. It its wake, as stunned silence descended, I did not share in the celebratory chest-bumps and jingoistic revelry. I found myself instead calm, and subtly relieved, and I recognized the sensation as closure. At long last, after almost five years of uncertainty, we had news...not the last, but the last that mattered.
Almost ten years ago, I watched my country go to war at the command of a manchild who would be king. I understood the reasons, and I felt the anguish and dull dread as sharply as anyone, and still I could never justify to myself the necessity of killing. Almost with a sense of vindication I watched as the war dragged us down, stripping us of our moral integrity, exposing us to the horrors of our fellow man. Like a sick Midas, we seemed to spread hurt to all we touched.
At the core of it all, the origin, like a cancer in a beard and attached to dialysis. While the middle-east suffered and bled, we responded to each retaliation by tightening our grip, surrendering our freedom in favor of safety. Now, after almost a decade, we have surgically removed the cancer at its core. The war will go on, blasts of chemo to keep the growth from returning, but at long last we have hope of recovery. We have hope of regaining our freedom and retaining our safety.
I cannot in good conscience celebrate. But consider: it's done. Never mind that ridiculous photo-op aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln...this is our “mission accomplished.”
I was with friends, learning how to play backgammon and tossing twisted political humor over pizzas and coffee. I got a call from an old friend, a one-time “partner in crime” telling me something that just refused to register.
“I'm serious, it's playing on every channel!”
Something I could work with. I told our host to turn on the news. NBC came on, framed in an official-looking red globe graphic, and for several seconds it still refused to compute. It certainly could not be real...it was on television, for Christ's sake!
It took some of the fire out of me. I found a repressed nugget of hurt, long-forgotten, cooling and falling away as it lost its target of retribution. It its wake, as stunned silence descended, I did not share in the celebratory chest-bumps and jingoistic revelry. I found myself instead calm, and subtly relieved, and I recognized the sensation as closure. At long last, after almost five years of uncertainty, we had news...not the last, but the last that mattered.
Almost ten years ago, I watched my country go to war at the command of a manchild who would be king. I understood the reasons, and I felt the anguish and dull dread as sharply as anyone, and still I could never justify to myself the necessity of killing. Almost with a sense of vindication I watched as the war dragged us down, stripping us of our moral integrity, exposing us to the horrors of our fellow man. Like a sick Midas, we seemed to spread hurt to all we touched.
At the core of it all, the origin, like a cancer in a beard and attached to dialysis. While the middle-east suffered and bled, we responded to each retaliation by tightening our grip, surrendering our freedom in favor of safety. Now, after almost a decade, we have surgically removed the cancer at its core. The war will go on, blasts of chemo to keep the growth from returning, but at long last we have hope of recovery. We have hope of regaining our freedom and retaining our safety.
I cannot in good conscience celebrate. But consider: it's done. Never mind that ridiculous photo-op aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln...this is our “mission accomplished.”
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
the wolf at the door wants to know if you've found Jesus...
There is a wolf at the door, and he wants to kill us. This is not an exaggeration...I wish it was. I have seen his face, and I am here to warn you of what I have seen...
I recently made a trip to Helena, to stand with a small army of my people against a bill that would strip us of what little equality we had won, a bill pushed by a raving handful of modern-day Pharisees, screaming for the enforcement of The Law at the cost of the Christ. Had we been in a house of God I would have been nervous, for it is obvious to me that the almighty abandoned those hate-soaked dens of evil long ago. As it was, we were in a house of Man and of Law, and so I was confident in our chances. After all, the justification for the pro-discrimination ordinance included one man (a pastor, God help us all) who openly called for all homosexuals to be put to death. How could such hate and dementia prevail against us, brilliant individuals who wished only for the freedom to love whom we love?
The bill passed in the House. For a time, it looked like it might pass in the Senate.
I have spent the last while deep in the dark confines of depression, my awareness sliding fluidly between crushing horror to violent fury and back again. I lubricated my consciousness with evil substances and tortured my body with neglect. For a brief time, I turned to my old comrade of self-destruction, paralyzed by my fear of the world in which I lived.
