Equivalent Amounts of Effort

Why are we doing this when we could be doing that?


BEHOLD THE ADEPT! HE WHO HAS mastered the ancient art of milk pouring while spinning on a stool. Yes, this is a thing. Toronto being a multicultural paradise unless you’re making less than $200,000 a year, you could probably buy a similar, or even nicer, stool at Morningstar on Yonge Street.

Morningstar, to you non-Torogensians in the readership, is a hangar-sized, sandalwood-scented paradise of over-priced brass knick-knacks, bell-festooned sandals that never break if you are carried everywhere in a rickshaw, and giant acacia wood dining tables hand-carved by adorable third-world children who take turns cutting each other’s limbs off so they can get a bigger tip while begging.

And it has existed forever. Do you understand what I mean by that? Really? It is the different-colored-skin hating, the teenagers making fun of their elders, the subjugation of women, the problem of evil, of exotic stores. Forever. It has never not been on Yonge Street, in Toronto.

This is the store that your great-aunt Cosmic Light, formerly Zelda, who hasn’t shaved anything since Expo ’67, used to patronize to buy her incense holders and brightly colored silk table runners—shocking pink is the navy blue of India, said Diana Vreeland, in a turn of phrase I will almost certainly pass off as my own, though the response be ever “Diana who?”and statues of Ganesh. (At least Hinduism, with its cuddly-murderous animal godkins, is unashamedly upfront about the preposterous imbecility of religion.)

Cosmic Light claims she cooked vegan Indian food for twenty years, but the only real benefit, if it can be called that, is she can throw together some hummus and pita crisps on a couple of days’ notice, and is there anyone who sincerely enjoys hummus?

Is there anyone, anywhere, who walks into a living room, falls to his knees on the orange shag carpet before a coffee table laden with dips and cries, “Oh, thank merciful heaven! For I have been drooling onto my linen Nehru jacket with yearning for yet one more grainy, bitter dollop of hummus on my cracker! Away with your pheasants under glass and steak tartare, let me crack my molar on an unsoaked chickpea, for the love of god!” ?

Morningstar have a going out of business sale about twice a year, then they change their mind because they do so well with the sale. Maybe sign up for an alert?

Anyway you slice, or pour, it, this gentleman has the gift. That’s what I get from this video from Imgur, a most annoyingly-named site whose moniker sounds like an ex-smoker saying “I’m good, thanks, and you?” through a stent in his esophagus. But what use the gift without the hard slog?

Correct, and I’m guessing that, what with classes in graduate-level physics so that you can understand the velocities and forces at work here, as well as archery so you can improve your aim, plus ballet classes so you can pirouette without getting dizzy or losing your balance, plus advanced tailoring in order to make your silk tunic and not forgetting daily circuit training to keep your weight at a manageable level, this guy has clocked up close to, I don’t know, how many hours will make you gasp? Twenty-thousand? Done, twenty-thousand hours of training!

With the equivalent of twenty thousand hours of training in all those disciplines, this man could invent an injection into the earth’s crust that would cure climate change, or a chemical you spray into the sky to turn missile-carrying drones into a rain of rose petals and fennel pollen, or some random Pop Tart that could allow you to choose your gender plus cause a tree sprouting money to grow out of a hole in your living room floor before you’d finished eating it, if all it takes to call an activity “eating” is to insert into your oral cavity two thin pieces of cardboard sandwiching a sugary paste and make half-hearted chewing motions before “washing it down”—or to use the fancy term, “being mindful”—with a glass of Coke. And has anyone ever truly enjoyed a Pop Tart?

This man could change the world with his vast skill set; he’s like Einstein and Horowitz and Eddie Shack all rolled into one, but he’s swirling around on a stool (a gorgeously carved Indian sandalwood stool, probably from Morningstar, sure, because they will have exported all the ones from India, but, in the end, still a stool) and pouring milk from a pitcher into a glass. For an Indian wedding in Mumbai.

Twenty! thousand! hours! <Gasp!>


GAIA GOES TO HER DOCTOR. “Tell me, doctor, don’t hold back. What are the test results?”

The doctor says, “Well, little blue planet, I’m afraid it’s bad news. You’re crawling with humans! I’ve never seen an infestation like this one!”

“What an outrage!” screams Gaia. “I demand a second opinion!”

“OK, says the doctor. “I know it’s your pet project, but no one has ever been totally on board with the whole spider thing.”



MY EX-ROOMMATE, ON THE RARE occasions that he would get out of bed, pull on his hundred-pound knapsack filled with all his worldly possessions and run the one-minute mile to the benefits office for his disability cheque, then back again, was also keen on juggling. Keen in its sense of, if there was nothing else to do, he would grab his juggling balls and juggle quite impressively until he dropped one, which was when he tossed the second ball.

Then one day he showed me an online video of a man juggling five balls who could get each ball to drop onto a xylophone so that he played “chopsticks.” In the right rhythm and everything.

And I thought, “With the amount of effort and focus and concentration and agility he’s built up in order to perform this trick he could be playing the Transcendental Etudes of Franz Liszt on a Steinway concert grand at Carnegie Hall.”

This particular ex-roommate—you thought I was done with the roommate shares, didn’t you, now that I’d published volume one of my memoirs? Oh, baby, I am far from done. Those memoirs only take you up to Day Three. There’s enough material inside this dried up old sea sponge of a brain to keep me dining out at KFC through this lifetime and the next thousand, even if half of those are spent crawling around my own kitchen cupboards while I attempt to gas myself with insecticide—

—this particular roommate came along as the “Bonus Roommate From Hell! Collect Them All!” I get when I think it’s a great idea to let a random dude that I met online, and who I’ve spent approximately half a day with in total, stay with me for three months because he seems like a regular, normal, sane, random dude with a job. I mean, what could go wrong?

This is when I should hear the opera chorus in my head chiming in, “What could go wrong? (What could go wrong) What could go what could go what could go what could go—What! Could! Go!— WR-OOOOOOOO-NG!” This is the “Violetta clears her throat” moment, “Sempre libera! (kek kek),” when the cellos play something ominous and she finishes off the Champagne all by herself at two AM, and you know she has like another seventy-six minutes to live.

