Have you tried the three dimensional thesaurus? You probably have been using it for years, but I just recently discovered it. To find a synonym, you type in the word you need some others for, press “enter” and faster than even Google can congratulate itself, a very space age, beautiful floating word map appears like an answer in an upended eight ball.
The 3-D thesaurus looks like a word tinker toy with the key word on the center sprocket with spokes to other words. But I think there might be lead paint on it. I already had to ditch my Lead Barbie by Mattel. That kind of word-centric architectural construct is what it would take to diagram the recent events of the summer. I’ve tried a linear description to make sense of it, but it looks like one of my grade school sentence diagrams with adverbs dangling off adverbs like some mutant creeping vine.
The word at the center of the construct you’d need to Venn this late August is “dog”. As in dog days of summer. Off that would be the Michael Vick dogfighting/gambling spoke. Barry Bonds must be relieved to have the spotlight off him. Vick admitted running dogfights and inhumane treatment of dogs in his care. In a dyslexic moment of atonement, he said he’d found god. He could go to jail and his days of dogleg right quarterbacking for the Atlanta Falcons seem to be numbered. He would have received no time if he had just modeled himself after another football player and killed his ex-wife. He might even have gotten a book deal.
The understandable revulsion over the canine mistreatment suggests that news coverage of the war, floods, scandals should focus on dogs to get people riled up. Dogs are dying in Darfur! Dogs don’t have basic healthcare! Dogs were disenfranchised in Florida! The dogs of war are fighting a losing cause in Iraq! It seems to get people’s attention. Mitt Romney’s family vacation saga and mistreatment of the family’s beloved Irish setter would be a way into the story of his former Idaho campaign manager, the foot-tapping, non-gay Republican senator, Larry Craig.
Just as the Dick Cheney Buckshot Lunch incident had lost its absolute last shred of funny, along came Craig’s list of hilarious hypocrisy. During June, AKA Gay Pride Month, Senator Craig was picked up for lewd behavior in a bathroom at the airport in Minneapolis, the site of next year’s Republican Convention, if they have one. In our house, we think Dick Cheney is just going to declare himself the candidate. Larry Craig’s version of Dick’s Cheney’s famous line, “I just had a beer at lunch,” is “I’ve got a wide stance in a bathroom and my foot might have grazed the officer in the stall next to mine.” Ooftah! P.S. Larry’s drag name is “Miss Construe”.
Another spoke off “dog” would be the Alberto Gonzalez resignation. Although he submitted his resignation on a Friday, the story was released during Vick’s Monday press conference. Gonzalez, described as “the dogged defender of Bush”, wrote the rules of torture, some involving dogs on leashes, and was Bush’s lapdog at the Justice Department. Gonzalez’s hangdog announcement was in contrast to Karl Rove’s. With his master smiling his unconditional love behind him Rove, top dog, announced he was leaving to spend more time with his family. Which was last seen running from the house. Chinese Dog Food inspectors at least have the decency to kill themselves when things go wrong. Rove took a victory lap on the Sunday morning Kennel Club shows. He said he was like Moby Dick. The Moby is silent.
Your president George Bush once said that his is a lonely job, that at the end of the day, all that’s left is him and his little black dog Barney. Where is Laura? Has she left the family to spend more time in politics?

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Could I possibly be more jaded? The Democratic presidential candidates made time in their multi-formatted debating/campaigning/fundraising schedules to debate on, as the other cable-anchorites called it, “LOGO, the gay-themed cable channel.” And I was all ho-hum.
It took me an ungrateful minute, but that was awesome! Holy Yes I Am, Batgirl! It’s 2007 and there’s a ding dang gay channel and the Dems debated on it. We took our rightful place with YouTube questioners, blogging conventioneers, whooping AFL-CIOers on steaming hot Soldiers Field. Next stop: The Food Channel. Would you ban transfats in Oreos? Discuss.