After a time of self-imposed exile, I return...my fear has been burnt out of me, my will tempered to iron, my outrage unleashed. I recognize what happened, although I refuse to accept it...cowboys don't quit, after all. What happened in Helena was nothing less than a crime.
However, I am happy to announce that the Moral Elite have achieved nothing. House Bill 516 was finally sent back to committee, to be neglected as an item unworthy of the resulting fallout. It was put aside to quietly die.
We, the people of Montana and especially those of the BLT community, have dodged a bullet. We might still retain our freedom, our right to be who we were divinely made to be.
We have escaped the Moral Elite today, but HB516 will return next year, brought again before the House. Without a clear and certain victory, we still find ourselves hunted, vilified by the Moral Elite and the political puppets held in their thrall. Moral Elite frontrunner Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptiste Church recently won the right to continue his hateful and blasphemous allegations that God hates homosexuals so very much that He would kill off thousands of innocent bystanders just because the BLT community has been allowed to exist.
I'll let that sink in a moment. Phelps believes that God hates America because America has not wiped us out.
I have mistaken the Moral Elite for a minor annoyance, a group of irrational zealots toting the extremist fringe of a religion slowly unwinding to a loose code of watered-down morality. The truth is far more frightening...Dallas Erickson, Tei Nash, and Pastor Harris Himes are only a local manifestation of a disease that has been recognized across the globe. They defend their right to discriminate, to create “scapegoats” of innocent bystanders, to single out groups of people based on a perceived “otherness”, and hide their hypocrisy behind their insistence that our nation was founded in Christian ideals.
I have news for you: Regardless of whatever George Washington and the rest of the founding fathers believed spiritually, we are the product of two hundred years worth of psychological and technological evolution since his tree-chopping ass went into the dirt.
I, for one, refuse to be subjected to the judgment of a religion that is not my own. The right to swing your fist ends where my chin begins, and I will take your blows no longer.
Maximilien Robespierre of the French Revolution was once quoted as saying “When the republic is at stake we can do anything.” Well, my people are in danger, our way of life at stake.
There is a wolf at the door, my brothers and sisters, holding a bible and barking blasphemies in the name of a cruel old-testament god. He wants to kill us, and he has made no secret of his murderous intent. So why are we in a real danger of being stripped of our right to defend ourselves?
I recently made a trip to Helena, to stand with a small army of my people against a bill that would strip us of what little equality we had won, a bill pushed by a raving handful of modern-day Pharisees, screaming for the enforcement of The Law at the cost of the Christ. Had we been in a house of God I would have been nervous, for it is obvious to me that the almighty abandoned those hate-soaked dens of evil long ago. As it was, we were in a house of Man and of Law, and so I was confident in our chances. After all, the justification for the pro-discrimination ordinance included one man (a pastor, God help us all) who openly called for all homosexuals to be put to death. How could such hate and dementia prevail against us, brilliant individuals who wished only for the freedom to love whom we love?
The bill passed in the House. For a time, it looked like it might pass in the Senate.
I have spent the last while deep in the dark confines of depression, my awareness sliding fluidly between crushing horror to violent fury and back again. I lubricated my consciousness with evil substances and tortured my body with neglect. For a brief time, I turned to my old comrade of self-destruction, paralyzed by my fear of the world in which I lived.
After a time of self-imposed exile, I return...my fear has been burnt out of me, my will tempered to iron, my outrage unleashed. I recognize what happened, although I refuse to accept it...cowboys don't quit, after all. What happened in Helena was nothing less than a crime.
However, I am happy to announce that the Moral Elite have achieved nothing. House Bill 516 was finally sent back to committee, to be neglected as an item unworthy of the resulting fallout. It was put aside to quietly die.
We, the people of Montana and especially those of the BLT community, have dodged a bullet. We might still retain our freedom, our right to be who we were divinely made to be.
We have escaped the Moral Elite today, but HB516 will return next year, brought again before the House. Without a clear and certain victory, we still find ourselves hunted, vilified by the Moral Elite and the political puppets held in their thrall. Moral Elite frontrunner Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptiste Church recently won the right to continue his hateful and blasphemous allegations that God hates homosexuals so very much that He would kill off thousands of innocent bystanders just because the BLT community has been allowed to exist.
