30 Years of Italo-Disco

28 08 2014

Michelle Pfeiffer Grease II Cool RiderIsn’t it funny how musical styles come and go? I remember 1950s rock ‘n’ roll being popular when I was growing up in the early ’80s, mainly because of Grease and Grease II. Michelle Pfeiffer straddling a ladder was one of my most cherished memories (and her electrocuting Christopher Walken to death in Batman Returns was perhaps my favourite scene in cinematic history). Everything ’50s was cool then, from the turned-up cuffs to the white socks. One of the first songs I learned to sing was ‘Rock Around The Clock’, but that was in 1982, long after the original song had been played on the radio, let alone penned. I was flooded with images of Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, and Boy George. The same era had a peculiar dance beat which nobody had ever heard before—a 4-4 dance beat–with synthesiser arrangements.

In the early ’80s a new sound flooded the dance clubs of Europe and trickled down to America (as usual—new sounds happen in Europe first). It was a style of dance music with a rich, heavy, persistent bassline and simple yet elegant melody. It originated in Italy, with musicians like Giorgio Moroder, who produced music not only for Donna Summer, but also for films like Midnight Express and iconic ’80s fantasy films like The Never Ending Story. It clearly derived from 1970s disco, but reinvented itself with modern synthesisers. It became known as Italo-disco.

Probably my favourite italo-disco tune is ‘Hypnotic Tango’, by My Mine:

Isn’t it absolutely gorgeous?

One of my other favourite italo-disco tunes is ‘Orient Express’, by Wish Key:

Isn’t that the most seductive dance tune you’ve ever heard?

Glass Candy basically aced the whole italo-disco revival with the following tune:

How beautiful is that? Ida No, the singer of Glass Candy, is totally awesome.

New italo-disco style music is being created by Sally Shapiro:

Absolutely sublime.

Italo-disco is a gorgeous dance style. You just have to love dance, melody, and rhythm.





More Reasons Why Homophobia Makes No Sense

1 03 2014

I’ve already given eight reasons why homophobia makes no sense, but I am continuously discovering more reasons, as you can tell by the title of this blog entry.Morgan Freeman Homophobia

Arizona Governor Jan Brewer recently vetoed (for largely economic reasons) a bill passed by the Arizona legislature to allow business owners to discriminate against people on the basis of religious belief. Senate Bill 1062 would have allowed business owners to deny service to members of the LGBT community on the basis of personal religious faith. (The pro-business Brewer was pushed to her decision largely by corporations threatening to leave Arizona if the bill was passed.)

The bill also could have allowed business owners to deny service to Muslims, pagans, very many women, and others who do not subscribe to the religious doctrines of the business owner. If a business owner passed by a restaurant booth and overheard a conversation by a Muslim woman saying she was seeking or had sought an abortion, the bill, if passed, would have given that business owner the right to deny that woman service (if the business owner could prove their religious conviction in accordance with the re-written law).Stephen Fry Homosexuality Love

This whole fiasco drew opponents to homosexuality out of the woodwork, and they populated social media in force. They hemmed and hawed against religious restrictions, while LGBT advocates hemmed and hawed about equal protection (which is also a constitutional right in the United States).

So, with that in mind, I am going to focus here on the attitudes of people I have encountered in social media who supported the bill because it would have allowed business owners to discriminate against LGBT people. I am going to expose their fallacies and destroy them one-by-one. I cannot connect a single argument with a single person, but I can say I encountered these arguments commonly (and you have probably encountered them, too).

1) ‘Why should I serve people who flaunt their sexuality at the restaurant table?’

Why should I serve people who flaunt their sexuality at the restaurant table? Oh, wait, you are talking about LGBT people, and I am talking about straight people. Why do you think that gay people flaunt their sexuality at a restaurant table any more than straight Audre Lordepeople? Is it just the fact that you know they’re LGBT? As opposed to straight? How is there a difference? I am confused.

2) ‘What’s next? Allowing swingers and people in BD/SM gear to enter my establishment and demand to be served?’

Wait, what? So you equate LGBT people with swinging and BD/SM more than you do straight people? That’s silly, since straight people probably have just as much interest in BD/SM as LGBT people. If you shun LGBT people because of their scary sexual experimentations, why don’t you shun straight people as much for the same reason? It doesn’t make sense.

3) ‘You can’t compare LGBT rights with black rights.’

