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3 Things Aliens Don’t Know About mOOn platOOn
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Trav recently remarked that I’ve been revealing my personal side a lot more lately. But here are 3 much earlier revelations about my place in the world…
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I have a lot of issue-oriented posts, but almost everything has a deep personal root, even if my approach to a certain post is objectified.
This blog started on 08-02-07. Here are 3 topics and my own personal testimonials as they first appeared. Just some random samplings from the past. Hey, it’s summer. Gotta expect a few reruns!
ABORTION
Originally published 12-03-07
Melancholiday Memories...We were together once upon a time, at this time of year, long ago...
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she had loved me, too.
She was my dream for years, and then at 18 I let her know. It was the bravest thing that I'd ever done - well, on purpose, anyway.
And for six months we played at love. I was there. She was flattered.
We made love 15 times - or more accurately, I made love to her. She graciously allowed it. Moist and curious but vaguely unassertive, she told me I should have been more careful when she found out she was pregnant.
When she insisted on an abortion, I saw her through it. And when it was over, and she said "Goodnight," I said "Goodbye."
We were 18, and she was the girl of my idealistic devotion, my naive nobility, a link in my chain of destiny. Who knows what loyalty, what dedication she might have known, propelled by such innocent faith?
What if she had been behind me all the way? What if I had been the boy she had always secretly wanted?
What if she had loved me, too?
RACE
Originally published 11-07-08
thrOughOut all Of american histOry: WHITES & BLACKS HAVE FUCKED
Whew. Okay, cool. It’s over.
Wow. After all these centuries. Finally, we’re all equally screwed, instead of being so unfairly screwed in disproportion.
One of my people will be President. And by “my people” I mean biracial people. In my use of the term, biracial means “obviously mixed race.” Sure, they call him black, but Obama had a white mom and a black dad. Just like me.
Like me, Obama was raised by his maternal (white) grandparents. And like mine, his Grandma was the last survivor of the old generation.
Like me, Obama had folks on all sides of the fence. The right side, the wrong side, the black side, the white side. Everyone wanted us to be either black or white, but we knew better. Barry and I were neither white nor black, we were both. We were living proof that racism was a pile of shit.
We came from Abolitionists and from the Masters of slaves. We came from slaves and from the explorers from Europe. We arose from the multiplied plentiful copulations between blacks and whites since the first African slaves went aboard Dutch ships.
Why, ultimately, did slavery fail? Why did Jim Crow die? Why did Strom Thurmond grow to seem weird? Why did Civil Rights pass and Martin Luther King Day come? And why was Barack elected President?
Because whites and blacks love to fuck.
Bluntly speaking, there was no resisting the jungle fever. They found each other sexy, and the barrier was broken, one couple at a time. I’m not talking about the rapes or injustice-laden sex. There has always been between them the yearning for mutual consent. Just as I find all races of women attractive, my penis knows no prejudice.
I mean, for example, never in history has a first lady had such an ass. Please be realistic, here. Look at that figure. White men around the world want to pump that ass, regardless of political affiliation.
I wonder if bondage is as big a sex game in non-slaveholding nations?
This is a good thing, people.
POLITICS
Originally published 08-09-07
How I Once Helped Robert F. Kennedy Make It Through The Day
John Fitzgerald Kennedy was killed for being President of the United States. His younger brother Bobby was killed for even trying.
I think of them often, and how they inspired me as a child to look forward to the future. I’m sure that without them, there would be no mOOn platOOn. It was JFK’s call to go to the Moon within a decade of his election that put Apollo 11 at Tranquility Base in July, 1969.
Personally, who knows? I may not have liked either one. But as a kid, they helped me believe that everything was going to be okay. As inspirations to the youth of an entire generation, they were both brilliant. As links between our history and our responsibility – as well as our possibility – they had no contemporary match short of Martin Luther King.
When Bobby was running for President, I picked up a magazine about the campaign. I was 13. I read about how many hands he shook in the course of a day. Thousands of hands. And about how sore his hands would be at the end of such a day, having been squeezed tightly by so many enthusiastic supporters.
My best pal Gregg and I rode our bikes to the rally where he was speaking. I remember watching him get out of the car and the brevity and power if his speech. He couldn’t stay long, but there he was. Bobby Kennedy, on our way back to the White House.
As he was leaving his entourage pushed us gently back, but he reached out – as always – to the hands that reached for his. They pulled at him. Squeezed him. Shook him. Each one sincere, excited and absorbed in their moment with Hope Incarnate. I do not exaggerate. The late 60s were tense everywhere in the USA except Oregon, San Francisco, parts of L.A. and a smattering of communes.
As he passed me, I remembered that article. I reached for his hand and took hold of it. Instead of squeezing or shaking it, I held it as gently as I could. As others batted at it, I made a shield of my hand, hard on the outside and gentle on the grasp.
He never turned to me, but he held on to my hand gently.
And held on.
And held on…until he had to let go.
My granddad woke me up at about one in the morning two weeks later. He thought I should know…
Bobby had been shot.