Regular, random, normal, sane. The regular random normal sane dude tells me the day before he’s to move in, “Oh, by the way, I’m bringing a friend with me as well,” and the regular random dude, who has agreed to pay my rent for three months for the inconvenience, has left out the bit about “on parole from a two-year prison sentence for insider trading and other serious financial fraud” and proceeds to pretend he’s paid the rent for three months, but hasn’t. Because he doesn’t really have a job. Because, you know.

Fraud.

I don’t want you to lose patience with me for my being naive. I was born in a gentler, more innocent time, when the winters were colder than my mother’s inner thighs and my dad raised a secret second family in Peterborough. This is why I’m convinced I should pay attention to the “online, random, have known for four hours” bit more than the “seems sane, what could go wrong?” bit.

Maybe I am a cockroach already, just one who can type and can make a show of being human, who greets you with “Good evening, ladies and gents!” instead of the cockroach translation, which is : “Slke3udfiljewr,k ewruwei )(^&*()$%&^%&%&!” This just occurred to me.

The primary mistake-roommate got sent back to jail towards the end of the three months for telling his parole officer to, and I quote, go fuck herself—she was mad he’d violated his parole, which, and imagine me clutching, then pulling down, my full-size replica “Last Supper” tapestry onto the marble terrazzo flooring as I faint with the shock, had as one of its conditions a suggestion that he not commit fraud—leaving me with Free! Gift! Roommate!

FGR had all the worst qualities of all spoiled children, ever, crammed into one handy forty-year-old body, but, call me Mr Lucky Pants, rarely pulled together the concentration needed to deploy them. I mean, he’d still need someone to push the button on the microwave for him, so nix that. Right? Life is way hard.

Can you juggle just one ball?

Is that even juggling, or just “random tossing that you attempt to catch”?


TRUMP CALLS OUT THE TROOPS. Is it to stop people protesting that he’s killing them by ignoring a pandemic, or to stop people protesting that he’s killing them, African-American version? Trump supporters arm themselves, make costumes and elaborate signs, organize protests that seethe with suppressed rage, pull on their army fatigues and get into actual army tanks and shout conspiracy theories through megaphones, while wearing masks, just not the masks they’ve been told to wear. I’ve no doubt they do email blasts, create online newsletters, rant on Twitter, phone in to Tucker Carlson, or whatever it is you do to Tucker Carlson, make up petitions, write letters to the editor, start Facebook Groups, because all this is easier than putting on a mask. You get that?

Justin Trudeau, rather than recusing himself—declaring a potential conflict of interest, standing up and walking out of a room—decides to field a month of predictable (and to a degree, justified) outrage from the Conservative Party of Canada, a media castration, his wife and mother under suspicion, also his finance minister, the possible disintegration of a worthwhile Canadian charity, a criminal enquiry leading to more huffing and puffing from the CPC, more questions, Trudeau’s supporters once again disappointed, embarrassed, and feeling like fools—all of that is easier and more desirable than standing up and walking out of a room.

How could Trump have made himself the surprise hero of the hour, kept and even educated his supporters, won over many of those who are undecided, saved a million lives, redeemed himself, conquered the world? By following the science and keeping his mouth shut. Trump becomes the new Jesus Christ, for less effort than it takes to type covfefe; in fact, for no effort at all. None.

What can I say? That’s men for you. Stars of the movie we write, direct and star in. Don’t read the manual. Just tinker and tinker until something breaks.

In the speculative fiction cult-classic “A Canticle for Leibowitz,” a group of contemplative monks living in a post-apocalyptic future are the keepers of some blueprints, and, completely unaware of their meaning or how they were produced, dedicate their lives to replicating them as holy documents.

With agonizing precision, day by stultifying day, they color in the blue sections, by hand, so that only the perfect white lines of the blueprints remain.

What’s left unfinished is passed on, to the novitiates.

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Whatever Shall We Do About Justin?

You need to know that Trudeauphobia has its roots in the fear and loathing of straight males who are closing in for the kill.



A clarification

MOST OF US, HAVING SEEN Sophie-Grégoire and Justin Trudeau caught in a candid moment gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes, or photogenically romping around with their three children; or having seen Justin’s confident swagger in the presence of women who’ve momentarily lost their composure—there’s a photo somewhere of Ivanka Trump, crazed eyes two feet wide, looking as though she’s about to take her knife and fork and throw him onto her plate—most of us will understand that our guy in Ottawa is without question enthusiastically heterosexual, bless his trendy, eye-popping socks.

So I wanted to emphasize that, though I use the word “homophobia” in this essay as an explanation for conservative animus against Justin Trudeau, I am not suggesting that Justin Trudeau is gay; I am theorizing that his political rivals and a big cohort of typically homophobic Canadian male voters—oh, and, of course, Jordan Peterson— react to him as though he were.

Most gay men my age (in the late-boomer phase I reference as “missed the original cast of Hair, but front row centre for anything by Sondheim”) will have experienced homophobic abuse, even as children. The perpetrators were adults—teachers, relatives, parents—and they were our peers.

Adults have a duty of care towards children which few adults fully commit to, and children see what actions are rewarded. (The Sondheim number for this is “Children Will Listen,” from Into the Woods.) This is why I blame my peers slightly less than the adults.

(It’s also why, when I see a little bit of intimacy or authenticity crawling towards me, I open my mouth and blast it with humor, the RAID of the psychically damaged, until it dies.)

When I recall these episodes, I recognize that the intensely negative emotions my existence seemed to provoke were invariably contempt, disgust, and rage.


JUSTIN TRUDEAU, LIKE HIS ILLUSTRIOUS father, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, inspires devotion or loathing, either of those two extreme responses, with no half-hearted dabbling at attempts to compromise or to seek consensus. Love or hate, or perhaps, just occasionally, both at once.

That’s because the elder Trudeau, who gave us our one brief shining hour of a groovier, kinkier, more intellectual, extrovert and, hell, grown-up national persona, set the intensity levels for devotion or loathing so high that we still feel the aftershocks forty years later.

Pierre Elliott Trudeau — caustic, flamboyant, patrician, lusty, arrogant, no tolerator of fools, friend to Castro, autocratic liberal, male midwife to a repatriated constitution and a truly independent Canada, the adulation of whom attained such a frenzy it was dubbed “Trudeaumania” by the press — the elder Trudeau virtually single-handedly saved this nation from disintegrating in the 1980’s; held on tight with both hands and would not let go until we were safely through the crisis of warring regional interests and the impending separation of Québec.

We progressives, the true believers in the Canadian project, never stop loving him for this.

