Monthly Breeze

DOES IT GET BETTER?

2011-03-10T01:08:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

This is going to be my entry into the "It Does Get Better Campaign", despite the fact it might be over with by the time this gets published. Nevertheless, I still wanted to say a little something about gay teen suicides and speak to those teenagers who are questioning their sexuality and are having such a hard time coping with their peers during this time.

I was talking about the "It Does Get Better Campaign" with a friend of mine. I was thinking about the idea of "it getting better". Honestly, I guess I question the idea of it getting "better" and is it a level of delusion that we want to promote. In one aspect I think we definitely should tell teenagers, "You know what, you're a teenager; the world is kind of microscopic at this point. But it is bigger, and it is better." I know when I was a teenager, when I was 15 or 16, my world was just High School and I didn't think anything existed outside of it. My thought was that the people who were fucking with me at 15 or 16 were always going to exist, they were always going to fuck with me and I was never going to get out of that situation. And truth of the matter is, I think this should be a campaign of, "Dude, once you graduate, seriously, you never have to see those fools… ever again in your entire life. " I can tell you, honestly, I am 39 years old, I have not seen those people since I graduated. You hear me? You never have to see them, ever again. I think that alone should give you some inspiration to keep going because once you graduate it's a done deal. So just get through the next couple of years.

But you should realize that there's always going to be some queen on the rag that's going to be around to fuck with you. There's always going to be somebody around to call you a faggot or a dyke or a nigger or whatever… there's always going to be someone around to fuck with you. And you just have to have the wherewithal to get through it. You have to understand that everybody has a purpose. And with that, YOU have a purpose.

I remember when I was a teenager. My parents divorced really early on, like when I was in Kindergarten. My father went on to remarry a couple of times. I remember just going through so much turmoil as a teenager. There was so much stuff going on, my brother was going through his drama, my mom was going through some pretty serious and traumatic physical issues, I was going through my mental crap and trying to figure if I like dudes or not… the whole excursion was just very harrowing. I remember one fateful night I wound up talking with one of my stepmoms who at this point had divorced my dad. I also at this point hadn't spoken to this woman in almost a decade. But through some weird twist of fate, I wound up talking to her. I was always under the impression that she didn't like me, and remember telling her just that. And I remember her response being something on the level of, "Why would you think that? I love you. I'm not with your dad anymore but I still love you." And I remember when she said "I love you", a little tear welled up in the corner of my eye. At the time, the words "I love you" were foreign to me. I haven't heard those words since I was a toddler. I remember at 15 or 16, that's all I ever wanted. I just wanted someone to say that they loved me. And I think it's something that, as a teenager, you need to hear sometimes. I think some people don't think teenagers care about that stuff, it's too airy fairy, but I think all teenagers need to hear that.

Now mind you, I always truly believed my mother and father loved me. But as for actually saying it, that never really happened. I think that they thought I was strong enough to sort of go through life without actually having to physically hear it. And while I consider myself to be a fairly strong person, the truth of the matter is, I really do enjoy it when people say that they love me. It definitely gives you strength and a peace of mind that I think helps you. Particularly if you are a teenager who is going through the sexuality gymnastics of trying to figure out what do you like and who you are. You need to know that it's ok. And you need to know that… you're not going to hell. Or if you are going to hell, it's going to be for stuff that's so much worse than sucking dick or eating pussy.

But I digress. I just want to take this time to tell you, Mr. Penis Inclined Teenager, Ms. Vagina Inclined Teenager, if nobody ever told you before, honestly, seriously… I love you. I love you, stick around, there is so much more game to play. These people that are fucking with you, you're never going to see them again… and you've got so much more other stuff to do!

Keep in mind though, while there's going to be some good stuff coming up, there is going to be some bad stuff coming up too. I can't tell you that it gets better. But what I can tell you… is that YOU will. So stick around. And hopefully, once you get old enough, I totally get you a beer.