This is a false dilemma. You are saying that LGBT Lesbian Charactersrights do not compare with black rights because LGBT people choose to be who they are, while black people do not. First, how do you know that LGBT people choose to be who they are? Give me the evidence. Second, even if they did choose to be who they are, natural does not equal right, and unnatural does not equal wrong. Third, it is wrong to say that LGBT rights and black rights are entirely separate just because LGBT identities are based on sexuality, and not skin colour. No, LGBT and black rights are similar because both LGBT and black people have experienced institutional and/or systemic discrimination based on their status. Obviously their experiences overlap. Ask Audre Lorde.

4) ‘Gays and atheists and what-not will discriminate against me!’

No, they won’t! What they want is a compromise. The gay-theists will take wedding photos of you, because state law says they should, and you will take wedding photos of gay-theists, because state law says you should. Doesn’t it all work out to a magical equilibrium?

5) ‘Religion trumps everybody else’s rights’Gay Love

No, it doesn’t. True religious freedom means the right to exercise your religion in peace and harmony while also respecting the freedoms of others. It does not mean steamrolling over their freedoms; it does not mean controlling every aspect of their lives; and it is not a free pass to do whatever you want on the grounds of personal faith. Religious freedom ends when it seeks dominion over the basic freedoms of others.

So that is my response to attitudes about the recent decision in Arizona. I know I will not reach the heart of truly devout Christians who believe what they believe, but I hope something like this will make a dent in the beliefs of people who are on the fence. If you truly believe that God made Adam and Eve to procreate, you have to ask yourself why there are post-menopausal women who have sex, women who have had hysterectomies but have sex, sterile women who have sex, and women who simply choose not to have children but have sex. How is that any different from a gay person having sex? Obviously it is about love and devotion toward another human being. How is that wrong?





Brandon’s Kiddie Art

12 10 2013

Brandon Art - Loretta SwitDo you have a scrap-book? Have you ever dug it out of a long-neglected closet only to discover your early childhood drawings? Well, that is exactly what I did a short while ago when my mother enlisted me in the task of retrieving some files from an old bedroom closet in her house. I unearthed my old scrap-book, which features all of my artistic accomplishments from the day I could finger-paint until the day I turned into a stubborn and fractious adolescent.

Well, I wasn’t a typical boy. Most of my scrapbook consists of unicorns and women. I never liked drawing what is traditionally considered the ‘male’ form, even though that is the body I am attracted to as an adult; I always liked drawing what is traditionally considered the ‘female’ form. To me, the ‘male’ form was chunky and unwieldy, and I saw a certain grace and wiliness in the ‘female’ form. Somehow it just resonated with me, even though I have XY chromosomes (whatever).

I’d like to share with you what I think are some of the most interesting works of ‘art’ I produced in my childhood. The portfolio was lovingly compiled by my mother, who went through a calligraphy phase in the early-to-mid ’80s. Apparently, looking back on my own work through the years, I provided the occasional annotation out of bashfulness, but I have included them here for the sake of authenticity.

This is a lady with fucked-up eyes and possibly broken legs, from 1983:

Brandon Art - Princess (1983)

This I have now christened Superman meets Wonder Woman, from 6 February 1983:

Brandon Art - Superman and Wonder Woman (6 February 1983)

Does anybody remember Charmkins? Probably not. It was a toy franchise from the ’80s. They made toy houses and figurines for you to play with. They also made toy figurine stamps. You could stamp a picture of a Charmkin character (usually a girl with pig-tails) on anything. I didn’t even remember they existed until I dug up this picture I drew in 1983:

Brandon Art - Charmkins (1983)

And then there is my future wife:

Brandon Art - Julie

Well, that turned out to be naught.

But I was created in the image of God, and God doesn’t make mistakes:

Brandon Art - Loretta Swit

Don’t I look like Loretta Swit from M*A*S*H??

And then there is the oddly disabled unicorn:

Brandon Art - Unicorn Legs

Can somebody please help her?? She’s struggling.

And then the unicorn became more robust, and she gained a few makeup tips along the way:

Brandon Art - Univorn Makeup

She and her daughter will zap you with their magical powers of unicorn happiness!

Misty (as I’ve named her) needn’t be bound by skin colour. She can be red if she wants and give birth to a green unicorn with wings! This is the drawing that won me the classroom prize in the 1984 Reflections Art Contest. They were looking for creativity. Well, they found it:

Brandon Art - Unicorn Family with Fairy

In 1985, when I was in kindergarten, I was honoured with the opportunity to work with a lovely artist named Wendy. I remember her name was Wendy, and she had a short, ’80s brunette perm. This is a product of my lessons with her:

Brandon Art - Angry Heroin Addict (1985)

I remember my mother praising this drawing for its abstractness and mystery, but for me it was just normal. I wanted to do something different. Still-lives are boring to me. I want to draw people and animals doing and thinking things.