Despite dire, bogus FOX warnings that it’s a known fact that candidates who align themselves with gay groups don’t do well in elections, develop hardened facial boils and a propensity for lattes, those otherwise chickenshit-can’t-defeat a wiretapping-bill-before-recess Democrats did due diligence and appeared on LOGO. They did not return our calls. Their lowly staff minions, often closeted gay preppies, didn’t sneer “As if. . . ,” at the invitation to participate. They saved that for the Republicans.
Not only did the Dems debate, they struggled with their answers. It was painful/fun to watch them twitch and spin their desire to get rid of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, their love for their gay friends and family, their support for workplace non-discrimination and, then try to square all that good will with their logic-defying lack of support for gay marriage. We’re used to the liberal, secular version of love the sinner, hate the sin. I do hope some straight folks were watching. Some candidates, okay Hillary Clinton, seemed much more cautious and aware that anything she said would be an ominous tagline in a Republican campaign ad in about ten minutes.
We’ll see if the candidates are as gay-forthcoming in non-gay formats, but I wish one of the gay inquisitors, [we had gay inquisitors! Oh how our place at the table has turned!] had asked them if they thought heterosexuality was a choice or biological. I didn’t mind Bill Richardson’s answer at all. I’m pro-choice all the way. Being a lesbian is the choicest choice a gal can make.
As I redden at my own jaded, ho-humming this morning, I’m receiving excited e-mails about the departure of Karl Rove, who announced that he is leaving his post as presidential advisor to spend more time with his family. Which was last seen running screaming from the house. Some posit hopeful scenarios that finally the Dems are going to nail him. Oh please. They are hapless. And Dick Cheney is still running things, getting ready to declare martial law and his pre-emptive presidency. Karl Rove is figuring out how to spin that scenario right now. I think I’m beginning to identify the source of all my jade.
But that night on LOGO was still gob-smacking awesome. And not just because it wasn’t a rerun of Prisicilla, Queen of the Desert.

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Bear Week is over in Ptown. So if you go down to the woods today, you’re going to be on your own. I am one sad Lesbruin.
I took to my bed and that’s how I happened to watch Rene Zellweger in one of those Bridget Jones Diarrheas, in her real-life, form-fitting fat suit pre-dating Edna Turnblatt in Hairspray and Eddie Murphy in his Norbit suit, so offensive it lost him the Oscar. Hey, it was raining, Netflix doesn’t come out this far and our one movie theater in town has been turned into a Crepe Place which I attacked on Bastille Day just because. And since when did weight gain mean acting? Thanks a lotta, Mr. Lamotta.
Since it was so excruciating to watch Zellweger/Jones desperately seeking suitors, I flicked between her and Tom Cruise, the sofa-hopping Scientologist, in The Minority Report, a sci fi flick in which Tom plays a DC cop in a pre-crime unit. Based on intel from pre-cogs floating in a sensory deprivation tank, Tom arrests people before they commit a crime. How to try them if they didn’t commit a crime? Now you know where Gonzo got the idea for Guantanamo.
That filmic afternoon gave me the idea to write a review of the trans-genre Hairspray, the-movie- based-on-the-Broadway-play-based-on-the-movie, [Dramamine drip, please] before I leave the country for ten days. . But I refuse to watch it on a blueberry crepe, so I decided I would pre-review it. Pre-reviewing is a time honored tradition among right wing conservatives. They write reviews without the inconvenience of actually having to see the movie. Think pre-crime.
I could hardly get across the huge picket line. Kidding. The Washington Blade has called for a movie boycott because of John Travolta’s membership in the “Church” of Scientology. The Blade said that because of L Ron Hubbard’s rhubarbs of opposing homosexuality and of funding reparative therapies for gays, that we should boycott the movie. I remember no call to boycott The Minority Report, or I never would have watched. From what I remember of the play, the KKK, not gays, should boycott based on Tracey Turnblatt’s passion for integration. She would be undeterred by the Supreme Court’s back to segregation decision.