But our conservatives, ever more extreme, favoring ever closer political, economic and cultural ties with the U.S. and denying the validity of the multicultural, compassionate, liberal Canadian experience, can never forgive him for it.

The conservative element in Canada is explicitly scornful of the idea of Canada as an example to the world and dedicated to the concept that Canada is nothing more than a second-rate, wannabe U.S.A.; an embarrassing fake with delusions of grandeur, like that PVC handbag defiantly labeled “Louis Vuitton” that you buy from a huckster.

We’re the kid brother who hasn’t learned to hit the ball out of the park. We’re not who we are out of idealism, reads their script, but out of the failure to understand how much we fall short.

As for the son, the apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree, at least when it comes to the arrogance and the adulation, a few basic points:

Justin Trudeau, a child of privilege who cut his teeth on the workings of the Canadian federal government, and sat on Nixon’s knee, unlucky boy, is not the most transparent, or even articulate, man.

Justin Trudeau is so quick to admit his faults, and so slow to defend himself, that the boys in the smoky rooms, the cigar-chomping, glad-handing wheelers and dealers of carnival-barker conservatism, are able to flesh out whole soap operas of corruption and criminality simply by leveraging his own reticence.

Justin Trudeau, and it kills me to say this, does not help his case, or ours, by failing to take account of optics and by acting in ways that create the appearance of entitlement, and worse, conflicts of interest; his reticence is too easily read as “something to hide.”


IF YOU’RE AN AMERICAN wondering why Canadian scandals are so “a cup of Ovaltine, a documentary from the National Film Board and — it’s beddy-bye for me!” and based on ethical scruples or niceties of legalese pushed to the limits of their stress tolerance: well, yes. That’s what you end up with when you try to cook up scandals with the basic ingredients missing.

But because Canadians still believe in peace, order and good government, we are rattled by even the hint, the slightest possibility, of corruption. We’re purists that way. Show us a Prime Minister’s mother who once accepted a speaking engagement from the same charity that was recently contracted to fund summer intern positions for students, and we’re tearing the plaid lumberjack shirts from our backs.

We’re so primed to gasp in dismay that we’re ready to condemn the charity for having invested in properties that gained in value (what else would be the reason for investing?), or for telling corporations that partnering with them would give a boost to the company’s brand.

It’s deliciously ironic to hear conservatives on the rampage cite the everyday workings of capitalism as proof of criminal intent.

It doesn’t help to stem the current flow of vile innuendo from the right that the mother in question, Margaret Trudeau, née Sinclair, the fairytale commoner hiding inconvenient levels of intelligence and an independent streak (and, as it turned out, an undiagnosed bipolar disorder), and married to a man thirty years her senior, upped the sophistication level by becoming restless and bored, chafing at the duties imposed on her and the paparazzi clinging to her ankles.

Sound familiar? Yes, in fact, she “pulled a Diana” (though Maggie holds the copyright, and Diana should, by rights, have been “pulling a Margaret.”)

Margaret had dutifully got with the program of providing princes, excuse me, heirs, blessing the Canadian public with three new Trudeaux, two of them, Justin and Alexandre, born on Christmas Day  two years apart. (The third son, Michel, died tragically at twenty-three when he was swept into a frigid lake by an avalanche while on a skiing trip; some attribute Pierre’s final decline and death to his heartbreak at that event.)

Then, true to the beautiful but errant flower-child script,  off Maggie trotted to dance, and, we assumed, more, with Mick Jagger et al. at Studio 54, and to perform all the other acts of youthful drama and defiance listed under “married for love, got Parliament instead.”

We were all pretty young, back then.

So, the love of Canadians for government and our dismay when confronted with the possibility of corruption. Contrast with the U.S., where Americans, barely tolerating government as a necessary evil, expect, even perversely celebrate, rampant and obvious corruption as proof of that evil.

I mean, what else would there be to pass the time with, what would you guys talk about if government wasn’t evil? “Poor people?” Oh, puh-lease, little socialists, where’s your ambition? You didn’t die in the jungles of ‘Nam, overthrow democratically elected governments in South America or permanently destabilize the Middle East so you could talk about poor people!

Consider the “Citizens United” decision of the Supreme Court, which all but stated:

“Our elections are bought, so, good start, but not bought obviously or big enough. Let’s make it much, much easier to buy election results with fistfuls of the profits we haven’t got a clue what to do with now that we have five yachts (shout-out to Betsy DeVos)! Go big or go home, guys!”

There you are, turbo-charged corruption gleaming under Klieg lights, government so evil. Phew! That was close. Americans might actually have begun to respect the political process, even vote, but — SCOTUS to the rescue!

Consider obnoxiously obvious Republican gerrymandering:

SCOTUS: “That’s fine, none of our concern about your evil, partisan ways!”

It’s an outrage — you do realize that, right? That it’s an outrage that no other lip-service democratic country would tolerate? — but Americans need great, big, obvious, rampant, stinking corruption, the bigger and rampanter and stinkier the better, so they can sleep at night knowing that their government is pulling out all the stops doing what it does best: proving how evil government is.


SO LET’S CUT TO THE CHASE and talk homophobia and Trudeau, shall we? Teaching drama, speaking gently and responding with care, ceding power and responsibility to women, choosing a diverse, gender-balanced cabinet, showing compassion — we’re out of traditional “real man” territory without a map, and conservatives have been in a perpetual state of befuddled outrage since 2015.

Assessments of the Trudeau government by other nations are positive. CNN does a piece on our appropriate and co-operative response to the pandemic. Those commenting on CNN’s report, mostly Americans, express envy at our country’s pulling together, our solidarity, our respect for science and each other. All modeled by the prime minister, Justin Trudeau.

The New York Times online is in twice-yearly raptures about our liberalism, for example, our accommodation of Syrian refugees, our model for the world. Justin Trudeau opened Canada’s arms and affirmed our welcome. More recently, a piece in The Guardian again compares Canada’s pandemic response and results with the U.S. Pulling together and doing what is necessary: All modeled by Justin.

Admiring pieces in the LA Times cover Chrystia Freeland, our deputy prime minister, impressed by her firm, even hawkish, stance about the necessity of defending liberal values worldwide, and breathlessly listing her accomplishments in journalism and as a respected author. Appointed by Justin.