In 1985 in Sunday school (yes, I was raised as a Christian), I decided to draw a strange and perversely vicious Easter Bunny:

Brandon Art - Easter Bunny

Yes. That Easter Bunny is hungrily scraping its way toward a basket-full of eggs with orange claws that match its eyelashes. (I’m sure the eggs are certified humane.)

Mrs Landmark, my Grade One teacher (7 year-olds for you in Britain) absconded with my precious October, 1985 Calendar:

Brandon Art - October Calendar (Unicorn and Castle)

I remember my mother saying she had a conference with Mrs Landmark in which Mrs Landmark expressed the concern that I was a little bit too effete and was worried that I would be bullied for it (and yet she liked my artwork). My mother said she defended me and expressed many positive points about my character. Mrs Landmark was full of shit. If you encounter a boy who is effeminate, you never penalise him for being effeminate–you penalise his bullies for bullying him.

And then there was the whole 1980s anti-drug campaign which didn’t work. Since then, Washington state, where I live, has fully legalized private cannabis use:

Brandon Art - Users are Losers Drugs

It’s strange how this anti-drug campaign seems so outmoded now, especially since it blindly encompasses harmless drugs like cannabis.

And then there was my beautiful drawing for Christmas of 1988 in Seattle:

Brandon Art - Christmas Seattle (1988)

I was already sifting through my scrapbook at this point, so it is amazing my mother captured this shitty drawing. It depicts Santa Claus flying over Puget Sound (an inlet of the Pacific Ocean, kind of like Oslo Fjord) toward downtown Seattle, with Mount Rainier in the background. Don’t judge me. I was ten years old.

So that is my artistic portfolio as a child. I think the main point to take away from this is to let your children be themselves and explore their own identities. I was an effeminate boy. Some boys will be masculine; some boys will be feminine. Likewise, some girls will be masculine; some girls will be feminine. Just be a loving, caring parent.





Toronto and Ontario Trip (Part 1)

31 08 2013

This August I took a much-needed vacation to my mother’s homeland of Ontario, Canada. It had been eight full years since my last visit, so I took full advantage of this year’s visit with my new smartphone camera. We arrived in Toronto, spent three days there, and then spent two weeks at her cottage on Lake Jarvis, about two-and-a-half hours east of Toronto near her home town, a small hamlet called Madoc.

Girl, did I have fun.

I’ve separated my photo-shoot into several posts so that you can eat it all up in bite-sized chunks. This first instalment consists of my arrival in Toronto, the capital of Ontario, and the exciting days and nights I spent there. (Ottawa is the capital of Canada, which I did not get to visit during this trip, unfortunately.) Anyway, enjoy the photos!

As we arrived at Pearson International Airport in Mississauga (a large suburb of Toronto), I took this snapshot of downtown Toronto from the aeroplane:

Toronto Aerial

Doesn’t Toronto have a beautiful little harbour, surrounded on one side by the lush, green Toronto Islands, and on the other by the tall skyscrapers of the downtown financial district?

This is the shot arriving by rental car into downtown Toronto on the Gardiner Espressway, which sadly runs along the waterfront but fortunately is being redeveloped on both sides by housing which takes advantage of the harbourfront location. Just look at the CN Tower rising majestically above it all. It almost looks like Dubai:

Toronto

Toronto has its own little Times Square–it’s called Dundas Square, and it is situated at the junction of Yonge and Dundas Streets. It’s where everybody in the city gathers to eat, drink, shop, and have a generally good time:

Toronto III

Toronto has a very healthy and interesting mixture of old and new architecture. Notice the Second Empire-style houses on Yonge Street contrasted against the late-twentieth-century highrises in the background, which provide a good dose of density:

Toronto VI

Here is Church Street, in the gay Church-Wellesley neighbourhood of northeast downtown. It is crammed with businesses inhabiting gorgeous nineteenth-century Second Empire-style Victorian townhouses:

Toronto V

There is a vibrant gay scene in the Church-Wellesley district, which is packed with clubs, bars, and restaurants. I couldn’t help but take this shot of a drag queen performing at Crew and Tangos on Church Street:

Toronto XV

Toronto has a vast downtown shopping mall the likes of which I have never seen before. It is suburbia surrounded by downtown office highrises, and connected to the subway system, to boot. It is also the first place I had ever seen a woman wearing a full niqab. It is Eaton Centre:

Toronto XI

A typical Toronto subway station. Basically just like New York (equally humid and stagnant until you get inside the refreshingly cool train car):

Toronto XII

Toronto IX

Here is a shot I took near the Royal York Fairmont Hotel, right across from Union Station (the transportation hub of the entire Toronto area). It isn’t exactly pretty, but it captures the view of your average bloke walking down the street toward the hotel doors:

Toronto XII

However, after the bus drove by, I was able to take this far prettier shot of the fabled tower which Rhea Perlman notoriously immortalized in the film Canadian Bacon using a substance I can only call an amalgam of hot wax and fresh semen:

Toronto XIII

Toronto XIV Rhea Perlman

So there you have it! Part One of my August trip to Toronto and Ontario, Canada. Although the pictures alone may not have betrayed it, Toronto is a phenomenally multicultural city with people from all walks of life and all skin colours speaking all languages imaginable in relative harmony, which makes me proud to be Canadian, even if through my mother. I will be posting further photos of my trip to Ontario in forthcoming blog entries. I hope you will watch, and enjoy!





Seattle Is Nastier than Connie Smith Ever Imagined

6 04 2013

Oh, if only dear old Connie Smith had known exactly what kind of city she was singing about.





Julie Gentron and the Lady League (Vol. 1, Ep. 9): The Plouvre

5 02 2013

Last time on Julie Gentron and the Lady League, the ladies joined fists in a brilliant display of lady-light over the futuristic landscape of London in preparation to intercept their dreaded foe, Plastica, at her next target of assimilation, the Louvre museum in Paris.

Julie Gentron Plastica Black Lame V“The Venus de Milo. Right. Put some arms on her. I won’t have my goddesses maimed. And be sure to get my features right when you sculpt her face into my likeness.” Plastica said these words to somebody behind her as she slithered her way into the Louvre like a cobra, led by Dr. Electro-hag and Simpson Oswald, whom she had restrained with a pair of chains which served as leashes. “Mush, mush!” She whipped the chains, and her bitches pulled forth their queen on hands and knees until she gave a yank, signalling them  to stop. She was dressed in a drapey, 1940s-style, shoulder-padded black lamé dress cut off at mid-thigh, while her hounds donned tasteful, high-end S&M attire imported from Berlin. Three plasticons–one man and two women–attended from behind, dressed in identical S&M outfits, with the exception that the male plasticon’s outfit was fitted for his body. One of the women placed an incense-burner on Oswald’s head. He grimaced resentfully at the indignity.

“Why, I never noticed it before,” Plastica said, scanning the room thoughtfully with her darkly outlined green eyes, “but this newly redecorated Louvre reminds me of my childhood Christmases. All the glitter, tinsel, and shiny glass ornaments painted green, pink, and gold. My favourite were always the indented teardrop-shaped ones. They always scattered the light to create this garish display that captivated the eye and kept it rapt with fascination, like souls enslaved.” She said this as she fondled the ornate gilt frame of a fifteenth-century Flemish painting by Albrecht Dürer with a tidily gloved finger. The face had been re-painted in the likeness of the plastic witch, and many more were undergoing a similar transformation at the hands of her craftsmen, who had all been assimilated. (Their pitter-pattering could be heard in the halls without.) Indeed, the great museum chamber was suffused with a lurid pink-green glow, like a string of Christmas tree lights, or a Manchester fashion show.

Julie Gentron - Plastica Dominatrix S&M Oswald Electro-Hag“You! Sergeant Sodomite, what’s her name?” Plastica barked at Oswald, referring to one of the stationary supermodel servants.

“I don’t fucking know!” he snapped, grinding his teeth. She ignored his invective and returned her attention to her servant.

“You, the Eastern European beanpole by the potted palm in the shape of my face. Whatever your name is. Titty. Bring me some more pline!”

“My name is not Titty. It is Tina,” said the plasticon in a Polish accent which betrayed only the slightest modulation.

“Ugh, yes, whatever. Whitney Houston. Bring me some pline!”

“Pline, my mistress?” replied Tina in a timid, strained tone.

“Plastic wine, girl!”