In most press junkets interviews, Travolta has said that he is not playing a gay character and Scientology is not homophobic. Therefore it is so. He said he wanted the challenge of playing Edna so that the audience would just see Edna, a vulnerable, voluptuous housewife gone to flesh, not John Travolta being amazing. And unlike Rene Bridget, you wouldn’t have to worry about the long term effects of yo-yo dieting. She ate so many yo-yos. And Travolta pointed out that he was not like Robin “he’s such a bear” Williams playing a guy playing Mrs. Doubtfire who actually looked like Glenn Close in the Greta Cammemeyer story. Nor Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. You could tell Hoffman, Williams and Travolta think they make better women than women ever do. Mary Martin in Peter Pan was my first butch role model.
The whole pre-pre-review process made me have one of those trans-anxiety attacks where you practically have to get out a chalk board and diagram: Okay FTM, that’s female to male, Mary Martin, flies out long, and MTF that’s male to female, Travolta, does a quick in and out pattern. I hate my pronoun slurring embarrassment despite the patient, amused reassurance of my trans friends. That and my ursine grief or the fact that I have to go pack for India, made me so tired, I just decided to watch Napoleon Dynamite for the nth time. I’m learning his “Vote for Pedro” dance. FYI: you can’t do that Saturday Night Fever disco thing in moonboots.

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Let’s review: if it’s three let it be. I just had to pull up a few sprouting milkweeds by the side of the house, didn’t I? Gloveless, of course. It’s not a rip-roaring case of poison ivy. It’s more slow-moving, popping up along the veins of my right hand, like it’s on a lazy summer rafting trip. Who knew I rested my face on my hand so much? I’m working the Caladryl, getting everyone’s trusted remedies, and bandaging where appropriate. Comparatively, it’s a lovely first world problem.
If, however, those three are one, as in triune, as in God, well, I can’t let that be. God’s Prod, the Widow Ratzinger, that old Prada-wearing Devil, can’t let it be either. He is bringing back the Latin Mass. And not a moment too soon. No more hootenanny masses with guitar strumming “Let it Be.” I for one could not be happier. When we were little, while my dear brothers were all trying to learn their few altarboy Latin lines, I learned to say the whole Mass in Latin, do the hand signals, light incense and swing a censerium. I am so ready. Oh wait, I forgot. I’m a woman. Never mind.
Pope Ed “Good Driver” Rimer, also issued the top ten commandments of driving: Thou shalt not use thy cellphone whilst driving. Thou shalt not flip thy bird. Thou shalt not make assumptions about a fellow driver’s mother’s genetic lineage. At least I think that’s what they said. Again the Latin. What’s next? Bringing back s/m martyr worship and second degree relic fetishizing? I personally am looking forward to buying a couple of indulgences. Although I guess I could just buy some carbon offsetting points and go right to heaven.
It’s Bear Week here in PTown! They’re lots of fun, hairier, larger, and way less tweaked than the Circuit Party boys. The only downside of the week is that it’s hell on the drains. Upside: their pool parties are a blast. They run water down a turquoise waterslide, send salmon up the slide and the bears bat them away. I hope this year they will make me an honorary She-bear. Remember, don’t keep any foodstuffs in your tent.
Speaking of She-Bears, I’ve decided to throw my support to Hillary Clinton. I actually notified the LGBT for Hillary people and was told that I needed to get security clearance and I haven’t heard anything back. It’s taking so long, I’m a little worried. The problem is that there is way too much tape on me in the public record. I can’t just refuse to turn over information. Who do you think I am? Dick Cheney?
I’m just the kind of support Hillary needs. I support her despite the flak I am taking for it at home and at dinner parties. I support her despite her despites. That she voted for the war. That she took three days to clearly rebut Peter “homosexuality is immoral” Pace. That she is mush mouthed on gay marriage. That it will once again be a woman’s job to do clean-up after the boys.
Perhaps her people have heard that so far I only have seven “Top Ten Reasons I Support Hillary Clinton.” She has the most experience. Yes, she’s a hawk, but she’s our hawk. And she comes with a pale male. She will cause Bill O’Really and Maureen Dowd to blow up. Only women bleed. At this point I’d rather be screwed over by a woman. To paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, (sorry) “You go to the polls with the candidate you have, not the one you wish you had.”
If I don’t get clearance, I will be the head of the distaff “She-Bears for Hillary 2008” We’ll have great pool parties. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to shake my paw.