I'll let that sink in a moment. Phelps believes that God hates America because America has not wiped us out.
I have mistaken the Moral Elite for a minor annoyance, a group of irrational zealots toting the extremist fringe of a religion slowly unwinding to a loose code of watered-down morality. The truth is far more frightening...Dallas Erickson, Tei Nash, and Pastor Harris Himes are only a local manifestation of a disease that has been recognized across the globe. They defend their right to discriminate, to create “scapegoats” of innocent bystanders, to single out groups of people based on a perceived “otherness”, and hide their hypocrisy behind their insistence that our nation was founded in Christian ideals.
I have news for you: Regardless of whatever George Washington and the rest of the founding fathers believed spiritually, we are the product of two hundred years worth of psychological and technological evolution since his tree-chopping ass went into the dirt.
I, for one, refuse to be subjected to the judgment of a religion that is not my own. The right to swing your fist ends where my chin begins, and I will take your blows no longer.
Maximilien Robespierre of the French Revolution was once quoted as saying “When the republic is at stake we can do anything.” Well, my people are in danger, our way of life at stake.
There is a wolf at the door, my brothers and sisters, holding a bible and barking blasphemies in the name of a cruel old-testament god. He wants to kill us, and he has made no secret of his murderous intent. So why are we in a real danger of being stripped of our right to defend ourselves?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
BOHICA
There is an old Jarhead saying that goes: “Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.”
The BLT community has met its fair share of attacks from the Moral Elite. Occasionally, and with growing frequency, they even win. Last March, we of the BLT community won a decided victory against the forces of hate and oppression. Our fair city decreed that our citizens should be spared the oppression of discrimination in our jobs, our homes, our communities. Today, Missoula is the only city in Montana that protects its citizens from being fired or evicted because of their sexual orientation or gender identity, though the Montana Human Rights Network strives to bring these civil rights to every place they are needed.
In their way stands long-time Moral Crusader Dallas Erickson. Erickson founded the group NotMyBathroom.com, a pro-discrimination group under the guise of caring about women and children, who (so they claimed) would be at risk if transsexuals were allowed to use the “wrong” bathroom.
Thankfully, Erickson failed in Missoula. Unfortunately, the Moral Elite are not easily discouraged. The very ordinance that the BLT community fought for is now under attack: a bill is being drafted by Erickson and Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen, attempting to invalidate all we have fought for.
Hansen and Erickson's new bill aims to revert Montana's anti-discrimination legislation back to the days of the Moral Elite, assuredly to eliminate the “threat” of gay rights at the state level, and to lock them into place, thereby crippling lawmakers' ability to address any unforeseen civil injustice. Of course, this is of no concern to the Moral Elite, who have actively opposed any and all social and scientific advance in favor of a strictly controlled religious ideal.
Erickson has again proven his desire to discriminate against the BLT community, this time without even the decency of pretending to have anyone's best interest at heart. How else are we to interpret his actions if not the mechanics of hate for its own sake? Erickson attempted to justify his stance to the Missoulian, explaining that gay people wanted to “legitimize” their orientation, wanted the right to marry and be treated with the same decency and respect as everyone else.
While it seems that Erickson has a surprisingly adequate grasp of the “gay agenda,” what he does not explain is how this would in any way be a negative thing.
New to the pro-discrimination ticket is Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen. Elected last summer, she ran unopposed. As neither she nor Erickson is local (Erickson being from Hamilton) one can only assume that their interest in Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance is one of dread in the inevitable: the realization that tolerance is catching, and that it is only a matter of time before civil rights are demanded for everyone, across the state.
For zealots like Hansen and Erickson, this means more than mere change; it is the death-knell of their brand of morality, their world-view. They belong to a moral idealism that has no place in an advancing society, and so their backward superstitions become their last line of defense. Where once they found strength in numbers, they have now all but faded into the annals of history, where they await the same fate as all who have stood in the path of progress: not extinction, but obscurity. They are obsolete, and all too aware of it.