In fact, the American and British press survey the political landscape and recognize Canada as the last example of a nation standing apart from the populist crowd; the sole shining light of unrepentant, compassionate liberalism that remains.

The last election, which gave the Liberals a minority government, is viewed by the international community, correctly, as a referendum on the far right, represented by the odious People’s Party of Canada (PPC), whose anti-immigrant, climate science-denying platform was roundly rejected. The PPC lost its only seat, making it unique as a party with “people” in the name, but none in the actual party.

All seems rosy with maple leaves and beaver tails from sea to shining sea—you’d think.

But spend a little time on Twitter — the toilet that’s also a megaphone — and soon your head will swim from the unrelenting vicious Trudeauphobia. Dig a little deeper and discover a real, deep-seated revulsion towards Trudeau on the part of a certain class of Canadian men, including the leaders and members of the Conservative Party of Canada (CPC), especially its de facto leader, Andrew Scheer, and the PPC. This class of Canadian men is monolithically white, heterosexual, libertarian or conservative and deeply, unapologetically homophobic.

(The CPC is currently without a leader, in fact; I call Scheer the de facto leader because, although he was forced to resign as party leader after he admitted to dipping into party funds to pay for his children’s private schooling, he has hung around for months as Chief Scandal Cooker Upper and proud recipient of the honorary CPC Donald Trump Chair in Twitterbation. Well done, Andy.)

The attacks on Trudeau are as relentless as they are empty. He’s slow to act. When he acts, he’s reckless, his actions misguided. He “gives in” to the U.S. in allowing a Huawei executive to be arrested in British Columbia; China, enraged at Canada’s actions, takes two Canadians hostage, setting out terms for their release. When Trudeau refuses to acquiesce, he’s “putting lives at stake,” except he’s also “weak.”

Trudeau kneels in solidarity with victims of anti-black racism. Wrong! An insult to suggest that good, ordinary racist white Canadians are racist! What effrontery!

Comes the pandemic. His response is “too late,” (though no later than any other nation on earth trying to take the right path with little information to go on.) He is “appeasing the WHO,” which apparently means appeasing China. This is straight from the American playbook.

Trudeau saves the economy by swiftly moving to provide substantial aid to Canadians affected by the pandemic. The Canada Emergency Response Benefit (CERB), tabled and passed in record time, provides two thousand dollars per month for any employee or self-employed individual whose job has been affected by the Covid-19 response.

On day one of CERB, close to one million Canadians go online and apply.

Result? Our economy weathers the storm, Canadians keep their homes and pay their rent and buy food and start talking UBI. But to the CPC? He’s “wasting taxpayers’ money” and “creating a huge deficit.” (Though a week earlier, Scheer was screaming that “Canadians need action!”) Trudeau is “encouraging people not to work!” (Contempt for the non-wealthy and their lazy ways is a big conservative thing up here, too.)

These are great conversation starters for anyone who hasn’t a clue about economics, forgets that the benefit will be taxed back at up to 50% for the highest tax bracket, and who believes there is such a thing as taxpayer money, a quaint myth promulgated by the likes of Margaret Thatcher and which has had no meaning since the gold standard was abolished except for those who never heard of double-entry bookkeeping. That “huge government deficit,” the red in the government’s ledger is a “huge economic surplus,” black in the public sphere, without which the economy would have nose-dived.

How’s Trudeau doing? Incompetent, dithery, floundering.

What next? Parliament adjourns for the summer as it always does. But no, this year it means that Trudeau is avoiding oversight. What is he hiding?

A terrorist, possibly primed by the negative coverage, drives his car through the gates of the prime minister’s residence. The driver has weapons which he clearly intended to use. Not a word of solidarity or sympathy from the CPC, in effect, tacit approval of the would-be attacker. Is Andrew daydreaming of assassination, a sudden election, his resurrection as party leader?

Andrew Scheer continues the onslaught. Trudeau’s every sentence is parsed, every act dissected, taken out of context and construed in the worst possible light, then fancied up with manufactured outrage, outright distortion, and, when even that level of subtlety fails, straight-out lying.

Comments caught on a hot mic? An embarrassment, a scandal. His twenty-second pause? Weakness. The hashtags read “#worstPMever, #Trudeauresign, every day on Twitter a new iteration, trending.

Now Trudeau pulls a Justin. A Canadian charity is offered a contract to subsidize a summer intern program for students. Trudeau’s mother, Trudeau himself, Trudeau’s wife, brother and a member of Cabinet have all at various times had speaking engagements with the charity or otherwise financially benefited from the association.

Trudeau, contrary to basic standards of ethics, or even of common sense, fails to declare his connections or those of his family and fails to recuse himself from meetings about the contract, creating the impression of conflict of interest and of shadowy dealings.

Andrew Scheer is on this like a pit bull on a squirrel. There is, in fact, no personal gain to Trudeau from this project, and all the other connections are years in the past. But it looks like he’s dealing them a nice quid pro quo. To Justin, it’s just a good cause in aid of another good cause.

Justin doesn’t get that it’s not just corruption that lowers public confidence in government. It’s even the appearance of corruption.

Once again Justin has made fools of his supporters because of his arrogant refusal to play by the onerous rules. Once again we are making excuses for him; once again we don’t come to the table with clean hands. Our claim to be Canada’s progressive conscience and moral authority in contrast with the CPC once again sounds embarrassingly hollow.

As I write this, Scheer, in full “Ride of the Valkyries” mode, is calling for a criminal investigation.


WHATEVER SHALL WE DO ABOUT Justin? His misstep acts as camouflage for Scheer’s true agenda. Meanwhile, the atmosphere is one of continual crisis, an ever-present subliminal emergency. It’s obvious that Scheer is engaged in a concerted attempt to render our duly elected government illegitimate—and it’s personal.

Because it’s not the Liberal Party of Canada that is being attacked, or even just “liberals”. Not at all. It’s Trudeau himself. Something about him just sticks in every manly conservative throat.

We are meant to understand that Justin Trudeau is incompetent, weak, hiding something; worse than that, sinister. What’s missing, what is unspoken but hinted at?

Girly man, wearing traditional Indian clothing. Effeminate. Eye lock with Obama. Pandemic lockdown is proof he’s under house arrest, wearing an ankle bracelet (pedophile). Drama teacher (what kind of man…!). How would a drama teacher know anything about running government? How would a homosexual know anything about running government? Why would a homosexual ban assault weapons? Because he’s not a real man.