“Yes, of course, mistress.” Tina trotted like a deer over to a buffet table stationed on the wall at one end of the room, poured a glass of strangely incandescent liquor from a carafe, and brought it back to Plastica on a small silver tray. “My apologies, mistress, for failing to fulfil your wishes immediately and without question. It will never happen again.” Plastica gave her a condescending flick of the lashes, and Tina spasmed slightly as if under some sudden, strange spell. The witch clasped the chalice in her purple claws, took a gulp of pline, and resumed her monologue, talking into the air.

“Gather round, my children. Behold the grandeur of my work. Every ancient statue, every priceless painting betrays, through my likeness, my gift to the world–Myself!” She gave Tina a dark side-glance, then Julie Gentron - Plastica Black Lamelooked back into the air. “It grows. It grows from all corners of the globe. From the sin-filled pleasure-domes of Bangkok to the salacious man-cauldrons of Hell’s Kitchen, my plastic empire grows and thrives like a Morning Glory smothering a rotting English fence. But it all begins here, in the storehouse of Western art, the newly christened Plouvre!” She said these words in a crescendo of passion and intensity, widening her green eyes and raising her chalice in the air. She slacked her chain, placed the chalice back on the tray (which was still being held by Tina), and took a seat on the back of Dr Electro-hag, who winced under her weight.

“I’m hungry!” she barked. The other female plasticon minced robot-like in six-inch heels to the buffet table and revealed a sushi platter. She took the platter in her hands with the skill of a veteran waitress and, with a pair of chopsticks, placed several sushi pieces on to Oswald’s back, which happened to be wrapped in a tube-like sheath of cellophane especially for the occasion. She then retrieved a fresh pair of chopsticks from the buffet table drawer and handed them to her mistress, who proceeded daintily to pluck the delicacies off her man-table and stuff them–a little bit awkwardly, to her chagrin–inside her thick, plump, red lips, chewing down like a cow on its cud. This unfortunate adventure in Eastern cuisine was met by an uncomfortable quietude among the room’s inhabitants, who dared not watch their mistress chow down, but kept their eyes straight forward.

“Good gracious, queen, you look like you’re ready to back up hard against some German leather-daddy,” Plastica squeaked at Oswald, whose spine was curved inward like that of a hungry virgin twink under the voluminous stash of Julie Gentron - Plastica Marylin Monroe Black LameOriental delicacies.

“I am, if it will put me out of my misery, you odious milf,” replied Oswald, trying doggedly to balance the incense burner on his head.

“Well, obviously I’ll have to assimilate you soon, Sergeant Sodomite, but right now I am quite content with watching your fitful outbursts and the pathetic, lame insults they produce.” With this riposte, she plucked a piece of sannakji, still squirming, off the nape of his back, dipped it in a dish of soy sauce, and shoved it in her voluptuous maw.

“We do have a deal, my mistress,” croaked Dr Electro-hag with a sneer. “You would give me half of Earth as my suzerainty.”

“You will have a quarter of Earth as your suzerainty, you decrepit queen. Be thankful and bow at my feet for my generosity. Oh, wait. You’re already bowing. Ha! How convenient.” At this, Plastica took another swig of pline, applied a fresh layer of yellow-green eyeshadow, and refreshed her lips with a thick crimson gloss.

“Paris may be the capital of high art and fashion, my darlings, but I have my sights set on a less polished gem–the cutural future of Europe–Berlin!” She gestured in circular motions with her chalice and chopsticks. “You’ll notice, my beauties, the old Prussian stronghold has re-invented itself as a centre of artistic creativity, but without entirely shedding the vestiges of its Cold War past, leaving it slightly rough  round the edges, like a cut-rate 1980s gay hooker who still listens to Kraftwerk on cassette tape. It is in this thriving metropolis we shall establish our new base. And from there, Prague, Warsaw, Budapest, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Oslo, Riga, Helsinki, Minsk, St. Petersburg, Moscow, the whole of northern Europe!” She rose from Dr Electro-hag’s back and unleashed a witchy cackle, raising her hands into the air and wielding her chopsticks like a deadly weapon, a piece of whitefin tuna tumbling to the ground between her six-inch Jimmy Choo heels.

Find out whether Plastica succeeds in her diabolical scheme in the next episode of Julie Gentron and the Lady League!