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It’s a known fact that there is nothing more difficult than trying to do political organizing in a resort town. You call for an evening meeting and the response ranges from “And miss the sunset?” to “Sorry, low tide, goin’ clamming.” In that spirit, it’s hard to get oneself, i.e. me, organized to answer the blog gotta make the donuts imperative. Especially when the day lilies are giving it their orange- alert all one day at a time. I just don’t want to miss it.
Dear blog-reader, stuck at your computer, I’m sure you are hearing blah blog blah, the dog ate my homework. But then, speaking of dogs, along comes Mitt Romney, and I practically broke a nail getting to the keyboard. Seems the terminally handsome Mormon, [that’s two Ms] was driving the family to a summer vacay, and the car was packed to the gills. It’s a new fuel economy thing. The family dog was apparently treated as a Monty Python after dinner mint. Mitt couldn’t possibly fit it in the car.
So Mitt, who is making a bid to be chief caregiver of our nation, had the bright idea to put the beloved Irish setter in a car tote and put the tote on top of the car for the ten hour ride. Neither the dog nor Mitt was wearing an astronaut diaper. The terrified dog terrified got car sick, or it could have been unrecalled dog food from a certain large soon to be Olympic host country. Mitt’s best friend let go a stream of dog poop so voluminous, they had to pull over to a car wash, hose down and resume their trip. The dog was still up top.
The story has been in the local Cape Cod papers and I can tell you that Mitt has lost the dog-owner vote. The incident has even cut into the man-on-dog sex homophobe theorist vote. The car wash bloc is also a bit swayed. The story does not have as many comedy possibilities as Old Number Two shooting his friend in the face, but good enough on a slow summer news day.
It’s circuit party week here in Ptown – when guys from all over the country come to town to party on down for four days. The testosterone levels have totally cancelled out the estro-swarm of Memorial Day weekend when all the young college girl grads from all over the Northeast come to town. But I swear to god, I think I saw Vlad and George drive George’s Dad’s cigarette boat up to the pier and hop on the all night orgy party boat before it left for a night of carousing on the very high seas. I’ll let you know what I find out.
I’m off to help the talented people at my summer place of employ – The Crown and Anchor – get our float ready for the Independence Day parade. Each summer we have a Co-Dependency Float. There’s nothing on it. We pull it ourselves. And en route we ask caring questions of parade watchers. “Do you need a sweater? You look cold. Here take my sweater.” Maybe this summer we’ll wear Co-Depends and ask Mitt to join us. Once a Gland Marshall, always a gland marshal. Don’t forget to pack the dog.

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English is my first and only language. I’m not proud of that only part. And yet I was having a hard time deciphering the language of the not-dead-yet Immigration Bill. Until I understood that it is based on a point system. I have been a slide-rule carrying Weight-Watcher since George Bush stole the first election. At the time, I figured my weight was the only thing I could control so I joined up.
Weight Watchers is a perfect prism to understand Jorge’s Immigration Bill. After all, for six and a half years, he has treated the Presidency as a weight loss, get in shape program. According to the proposed bill, to be an immigrant legally admitted into the U.S. you have to have a certain number of points, based on professional skill-sets, educational experience, economic solvency etc.
After a fearless and searching inventory, all I can say is it’s a good thing I’m already here. By my slide rule calculation, I’m short about 171 points for entry.
Though I have the good carbs and moral fiber of a Masters in teaching, eight years of experience at the high school level, a 1996 Jeep with 20,000 miles on it, co-owned properties in New York and Massachusetts, in general, they are offset by the transfats of transgression.
You do the math:
comic for twenty-five years, but out lesbian comic, plus outspoken against the Iraq war, all war actually, plus
has a loyal bushie, but is not a loyal Bushie, plus
very old and bad Math SATs, plus
long list of questionable, frankly unpatriotic Google searches, plus
cherished bullhorn, birthday gift from girlfriend, plus
an incriminating middle finger pose near police captured on Google Street View during an immigration rally.