Andrew Scheer’s tweets rain down like missiles. I think, “This is beyond outrage. It’s pathological, an obsession.”

He doesn’t ask how we Canadians are doing, he doesn’t share what he and his family are doing. There’s no human interest, nothing to relate to, nothing that’s not angry opposition and fire and brimstone.

Scheer doesn’t post a homey picture of the barbeque, or of him and his wife — who I hope is named “Shirley,” but he’s never introduced her — shopping wearing masks, or of him and the kids washing the car, or playing, or laughing…. He gives us not a single reason to like him, and, Canadian to the core, we comply.

He tweets, literally, about nothing else but Trudeau, no other content seems possible for him. I begin to sense the electricity, feel the thwarted admiration, the bromance that never was and never can be, in Scheer’s hysterical baiting of the man who plighted his troth to another. I feel his utter emptiness, his sociopathic indifference, to anything but his desire to bring down the fury of the closet-case scorned on the man he loves.

Now comes the Centralia mine fire of homophobia that burns perpetually under the surface, that no stream of logic or evidence can ever extinguish.

Reddit:

“Justin’s friends caught in pedophile scandal…”

“Flocculent Canadian president [sic] Justin Trudeau takes time to meet with accused sex pervert Joshua Boyle, whilst children of the Canadian tundra starve in frozen death agony….”

“True Detective shows Trudeau foundation logo as a symbol for child sex trafficking.”

All my life, as a gay man, I’ve endured the bullying, the contempt, the assumptions about my emotional life, the judgments about my character, and, most traumatically, the unspoken assumption and disgusting lie that, as a gay male, I’m a pedophile, a corrupter of youth; all of these indignities perpetrated mostly by straight men.

And now a self-selected group of heterosexual males, “social conservatives”, is stirring into life these atavistic fears in an attempt to oust Trudeau, ostensibly for “corruption,” just not the fiduciary kind.

Looking through the correct lens brings everything into focus. Looking through the lens of white supremacy and anti-black racism made it possible for me to understand Trump’s loony presidency, to explain his election and why his egregious almost daily criminal acts trivial and terrifying alike are brushed off, justified, or even admired. White men can do whatever the fuck they want.

Looking through the lens of homophobia, transphobia and rigid gender role orthodoxy has made it possible to understand how the boy wonder is becoming one of the boys in the band, not a real man, unfit for office.

My mother would have said, of a closeted gay man, “He’s that way,” and we all knew what way “that way” was. There was no need to spell it out then, and no need to now.

“Sissy.” “Corrupt.” “Queer.” Hey, what else would you expect from Castro’s love child?

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Ballad of the Good Shepherd Sandwich

The plastic sandwich bag from the shelter was helpfully labelled “God loves you. Ham and Cheese.” I took it from there…


This fake piece of authentic red-neck, white-trash, blue-grass filth is dedicated
to every Republican in West Virginia, and then some. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Yee-haw!


Gawd Luvs Ya, Ham ‘n Cheese!


MY PAPPA HAD A SAYIN’

That seemed to help him cope
No matter he was prayin’
Or crazy high on dope

When Mama of a Sunday
Would say, “By Blessed Jeez
Come stick it in me!” he would say,
Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n cheese!”

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
My mama was the kinda whore
Who’s happy on her knees!

Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
It’s such a fine position
Gawd blesses yer emission!

Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n cheese!

My girl ‘n I was walkin’
Her hand was holdin’ mine
She tired of the talkin’
So she took a swig of wine

Soon Darlene was a-pantin’
She said, “Oh, Abner, please!
Let’s get a room in Scranton,
Say ya luvs me, Ham ‘n Cheese!

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
My Darlene learned to spread her legs
An’ not be such a tease!

Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
You’ll never hear her bitchin’
Just grab yer cock and pitch in!

Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n cheese!

Yes, I know it’s upside down.

Now Papa was a sly one
He lusted for my girl
So Mama said, “Go try one
And take that precious pearl!

Soon Darlene was all frisky
And liftin’ up her skirt
She said, “Papa, more whiskey,
Please! Gawd bang me for a flirt!

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
My Darlene was a nature girl
She loved the birds ‘n bees

Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
Once Darlene fucked my pappa
Ain’t nothin’ that could stoppa!

Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n cheese!

Now Mama liked some carpet
To munch on for a treat
She told Darlene, “You starp et!
An’ hands off my man’s meat!

Just lay down in the corn patch
And don’t you min’ the fleas
Let Mama lick your worn snatch
Ma loves ya, Ham ‘n cheese!

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
If Darlene is the padlock
Then Mama’s got the keys!

Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese
A muff dive by the tractor
It’s just another factor
Why

Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n cheese!

{Black gold, Texas tea}

One morning all the horses
Was neighing up a flack
Then Abner found the farmhand
Balls-naked on his back

He said, “Come fuck me, Abner
“For if I may be blunt
“You only have to close your eyes
“And any hole’s a

“pretty good substitute for the female parts, if you’re in a bad way, that is. Don’t mean yer a homo or nothin!’ Why not give it a whirl! OK… I guess we could jus’ kick back and watch some porn on my Apple Watch. Yes, no? Kinda thang?”

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n Cheese, Ham ‘n Cheese
When pussy ain’t available
Just heed the farmhand’s pleas

Ham ‘n Cheese, Ham ‘n Cheese
Now Abner, when he can, hunts
For juicy, local man-cunts

Gawd luvs ya, Ham ‘n Cheese!

Yes, I know it’s backwards. Seriously??

One Sunday they was drinkin’
And feelin’ no more pain
Ma, Pa, Darlene, the farmhand, too
Was screwin’ in a chain

From the fence Ab took a picket
And stabbed them all to death—!

Called the station for a ticket
While they cried with their last breath:

CHORUS:
Ham ‘n cheese, ham ‘n cheese
That’s why Gawd gave us Satan’s tools,
Our cocks ‘n cunts to please!”

Ham ‘n cheese, Ham ‘n cheese

Their lives they all have ceased now
Abner’s gone to be a priest now

He’s learned the Catholic Credo—
Jeezus wants him for a pedo!

Jeezus luvs him, ham ‘n cheese!

Ham ‘n cheese… Ham ‘n cheese…
Ham ‘n cheese… Ham ‘n cheese…

{Y’all come back ‘n screw a while, ya hear?}

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It’s Official: I Am a Horrible Person

Hey, it’s you guys who insisted on thinking of me as “nice.”