Despite his clearly-defined stance against the civil rights of the BLT community, Erickson insists that this new bill is not his creation. Perhaps this is an attempt to distance himself from such an obvious work of petty maliciousness. At this stage of the game, Erickson is just another old snake. He may be slow, he's most certainly blind, but his bite is still very dangerous. Until he finally dies (or better, loses his teeth in his repetitive attempts to kill) he had best be watched.
EDIT: Previously, this writer had made the mistake of referring to Erickson's daughter, Taryn. This was a mistake on my part, having confused Erickson with his lackey, Tei Nash, on account of having dealt with them in close proximity during the NotMyBathroom fiasco. The error was pointed out during a discussion in the comments, and the necessary corrections have been made. I apologize, but honestly, all you religious bigots look the same to me.
The BLT community has met its fair share of attacks from the Moral Elite. Occasionally, and with growing frequency, they even win. Last March, we of the BLT community won a decided victory against the forces of hate and oppression. Our fair city decreed that our citizens should be spared the oppression of discrimination in our jobs, our homes, our communities. Today, Missoula is the only city in Montana that protects its citizens from being fired or evicted because of their sexual orientation or gender identity, though the Montana Human Rights Network strives to bring these civil rights to every place they are needed.
In their way stands long-time Moral Crusader Dallas Erickson. Erickson founded the group NotMyBathroom.com, a pro-discrimination group under the guise of caring about women and children, who (so they claimed) would be at risk if transsexuals were allowed to use the “wrong” bathroom.
Thankfully, Erickson failed in Missoula. Unfortunately, the Moral Elite are not easily discouraged. The very ordinance that the BLT community fought for is now under attack: a bill is being drafted by Erickson and Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen, attempting to invalidate all we have fought for.
Hansen and Erickson's new bill aims to revert Montana's anti-discrimination legislation back to the days of the Moral Elite, assuredly to eliminate the “threat” of gay rights at the state level, and to lock them into place, thereby crippling lawmakers' ability to address any unforeseen civil injustice. Of course, this is of no concern to the Moral Elite, who have actively opposed any and all social and scientific advance in favor of a strictly controlled religious ideal.
Erickson has again proven his desire to discriminate against the BLT community, this time without even the decency of pretending to have anyone's best interest at heart. How else are we to interpret his actions if not the mechanics of hate for its own sake? Erickson attempted to justify his stance to the Missoulian, explaining that gay people wanted to “legitimize” their orientation, wanted the right to marry and be treated with the same decency and respect as everyone else.
While it seems that Erickson has a surprisingly adequate grasp of the “gay agenda,” what he does not explain is how this would in any way be a negative thing.
New to the pro-discrimination ticket is Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen. Elected last summer, she ran unopposed. As neither she nor Erickson is local (Erickson being from Hamilton) one can only assume that their interest in Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance is one of dread in the inevitable: the realization that tolerance is catching, and that it is only a matter of time before civil rights are demanded for everyone, across the state.
For zealots like Hansen and Erickson, this means more than mere change; it is the death-knell of their brand of morality, their world-view. They belong to a moral idealism that has no place in an advancing society, and so their backward superstitions become their last line of defense. Where once they found strength in numbers, they have now all but faded into the annals of history, where they await the same fate as all who have stood in the path of progress: not extinction, but obscurity. They are obsolete, and all too aware of it.
Despite his clearly-defined stance against the civil rights of the BLT community, Erickson insists that this new bill is not his creation. Perhaps this is an attempt to distance himself from such an obvious work of petty maliciousness. At this stage of the game, Erickson is just another old snake. He may be slow, he's most certainly blind, but his bite is still very dangerous. Until he finally dies (or better, loses his teeth in his repetitive attempts to kill) he had best be watched.
EDIT: Previously, this writer had made the mistake of referring to Erickson's daughter, Taryn. This was a mistake on my part, having confused Erickson with his lackey, Tei Nash, on account of having dealt with them in close proximity during the NotMyBathroom fiasco. The error was pointed out during a discussion in the comments, and the necessary corrections have been made. I apologize, but honestly, all you religious bigots look the same to me.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Black Swan: distressingly delicate
The latest in Natalie Portman's career of spellbinding films teaches us, above all else, that beauty is pain. Her starved and strained body, bent and abused beyond measure during the course of the film, nevertheless retains her unexpected strength as she dons the role of dancer Nina, soon to take on the role that will henceforth shape her career: the Swan Queen.
