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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
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This report on Palestinian gays who seek refuge in Israel tells us several interesting things, most of them probably true.
One of the main cruising spots in Tel Aviv has the brilliant name, Electricity Park. This better be true.
I have my doubts about this, though:
Israel signed the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees covenant of 1951, guaranteeing asylum for anyone persecuted on the basis of sexual orientation. The country’s Interior Ministry said any gay Palestinian can apply to remain in Israel indefinitely if persecution is proven, but the ministry gave no figures on how many such applications have been filed.
A UN covenant from 1951 included protections for those persecuted on the basis of sexual orientation? Did Dag Hammarskjöld pencil this in before the final draft went to the printers?
This I believe:
One 19-year-old runaway told Israel’s Channel One TV that the Al-Aksa Brigade, the terrorist wing of the Palestinians’ mainstream Fatah movement, tried to pressure him into becoming a suicide bomber to “purge his moral guilt.” He refused and fled to an Arab village in Israel’s Galilee region.
And this--it's too absurd not to be true.
Hassan Khreisheh, head of the Palestinian legislative council’s human rights committee, dismissed the runaways in Israel as “collaborators guilty of various crimes, including homosexuality.”
A glimpse of the collaborationists and serial criminals:
In Israel, covertness is a way of life for Palestinian runaways.
They pick up Hebrew and make all efforts to erase their Arabic accents. Military dog tags and Star of David medallions are de rigeur as an Israeli disguise. They save up money for private medical care in lieu of hospital visits when they fall ill. The Electricity Park crowd has learned to spot plainclothes police from afar.
The really lucky ones adopt a new identity altogether.
The 30-year-old runaway from a village near Jenin works in a Tel Aviv restaurant using an identification card loaned to him by an Israeli Arab friend. He lives with his Jewish partner in the quiet Tel Aviv suburb of Holon.
“With any luck, I’ll go unnoticed until there is peace,” he said.
The Google year end lists of crunched data gives us an idea why the French elites are so bothered by the U.S. and the anglosphere generally.
Popular Men 2003
2. harry potter
3. marilyn manson
4. michael jackson
5. justin timberlake
6. bertrand cantat
7. orlando bloom
8. bob marley
9. 50 cent
Popular Women 2003
1. britney spears
4. alyssa milano
5. christina aguilera
6. anne geddes
8. avril lavigne
9. monica belluci
10. kylie minogue
Only one boyfrog made the dudes' list. Bertrand Cantat, the "French Jim Morrison", except that Jim only killed himself, never his girlfriends. This year Bertrand killed Jean Louis Trintignant's actress daughter, Marie. But for that Behind Le Music moment, the men's list would probably have no amphibians on it.
On the female list the French can lay claim to Avril Lavigne as colonial offspring and to Lorie. Lorie is a tri-color disco dollie. But her webpage is darkened by another shadow cast by the yankee bete noire on French amour propre.
The frontpage promotes Lorie's "livetour" and invites us to click on the "Fan Club de Lorie". The second page index reads:
Decouvre le Fan Club
Let us give our French freres and amis a confidence injection in 2004. If we all did a google search on Lorie everyday this year we could place her in Google's US top ten by year's end. A little payback to the orphans whose centimes sent us the Statue of Liberty.
Civilization is a progress from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity toward a definite, coherent heterogeneity.
Herbert Spencer said that in First Principles. I really have to read him someday.
I got it from the 1942 edition of The Pocket Book of Quotations complete with the Our Boys Want Booksmemo in the front urging you to take the book in hand to the nearest library when you're done with it or mail it to:
Fourth Corps Area Headquarters
This little book of quotes would have been perfect for the foxhole. At least it seems that way to me reading it here in mine. Maybe even perfect for the spider hole.
Evermore in the world is this marvelous balance of beauty and disgust, magnificence and rats. -- Emerson, Conduct of Life
What is prudery?...
'Tis a virgin hard of feature
Old and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise
Yet play the fool before she dies --Pope, Answer to Mrs. Howe
And on the same topic:
Father is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a very pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatos, poultry, prunes and prism are all very good words for the lips, especially prunes and prism. --Dickens, Little Dorrit
Yes, I will torture you with cribs from this book for the next year. For now I close with some vaguely witchy benevolence to start you on your way in 2004.