Miss B Digs Her Nails Into A Gay Conservative Catholic

15 07 2012

I’m getting weary of the old-fashioned sex difference revival. (Yes, I’m channelling Linda Evans right now. Shut up.) It’s everywhere in the media, from Time to Newsweek. Clinical psychologist Rosalind Barnett and journalist Caryl Rivers tackle the subject in their book Same Difference: How Gender Myths Are Hurting Our Relationships, Our Children, and Our Jobs. They critique the resurgence of gender myths in modern society, especially since 9/11, paring away at the bad science propping up such myths and showing how it hurts us.  And, boy, can these bitches mount a queen. In ‘The Testosterone Test,’ a section of Chapter Eight in their book, they mention a gay man who has embraced the specious notion that testosterone makes males more aggressive than females. To me this is anathema, and I’ll tell you why. I will, I tell you. I will!

As I’ve suggested, the section deals with claims that males are more aggressive than females because they have higher testosterone levels. The authors admit that males have on average ten times more testosterone than females, but they point out that the relationship between testosterone and aggression is very foggy indeed, and that we do not know whether testosterone causes aggression levels to spike, aggression causes testosterone levels to spike, or something else entirely causes both to spike. In fact, it is doubtful that there is any direct relationship between testosterone and aggression in males, according to John Archer of the University of Central Lancashire, who conducted a major review of the literature [1]. So we should remain sceptical about claims that testosterone causes males to be more aggressive than females. It’s more complex and nuanced than that, and failing to realise this point might have real-life consequences.

To show how influential quack notions about gender science can be in popular culture, Barnett and Rivers cite a sensationalistic 2000 cover story in the New York Times Magazine called ‘The He Hormone’ [2]. The article wasn’t written by a scientist–it wasn’t even written by a science journalist–it was written by a gay conservative Catholic essayist with HIV called Andrew Sullivan. Barnett and Rivers note that it would have been valuable reading if Sullivan had written about taking shots of testosterone to manage his HIV condition, because this might have great benefits, but he attempted to write a full-fledged science article on the relationship between testosterone and sex, citing out-of-the-mainstream scientists and making factual errors andinaccurate claims along the way. As Barnett and Rivers write,

Robert Sapolsky, an eminent Stanford University professor of biology and neurology and an expert on testosterone, told Slate that Sullivan ‘is entitled to his fairly nonscientific opinion, but I’m astonished at the New York Times [for publishing his article].’ Saposky notes that one of the studies cited by Sullivan is a scientific laughingstock that was discredited long ago. Three other respected researchers signed a letter to the Times about the article, stating, ‘[i]n particular, there are scant results from well-controlled experiments showing that testosterone affects behaviour of normal men in the ways asserted by Sullivan.’

So, given this scientific insight, my question to Sullivan is: Really? Are you serious? I am gonna put on my Lee Press-On Nails and slap the bitch off your face. You should know better, queen!

But, in honesty, why in the world would a gay man be promulgating such pseudoscience? Immediately I am drawn to five facts: he is gay, male, conservative, Catholic, and HIV positive. This is a very complex archetype to read, but to me it ultimately screams “sexual insecurity.” Of course, nobody should be promoting the pseudoscience Barnett and Rivers describe, but one would think that a gay man, of all people, would be among the first to recognise and criticise it. Doesn’t Dan Savage campaign against gay bullying? Doesn’t Sullivan? Anti-gay bullying is motivated largely by gender norms, after all, and gay people don’t fit  into the traditional male-female procreative script so integral to such norms. I think this strange disjunction in gay men like Sullivan stems from a sort of schizophrenia or cognitive dissonance over gay men being aggressive but also compassionate. Gay men want to be accepted for being effeminate, but, ironically, they also want to assume the bully’s role and hence gain power over the people who once tortured them. The white, bearded, brunette bear in plaid becomes this macho–in some cases very supercilious–bully towards the shaved, tanned, blond twink at the local gay disco. (Don’t get me wrong–I think they’re both silly for their own reasons.) The effect isn’t physical, but it’s psychological. And that’s also damaging.

Everybody should be dispelling gender myths, but one would expect gay men to be among the first to do so, because of their own personal experiences with how such myths have hurt them. But faggots have foggy memories, and their minds are like phantasmic labyrinths. I don’t think Sullivan wants to hurt people, but I think he does so with his essay. I think he might be confused, desperate, and slightly egotistical. Gay people should be reading more academic literature on feminism and gender theory, like Barnett and Rivers’s book or Cordelia Fine’s Delusions of Gender, and they should be constructing an argument which produces a fuller image of who we should be as human beings. We should be raping the airwaves with real, sound, solid science on how everybody suffers from gender myths.

1. J. Archer, ‘The influence of testosterone on human aggression,’ British Journal of Psychology 82 (1991); 1-28.

2. Sullivan. “Why Men Are Different.”








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