The slide rule is totally off the rails. Who’s that knocking at my door? Why it’s the Minute Men and Maids.
By my calculation, I am in the debit column and might have to pay the $5000 fine as an undocumented worker. So much depends on the case worker. In Weight Watchers we learn it’s important to drink a lot of water and eat the dark leafy greens. Most water is being diverted to agri-business and there aren’t enough workers to pull up the Swiss Chard. How many points in a grab bag of Cheetohs?

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Psssst! I won’t tell you what I had to do to get it, but I finally secured the secret formula for the Gay Bomb! And just in time for Gay Pride Month! Okay, I’ll tell. It involved a bunch of tequila and a recent visit with some fly-girls from the Air Force’s Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio. That’s all the freedom of information you’re getting.
Apparently the military has a program to develop non-lethal weapons: e.g. mega-ton tasers, stare-downs from Mr. Karen Hughes, what not. Non-lethal weapons are so thoughtful, if a tad late for thousands of Iraqis. The Air Force requested $7.5 million from the Pentagon to develop a so-called “gay bomb” which would release a chemical aphrodisiac to turn enemy forces gay, causing them to become more interested in sex with one another than in fighting.
Unfortunately, I was unable to obtain the formula, also proposed at the time by the Air Force, to make bees angry enough to attack enemy forces. It was not clear if those attacks would come while the enemy lovers were having sex. Which is just plain mean. As you know, the Air Force Academy is located near Utah, the Beehive [not hair] State There must have been concern that the bees would flee their collapsed colonies, illegally migrate across borders and attack some yummy Mormon sister-wives.
The Gay Bomb proposal, per usual, has nothing to do with women. Because it takes a bit more than an incoming canister of eau de Tom Ford, a soupcon of Rufus Wainwright qua Judy Garland and some K elixir to flip women soldiers into lesbians. Hint: if you leaflet U.S. women with promises to pay their full student loans and faster than you can say “Private Benjamin”, you’ll have a lean, mean fighting lezbeen machine. Turns out everyone loves multipocketed camo pants.
News of the Gay Bomb had surfaced back in 2004 and has resurfaced in tandem with the renewed political need for a gay wedge [AKA get-out-the-base-vote] issue. Tired old Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is the new Gay Marriage. It is so 2004. And so desperate.
The tide might be turning. Under the carpet bombing of “I Love Paris in the Slammer” coverage, Defense Secretary Robert Gates announced that the contract for General Peter “Homosexuality is Immoral” Pace would not be renewed, though he could still pitch for the Yankees. In our house, we believe that Paris Hilton works for Karl Rove.
Military recruitment goals are not being met. Five rabidly Catholic Supreme Men who never served in a war, ruled that pregnant women must deliver children [AKA soldiers], even if it is a threat to their health or it is against their doctor’s counsel. It’s a perfect storm of a long war. Would somebody ask Dick “Granpa” Cheney where I can find some aluminum tubes for my Gay Bombs? I’ll need some rainbow decals too. I want to lob one into Congress. Then the Supreme Court. Not the White House. Maybe Pierre, South Dakota.

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I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Jerry Falwell had died. I had just landed from a cross-country flight and was in a taxi, trying to preserve the pleasure of a six hour newsless cocoon, when I heard on the radio, “delays still on the upper span of the George Washington, the Nets won one at home, and Reverend Jerry Falwell is dead.” My cabbie did not know the words of “Ding, dong the witch is dead,” and seemed mystified when I abruptly stopped my caterwauling rendition and apologized to him for the insult to those good women.
As more of our homophobic nemesi die, and not a moment too soon, I don my Miss Gay Manners pince-nez and humbly recommend one gay etiquette guideline about how best to respond. The old, gray-haired, white guys with the surnames “Reverend,” “Pope” and “Billy” are aging out, dying off, happily
disproving the theory, “He’s just too mean to die.” Like George Bush, they are all concerned about their legacy, and seem to have left sons and scions, mini-me’s
of meanness. Before the next gen of ex-gay proselytizers assume the position, let’s have a moment of silence.
Okay that’s enough.
Reactions to the news of Falwell’s death varied wildly. Some went scurrilous.