He drew a circle that shut me out--
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout
But Love and I had the wit to win
We drew a circle that took him in. --Edwin Markham, Outwitted
I liked how Mick Jagger foiled the footman's attempt to open his car door by getting out on the other side of the car when he went to pick up his knighthood a couple weeks back.
I like that Ray Davies is on this years list, though only for the lesser CBE. It would have been better if Dave Davies had been awarded an even lesser MBE the same year as Ray. Their grudge match deserves a knighthood all its own.
I like that Time Berners-Lee is being knighted and that Joan Plowright is being damed. I'm not sure why I care about Joan since I can't remember ever having seen her in anything, but I always liked her name.
I'm glad to make the acquaintance of "Anne Patrizio, an Edinburgh, Scotland, teacher who has campaigned for the rights of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people" who was awarded an MBE.
I very much like that "MBEs also went to a milkman, a school handyman and a former crossing guard."
And that the total list of honors numbered 981.
A net that wide is bound to snag me up someday, if they can just let go of their Englanders-only provincialism.
I watched a show of old sports clips last week that featured a piece Peter Jennings did for ABC's Wide World Of Sports when an American team traveled to Cuba to play their all star volleyball team. Peter needs to take a stroll into the ABC video archives in a magnetized jumpsuit and clasp the tape of that segment to his healing bosom.
Jennings fawns, grovels, giggles, fumfers and smiles the lips the off his face during a brief encounter with Castro. Your average pet shop puppy maintains a more dignified reserve and exhibits a less naked need for affection and approval.
Peter calls Castro "Commandante" probably seven times in two minutes while asking him questions that would embarrass a Cuban schoolgirl. How are your volleyball skills, Commandante? You still play baseball, Commandante? Basketball is more your game, Commandante? Oh, haha, you'd rather swim, Commandante?
Are you enjoying this as much as I am, Commandante? Did I nick you with my teeth, Commandante? Forgive my clumsy Canadian choppers, Commandante, but it's difficult to keep smiling and do this at the same time.
As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to star-board and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance – for he was personating the Big Missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:
“Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.
“Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.
“Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!” His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles – for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.
“Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles.
...New York tabloids had a field day."Songfella" read the front page of the Daily News, "Bullets Bolognese at Rao's as wiseguy whacks a wise guy who insults singer." The New York Post headline was "Swan Song" and "Diva diss sparked geezer's gunfire."
Those manhatter tabloid poets are such irrepressible madcappers. How do they do it? They make me want to try my hand:
Mob Wop Drops Fop: Eye Tie My Lai In Uptown Slop Shop
First He Heckled, Then He Speckled (The Walls With His Blood)
Made Man Mayhem Leaves Harlem Ho-Hum
Like a Bird or a Turd? Critical Contretemps Leaves One Dead
"Songfella" Coiner Beheaded in Mystery Vendetta
NY Post Masthead Assassinated: Cops Baffled Anyone Cares
I was trying to get to My Own Private Neverland Ranch to watch Michael Jackson on 60 Minutes. Instead I spent 60 minutes walking up and down the block I was sure I parked my car on. This is where my love of new sensation and new knowledge saved me. Fuck with me and I'll go all philosophical on your ass.
It occurred to me that my car had either been stolen or towed. Logic dictates that there exists no human being desperate enough to steal my car. So the friendly officer I waved down only confirmed what I already suspected when he told me I'd been towed.
Finally, the experience of having been towed. The cab trip to the serrated edge of town. The siege vibe of the workers in the lot. The more hoops than a circus seal they make you jump thought to get your car back. Yes, at last, it was all mine to live and feel for myself. Unfiltered, unmediated. I had them right where I wanted them. No more abashed slinking-off when everyone else is swapping tow stories. For now I have been to Weccacoe Ave, I have seen Lot #1.
I will never forget a moment of it, or the Christmas miracle I witnessed there. The beefy cashier dudes working behind the very serious plexiglass shielding while the pregnant security guard was left to mingle unprotected with the disgruntled citizens.
Jesus, I don't exactly when you're coming back (looked to be about 2 months), but I'm confident I know exactly where.