SOMETHING HAPPENS WHEN YOU HIT sixty, or, to make this as painfully personal as possible, the last couple of months of sixty-four-ness. That’s right. On September 21st, 2020, I will officially be sixty-five years old.

And what happens is me, unmoored. I’ve cut myself adrift, slipped the surly bonds of that last tie between what you think of me and how much, or if, I care.

Sixty-five. Senior Citizen. Golden Oldie, may I never hoark up an oyster and lob it at your Spectator pumps. An Old Freak in a trench coat, pin-striped shirt, dress shoes, socks and no pants, that’s right. My man bits are flapping under my coat like raw turkey gizzards as I cruise the Eaton Centre.

I stand patiently outside the Liquor Control Board until some customers come out, then I whip open my trench coat, whoosh! as I scream,

“Jackson-Triggs is on special but mine’s not reduced at all!!”
Whoosh!
“Liquor Control Board?? I haven’t even met her parents!!”

The genius thing about the no pants is not having to pull up any pants as you run away! So I can race down the escalator to the main level, jump in the fountain and pose as mercury, god of communication, like the FTD logo. Still, it’s hard to hold the position, and frankly it’s a relief when the police escort me out of the fountain five minutes later.

You gotta admit, it passes the time and gives the boys in blue a productive morning. Mr Social Justice Warrior, that’s me!

Sixty-four and counting means I’m soon to be a recipient of Canada’s Old Age Security pension, graciously reduced because of my spending, one might say squandering, sixteen years of my youth in England being special, drinking warm beer and having anonymous sex, none of which do I regret for one second, by the way. Not one single dick, not the third champagne cocktail, not a nano-second of all the attention turned onto my disingenuous little face. I accepted without gratitude every scolding speech and every broken heart, including mine, as I burned the quasar at both ends.

If seven hundred dollars per month is old age security, I blanch, or is it blench, when I think of what old age destitution must look like. Is there a box of corrugated cardboard less roomy than this one, in an even less lavishly appointed sewer conduit? A more raucous corner of the Don Valley, where one is serenaded, perhaps, by the frustrated shrieks of the would-be suicides on the King Edward Viaduct, as they grapple with the gossamer cage of barbed wire put in place to make them losers even at suicide?

Go ahead and jump! The pandemic’s a bore and your plummeting from the diving board into an empty pool will do nicely as a minute’s distraction. I don’t give a flying fuck, though you surely will, once you find your personal subway platform, elevator shaft or observation deck and achieve lift-off.

I know you think you’re making one final, grand statement, and I hate to be the one to break this to you, but— if jumping off a bridge is what it takes to make us pay attention, your problem isn’t despair. Your problem is consistently overestimating how interesting your grand statements are.

I mean, what if you threw a suicide and nobody came?

Je suis Odieux. Odieux! And that’s not all.

Someone wants to be my friend, and—I don’t want to be their friend. Isn’t that horrible of me?

I’m missing the fuck that flies. Tu manques de moi, fucké volant! Es fehlt mir, der fliegende Fick! In every language I smatter in, I couldn’t give a fat rat’s ass.

My wannabe friend is intelligent and almost verging on kind, but there is a problem. And although the person is transgender, that is not the problem. Or rather, it is, but not in an anti-transgender way.

No! I am not one of those guys. If you are transgender, I am your ally. I will do cartwheels of support as I ostentatiously voice your preferred pronouns. I will march up Parliament Hill and throw myself under an eighteen-wheel Bernier just to show how much I insist on your having the same rights as me. I will speak up on Twitter, the toilet that’s also a phone, when ignorant trolls doubt that you exist.

I will do all those things for you, and more. I will make you nourishing soups when you have Covid-19 and I will do your soiled laundry. Yes, I will. When you tell me that you are transgender, identifying as male in opposition to your assigned-at-birth gender of female, I do not tarry.

I power up Evernote, using the handy crankshaft provided, I peel back the digital leather cover, pick up my imaginary fountain pen from the two-dimensional holder and place its imaginary barrel thoughtfully against my cheek, just below the place where I’d have a mole if I were Liz Taylor. I type in your name in a suitably steam-punky, decorative font, John Anon, and I note that I address you as: he, his. Done!

This, my wannabe friend, I do for you, gladly, openly and always where it will get up the noses of the most people. I got your back, transgender buddy. Big, inclusive hugs!

But I’m sure as hell not gonna lick your goddamn pussy.

NO! I’m not going to do it. Nothing with my tongue. No wagging, no circling, no laving, no cleaving, no pretending I’m tying shoelaces. Nope-arama. Three kinds of no way, José, so I can live another day. No No NO and a bottle of rum.

Nor am I going to finger, rub, twaddle, diddle, frot, trib or otherwise disturb the serenity of your mystic pond, your swamp, your gateway to heaven, your grilled cheese sandwich. Nononononononono. No on a high C! NO NO NO NO!!!

No pussy licking, carpet munching, setting sail with the little man in the boat, proving I’m a cunning linguist, no box lunches, no dining at the Y.

No furburgers—I’m a vengeful contrarian.

I”ll be your ally and your buddy, but eating you out is not what I signed on for when I made it to the front of my preferred line-up. I’m talking about that pre-incarnate Black Friday, the pre-birth Waiting Lounge, where the unborn and inchoate jockey for position behind signs labelled Dick for Days, Symphonic Composer, Gift of Gab, Psychologically Able to Handle Reptiles, Big Naturals, ‘Jolie Laide’ but with Money, Equanimity in the Face of Stupidity, Mother of Genius, Terrible Autocrat, Midas Touch, Natural Silky Blond.

I was camped out and first in line for what seemed, and, in fact, was, an eternity in front of a big mirror surrounded with blazing make-up lights, and on whose surface some angelic hand had written, in the gaudiest red lipstick that Yves Saint Laurent ever cooked up:

Big Fabulous Gay Dude, Late Bloomer and, Hold the Phone, Not Obviously Effeminate, This One Will Go FAST!

And I owe my success to the helpful spirits at the Welcome Desk, who gave me a personal recommendation then sent me racing to grab my spot. “”Ya can’t miss it!” they yipped, as I elbowed my way through all of humanity, “It’s right next to Dick for Days!”