Faster than you can say Tinky-Winky, those reactions were quickly spotted in the deep blogosphere. One suspects they were pre-written. Apparently everyone had archived the video of Jerry rocketing down the water slide at the old PTL park. The “What would Jesus Douche?” comments were unnecessary.
Some went nice. Those columns were granted syndicated sanction, as Falwell’s
former foes tried mightily to say the good things they had learned from jousting with Jer. We can love the sinner and hate the sin better than you can any day, etc. They seemed in their own polite way to be trying to adhere to the caution of Moms Mabley, “You have to say good things about the dead. He’s dead. Good.”
Though they tried mightily, their comments were quickly countered by the army of Jerry’s kids claiming that their dear leader didn’t hate gay people. No, see, he was trying to save us from acting on our gayness and going straight to hell. Except for Anne Coulter. She hates everything.
Moderation, as always, is key in these situations. Before the whooping cries of relief and glee, the backslapping congratulations, the celebratory bonfires, I recommend a three day waiting period. This is a quiet time perhaps used for purchasing rainbow bunting. This valuable cooling-off period, seldom used when purchasing a gun in Virginia, for example, is essential to avoid embarrassment. What if you are in the midst of a dancing-on-his-grave performance piece and get word that miraculously Jerry has come again, rolled back the stone, seen his enormous bulbous shadow, and it’s 73 more years of gay-bashing? What then?
But by my calculation, three days have passed and I just finished blow-drying my papier-mâché Tinky-Winky with the big Jerry Falwell head! Good.

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We are holding down the partying until three days pass,
just in case Jer comes back rolls back the stone,
sees his shadow and it’s 73 more years of torturing gay people.
So no singing of Ding dong the Witch is Dead
[which is an insult to those good women] just yet.
And at the party, no Teletubbies will be harmed.

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In France, Monsieur Sarkozy defeated Madame Royal and I’m trying not to read into that defeat the defeat of Mme. Hillary Clinton. Just in case I was having an easy time keeping them separate, along came Maureen Dowd to re-link the two. Apparently Maureen, who never met a powerful woman she didn’t like to slice and dice, had been going a little too heavy with her Hillary-hating, so went to France to find a stunt double. Voila Royal!
No one has ever damned a woman with such faint praise so cleverly as that nutty New York Times redhead who, when it comes to keeping women down, answers her own book title question, “Are Men Necessary?” To keep women down? No need, answers Maureen, I’ll do it for you.
Nicolas Sarkozy, the feisty, energetic son of an immigrant which entitles him to call other immigrants scum, wants to reinvigorate France’s economy and restore its alliance with America. To do the economy part he has to get the giant airbus of their economy off the ground and that means getting the French off the 35 hours- a-work-week dole. The French voted not only for a longer work week but also for le petite’s Napoleonic manliness. And you thought only Kansans voted against their own interests.
Obviously the Starbucks Enterprise has landed in France and has caffeinated everyone into ma vie en venti sized guilt. When history is written, it will be revealed that Starbucks was a corporate conspiracy to get everyone to work longer hours. I have friends who wearily proclaim, “I worked 87 hours last week.” C’est pathetique. In Japan overwork is now a felony.
The same week Sarkozy and his right-to-work-long-hours won in France, Ellen DeGeneres did a week of shows from her hospital bed on set. It was not even sweeps week. DeGeneres had reached down to pick something up at home and torn something in her back and was doctor-ordered to complete bed rest. Her work ethic made her go on with the show. The pain-killers helped.
It was also about job security. In case you were wondering if women on TV are worried about their hard-won jobs, even Ellen DeGeneres seemed insecure about her job if she were out for a week. I bet Johnny Carson never worried that someone sitting in for him would take over his job. Joan Rivers looked too eager and they squashed her like a bug. How do you say ‘re-runs’ en Francaise? Ellen could have called a number of other women comics to sit in for her. I can dance.
It was a plucky performance but a little sad to see. The good news is that it inadvertently demonstrated that Americans really don’t care what lesbians do in bed. As long as they do their job.

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