The movie Black Swan is to step into the shadows of ballet and performance dancing, depicting the brutal, devilish steps taken in order to convey angelic grace. Just so, the film likewise takes aim at Swan Lake's antagonist: the Queen's treasonous twin sister, the Black Swan. Beneath the skillful direction of Daron Aronofsky, the swan transcends its traditional role of majesty and grace, to finally be recognized a cruel and vicious predator. So too, Nina begins to shed her delicate and timid persona in favor of competitive viciousness and madness.
The incessant pressure of perfection, as unforgiving as the swan itself, fills and defines Nina's world. A mother's love more demanding than the harshest routines, the aggressive advances of a corrupt artistic director, and the crippling limitations of her own fearful nature box Nina into a bland and lifeless existence, from which subtle hints of insanity offer the only escape. As she begins to embrace violence and lust, the primal roots of her repressed self, she experiences the resulting Jekyll-Hyde duality as a frightened and horrified witness, unable to fathom that the darkness she rejects lies within her own damaged self.
Though Black Swan's character development certainly holds center stage, the unfurling madness is intertwined with a deep and subtly detailed development of setting. We are plunged into the world of professional ballet, pointed toes stabbing at the abused wooden floor like the twisting, scampering legs of insects. The audience is not spared one split toenail, nor a single precious pound, and the intense focus on the physical element lends a deeper empathy with each crunch of bone or screaming spasm of abused muscle. Most scenes are even stripped of a soundtrack, bringing into sharper contrast each torturous breath and rustling feather. The rising awareness of the weird is violently underscored with the sinister sound of some approaching wicked thing, a rising slither in time with the rasping of necrotic skin.
The lot culminates into a play on the senses and the instincts, an enchantment as real as that of the Swan Queen herself. Black Swan is a vivisection of professional ballet, bringing its inner working to glaring light. Here we find the twisted wiring of the psychology alongside the straining systems of the physiology. Black Swan is fierce and upsetting, a cruel lesson in the nature of pain as beauty.
The movie Black Swan is to step into the shadows of ballet and performance dancing, depicting the brutal, devilish steps taken in order to convey angelic grace. Just so, the film likewise takes aim at Swan Lake's antagonist: the Queen's treasonous twin sister, the Black Swan. Beneath the skillful direction of Daron Aronofsky, the swan transcends its traditional role of majesty and grace, to finally be recognized a cruel and vicious predator. So too, Nina begins to shed her delicate and timid persona in favor of competitive viciousness and madness.
The incessant pressure of perfection, as unforgiving as the swan itself, fills and defines Nina's world. A mother's love more demanding than the harshest routines, the aggressive advances of a corrupt artistic director, and the crippling limitations of her own fearful nature box Nina into a bland and lifeless existence, from which subtle hints of insanity offer the only escape. As she begins to embrace violence and lust, the primal roots of her repressed self, she experiences the resulting Jekyll-Hyde duality as a frightened and horrified witness, unable to fathom that the darkness she rejects lies within her own damaged self.
Though Black Swan's character development certainly holds center stage, the unfurling madness is intertwined with a deep and subtly detailed development of setting. We are plunged into the world of professional ballet, pointed toes stabbing at the abused wooden floor like the twisting, scampering legs of insects. The audience is not spared one split toenail, nor a single precious pound, and the intense focus on the physical element lends a deeper empathy with each crunch of bone or screaming spasm of abused muscle. Most scenes are even stripped of a soundtrack, bringing into sharper contrast each torturous breath and rustling feather. The rising awareness of the weird is violently underscored with the sinister sound of some approaching wicked thing, a rising slither in time with the rasping of necrotic skin.
The lot culminates into a play on the senses and the instincts, an enchantment as real as that of the Swan Queen herself. Black Swan is a vivisection of professional ballet, bringing its inner working to glaring light. Here we find the twisted wiring of the psychology alongside the straining systems of the physiology. Black Swan is fierce and upsetting, a cruel lesson in the nature of pain as beauty.
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