I’m a horrible person. I don’t give a shit. I keep all my x-rated selfies right on my phone, where the police will easily access them after they’ve nabbed me from the fountain, also the US border patrol the next time I travel stateside for some poontang with red-eye gravy.

I love to see the expressions on their faces as they huddle over my smartphone, watching me demonstrate non-traditional Kama Sutra poses, like “Horizontally-flipped cowperson with a rainbow gradient, variation 14.” I’ll just laugh, lean in closer than they advise and tell them that’s a banana down my pants, then smile during the anal probe. Drives ’em crazy!

Facebook, not merely incompetent but horrible at everything that’s not selling your mother’s organs to Elon Musk, perks up when it discovers my gallery of not-the-slightest-bit-of-shame.

Would you like to add these to a STORY!? chirps the algorithm, displaying some random guy’s picture of his schlong that he sexted me, next to a full gallery of me wearing nothing but a hopeful smile and something that surely must be night regenerating lotion all over my chin.

I don’t care. I’m horrible, remember?


Growing old is like being cast as the lead in our personal horror movie. I don’t necessarily mean the physical horror: the inevitable wrinklings and weepings, secretions and excretions, the saggings and floppings, the mocking melt-down from youth’s plump juiciness to flaccid incontinence, though that process could merit its own art-house retrospective.

Horror isn’t primarily in the moment or physical. It’s foreknowledge, anticipation, dread.

The horror movie’s trajectory is either tragic (the hero’s fatal character flaw is the engine of his downfall) or melodramatic (the actors are just pawns in destiny’s chess game). Either way, we know what will happen, but that knowing doesn’t diminish our horrified vicarious delight in the proceedings.

Oedipus kills a man, marries a woman; we know the story. We know he will kill his father and marry his mother and, in madness blind himself. This isn’t just a bout of temporary insanity: his sight, his rational belief in his own destiny, has viciously betrayed him. It’s the end of man as visionary, the end, even, of civilization. Destiny is not something to shape, it is imposed.

There are no surprises, here. We know this is the plot before we go to the play; the Greeks knew it before they went to the play.

This was not a new episode in a series, “I wonder if he goes to the Delphic oracle again and who do you think that old shepherd guy is? I can’t wait! Cleo said there’s going to be a talking sheep in this one! Did you remember the hummus this time?”

The point is not the twists and turns of a storyline; the point is to let Oedipus stand in for us.

In the standard horror-movie trope, there is a forbidden act and the transgression. We watch the girl ascend the stairs to the attic, and we cry, Don’t do it! but knowing she has to. She can’t not ascend the stairs, to end up filleted and served with French fries on the side. We’d feel cheated if she escaped.

We ache with dread. We know what will happen tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. We affirm that forces beyond our control will cast pearls under our feet so that we slide from our virginal beds into the gutter.

But it’s also delicious to know this, and to know that we know. Every accident scene we observe with guilty pleasure, every spin of the Ferris wheel, every trope of practised terror is our hungry rehearsal for the final thrill, every triumph its warding off. This is how we learn to lie every night belly-to-belly with fear.

The inevitability of the horror movie is liberating. Is that a koan? If it is, I say to you, “Just drink tea, dude!”


I have never met a young person who wanted my advice. Never. And I have a rain barrel full of advice, sometimes sweet and warm, sometimes roiling with mosquito larvae, and I earned it just in time for it to be useless to me except as a gift to be offered so that others might benefit. And no one wants it.

I complain about this, but, in fact, I understand. The last time I was in New York City and staying with my friend in Gramercy Park, I connected with this hot guy online. But my friend dipped into his rain barrel of advice.

“I’ve been with that guy, and believe me, he’s bad news.”

I took in the advice and I mulled it over for an hour, but I was seething with resentment. I finally said,

“OK, John. Here’s the deal. It’s not that I don’t believe you, and I realize you’re looking out for me, a mere innocent of fifty-eight in a town with no mercy. But you had the experience, and I want to have it, too. And you’re you and I’m me, and I may very well have a different experience. In fact, it’s guaranteed. So I’m going to meet this fucker. You survived, and so will I.”

I went and had the hook-up and afterwards, as I wandered around the streets at four in the morning somewhere in the vicinity of Coney Island, high on crystal and wearing someone else’s t-shirt and thanking my lucky stars that the neighbours hadn’t called the cops, wandered until I found the subway back into Manhattan, I thought, He was right. That guy was bad news.

And I was right. I survived.

And I wouldn’t have missed it were you to offer me every emerald, every peacock, every magic mirror telling men’s thoughts, that Herod offered Salome, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

I would demand the head of Jokanaan on a silver platter. I’d seize the Prophet’s head by his long, tangled hair and I’d kiss the dead lips and taste their bitterness.


A friend, a former roommate, actually, brings me a gorgeous French coffee press, with the glass carafe sheathed by intricate gleaming bands of stainless steel. It’s so perfectly my style that I gasp with pleasure. I estimate it’s on the expensive end of French presses, worth at least fifty bucks, and it’s obvious that he’s stolen it from somewhere, because the stuff he doesn’t steal is always non-functioning or ugly or covered with bugs or all of the above.

I suspect he’s the one responsible for stealing a palm tree off my balcony a week ago, and also for sticking a big piece of driftwood into my giant houseplant while I was sleeping, and wrapping the stems around it, so that my houseplant now brings to mind the victim of a serial killer who’s been bound and gagged and is stoically waiting to be flayed before being raped.

This former roommate-friend and I have a history. He did a midnight flit three years ago, on the first of September, leaving me in the lurch for five hundred dollars rent and in real danger of eviction; and turned up, jealous and threatening and banging at my door, at least twice during the ensuing year when ‘Fred,’ his boyfriend, had dropped by to visit me. I had had a fling with his boyfriend, but before he was his boyfriend and not since. At least, if we did I don’t remember.

What I do remember is Fred and I going to a party during the period of our fling, my passing out on the sofa late at night, and, on my awakening, Fred telling me he’d had sex with a buddy of mine, in front of my buddy’s girlfriend and her bestie. Just for the hell of it, just to see that he could.

When I’d recovered enough breath to express how lacking in good manners, good taste and decency I thought that was, how there might ever so slightly be a time and a place, Fred responded, “It’s my right to have all the experiences I want, when I want, and you’re not going to stop me.”

Shortly after that event Fred started talking about a new boyfriend, an unemployed guy with a beaten up red truck and a temper who did interesting things like hurl the TV set out the window.

Mark the TV thrower was the guy who became my roommate.

Fast forward: Then, after this horrible roommate experience, all the being dumped for rent, and banging on my door, and hostility and anger, this ex-roommate turned up unexpectedly about six months ago looking meek, also hot as hell, and bearing joints, and we got high and we fucked.

Well, I might as well have all the unstopped experiences I want, when I want! Right?

I’m gleeful as a billy goat at the thought of how thoroughly pissed off Fred will be when he finds out, which I thoroughly intend to make happen!

See what I mean?  Schrecklich !  Schrecklich !

I’m old, I’m bold,
Unnaturally cold.
I won’t behave as I’ve been told.

My greasy dishes fill the sink,
I’d rather dally with a twink.

Burn the floor with cigarettes
Won’t get me listed in Debrett’s.

Kawartha ice cream by the quart
Is felony but not a tort

I sleep till noon and mock your ethic
Wage slavery is quite pa-thethic

And when you weep from your bad luck
I say, “I couldn’t give a

Roasted, buttered parsnip, darling boy, not even if you paid me. And those dishes ain’t gonna wash themselves, bright eyes, and I would remind you that you can be back on the streets just as quick as you got off them, you get my drift?”

Full-frontal geriatric lust
Concupiscent until I’m dust

My earlobe hairs grow more deplorable
As I revel in being horrible.

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A Rosetta Stone of Racism

Here is the Urtext; some keys to the puzzle.


IN 1799, IF MY MEMORY SERVES me correctly, a regular, ordinary soldier, who, along with four hundred and ninety-nine other ordinary soldiers,was helping Napoleon annoy the Egyptians as much as he would soon annoy Beethoven—

—in five years’ time Ludwig van B, in an excess of brotherly enthusiasm brought about by the Aufklärung (Enlightenment), will dedicate his ground-breaking Symphony #3 to Napoleon, but when Napoleon declares himself Emperor in 1804, Beethoven, never Mister Half-Way when it comes to dramatic acting-out, erases, no, obliterates the dedication with such violence that he tears right through the paper, creating an unsightly, ragged hole in the title page of the manuscript—

—this soldier of 1799

Napoléon avec cinq cents soldats
Marchant du même pas…

stubs his toe on a big chunk of rock with writing on it. Just picture how dashing he is, how comme il faut, how mignon, marching in perfect formation with all the other soldiers and then he stubs his toe on this chunk of rock, at which point he shouts

« TABERNAK! Crisse de chunk of rock! Esti d’épais à MARDE !! »

which, roughly translated, goes:

Holy fucking chunk of rock! By the body of Christ, this is some dumb-ass shit!”

and he and all of the soldiers fall down like French bowling pins.*

*
[The soldier was one of the first in line when they were calling for volunteers to relocate to the newly-founded City of Québec, where for the remainder of his life he hung out at Le boeuf sur le toit, a local strip club, holding forth about Muslims and about how nobody understood him and how he once gave Napoleon a piece of his goddamn mind, at which point his drinking companions would say,

[« Sure you did, Patapan! Now, finish your poutine, the whores are waiting and there’s at least one area on your dick without a syphilitic sore!! »

[Then they would all go, « Flânflânflân Flânflânflân !! » , which is French for uproarious laughing. Be sure to get the circonflex accent and the stupid, just-so-they-can-be-different angle brackets right or the Québecois will throw a hissy-fit all over you and jail another Muslim school-teacher for wearing a hijab.

[Anyway, getting back to 1799— ]

Quel désastre !

The chunk of rock was actually a stele made of granodiorite—which, you will recall, is a phaneritic-textured intrusive igneous rock similar to granite, but containing more plagioclase feldspar that orthoclase feldspar, sorry to harp on the obvious—and on this stele—which is basically a slab of something serving as a monument—were three inscriptions: in hieroglyphics, in demotic, and in Ancient Greek.

The soldier, after checking that the stele was too big for his man cave back in Paris, told Napoleon, who told the archeologists, and here’s the thing. No one had been able to figure out Egyptian hieroglyphics, not even medical secretaries or pharmacies tearing out their powdered wig hairs trying to read doctors’ handwriting. Egyptian hieroglyphics were another deal al-to-gether.

But then the archeologists realized that the texts were saying the same thing. Right? It was the same text in three different languages, and they knew Ancient Greek. So they realized they could use the Greek version as a kind of cryptography key to figure out hieroglyphics for the first time.

And that was when the chunk of rock became the Rosetta Stone.


Many white people are in the same relationship to racism as the French archeologists were to Egyptian hieroglyphics. We lack the key, the way in to understanding racism, because it’s all Greek, or, I guess, Egyptian hieroglyphics, to us.

That’s why I’m providing this randomly-continuously updated Rosetta Stone of Racism. These are articles and videos which have vastly improved my understanding of the problem, and above all of the experience, of racism in America.

I hope they will help you, too, you well-meaning, self-absolving, head-in-the-sand-burying, privileged, racist white person.

I say that first to me, then to you, with so much love for both of us, despite our bad-faith good faith, and with so much hope for our improved humility leading to a better world.


A Rosetta Stone of Racism


White Fragility

This first YouTube selection is THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT LEARNING EXPERIENCE FOR WHITE PEOPLE. Whether you are a bald-faced, foul-breathed Nazi incel or an alfalfa-sprout munching vegan radical feminist, if you are white, you HAVE TO view this.

I’m sorry to get all shouty, but do you listen to me when I speak softly? Of course you don’t, and look where that’s landed you.

If you are a bald-faced, foul-breathed Nazi incel, by the way, what the fuck are you doing on my site? You should be out in your Sherman tank running over alfalfa-sprout munching vegan radical feminists! Begone and follow your destiny! What is wrong with you?


Kamala Harris on #DefundThePolice and safe communities: https://youtube.com/watch?v=dbqjeu5aqmI…

kihana miraya ross on anti-blackness: https://nytimes.com/2020/06/04/opinion/george-floyd-anti-blackness.html?searchResultPosition=2…

Ta Nehisi Coates on “The First White President”:

The First White President: The foundation of Donald Trump’s presidency is the negation of Barack Obama’s legacy. From theatlantic.com


Disinformation campaign starting, with racial targeting of Kamala Harris:


A Brown Woman’s Guide to Politics


Justice for George Floyd


White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Nation’s Divide

to be continued.

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