Love Always,

ASTROLOGY AND THE SINGLE MAN

2011-03-10T00:46:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Once upon a time I befriended a clairvoyant. And like all of my relationships, platonic or romantic, its formation was fierce, quick and alcohol laced (well on my part at least, he was a teetotaler). I haven’t spoken to my teetotaler clairvoyant friend in quite some time but he popped up in my head today; the end of what I imagine to have been an extended patch of bad times for the past week or so. My weight loss has plateaued, I got stood up on Valentine’s Day (fuck you Joey!), though there have been a ton of “better” I have unwittingly skidded into the “worse” in the dysfunctional marriage between me and my job, and to top it off I was witness to three, yes THREE (!), separate fights on the bus ride from work… one that I unfortunately was a part of when a zaftig and disheveled young woman loudly proclaimed that I was trying to steal her bag because I, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, boots, leather jacket and laptop bag, looked homeless and was trying to steal her purse. I blame it on my lack of sleep lately as well as just the accumulation of bullshit going on but I very ashamedly have to admit that… well… I read her for filth. I read her from chimpan-A to chimpan-Z. I called her everything but a child of God. It also didn’t help that this woman, who quite frankly looked like a tousled understudy for the movie “Precious”, was actually gathering sympathy from people on the bus while she pined on in the most dramatic of tones that could have rivaled Loretta Divine in “Colored Girls” about how “Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff!” All of a sudden I was the male antagonist in every Black female empowerment story, from Mr. in “The Color Purple” to Russell in “Waiting to Exhale” to Basil in “The Women of Brewster Place”. There I was just reading my book… and this chick had the bus believing that I raped my dates and thrown babies out of windows and was trying to steal alla of her stuff…

Needless to say I was enraged. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that the argument was just the explosion… the wick was lit a long time ago, a couple of weeks ago. I have been walking around in a fit of rage and anxiety for quite some time now. And when I posted a brief summary of my exploits with 5B (Berta the Big Bipolar Bitch on the Bus), someone replied that it must be a Libra thing because he has been feeling angst ridden also. It provided a little solace. Partly because it somewhat relieved me of some of the responsibility of my own childish behavior of screaming at the top my lungs at some mentally unstable woman with a glandular problem or making farm noises at said cow-like woman as she wobbled off the bus. But mainly because it made it seem as if there would be an end to this “bad patch” I’m going through. That this will all blow over, I’ll continue to lose weight, I’ll accomplish more tasks at work, I’ll go on other dates; that this is all just a bad patch of time right now, that there’s something going on in the neither regions of existence that simply screwing with me and Libras right now. That somewhere in the far regions of the cosmos that some god picked up some guitar, started strumming and it made my constellations vibrate, and put this big bitch on the bus to fuck with me.

It brought my clairvoyant friend to mind because I am almost certain that if I explained all of this to him, he would very methodically start to chart out the motions of the stars right now and explain how that indeed something is in retrograde with the seventh house of something and that’s the cause of my intense anxiety nowadays… which always pisses me off. On one hand, I appreciate the idea of astrological based “bad patches”; that shit just happens because some star in some galaxy bust a nut and your constellation just happened to be into bukkake at the time. But on the other hand, my friend makes it all sound too fate-like, too inevitable, too hopeless. For example, I am a Libra. If I remember right, some of the characteristics of my sign include being over emotional, judgmental, addictive, open-minded and flaky. Now, some of that may or may not be true, but I’d like to believe that whoever you are, whatever your sign, you can improve your disposition and be whoever you what to be. I will concede to the fact that I had very “Libra-esque” responses when I got stood up on Valentines’ Day (fuck you Joey!) as well as my experiences on the bus (double fuck you 5B!). But, I will also have to say that, I am not always in those manic spaces, I don’t like to enable those manic spaces, and I don’t think those manic spaces are intrinsic to Libras only. It reminds me of skit in Lily Tomlin’s “The Search for signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe” where her doctor blames her over emotional state of mind on her menstrual cycle and she responds, “But doctor, I’m having job trouble, I need to find one, the woman that my husband is in love with is much younger than me, a very good friend of mine committed suicide… and you think that it’s my period… and not my life.”

My clairvoyant friend, in that scenario would indeed claim it to be my period, and not my life. As would other friends who claim themselves to be armchair psychics and have Libra associates who share my penchant of choosing wrong men, lowering standards of acceptability too low, passive aggressing myself into oblivion. Whenever I speak of opening up my heart/home to someone who in broad strokes doesn’t deserve such kindness from a virtual stranger, my friends automatically pelt me with tales of how their other Libra associates are just as gullible, soft-hearted and delusional. I think in certain ways astrology is an offset of spirituality whereas people are just trying to figure out life but I’m a little disconcerted with the idea that my zodiac sign is an accurate indicator of who I am… or maybe like racism or homophobia, I’m being judged on something that I absolutely cannot control. And maybe that’s where my discontentment lies, how much control do I really have over my life if my destiny has already been etched in the stars?

Now my clairvoyant friend lives in a world where reality and spirituality are all in the same. A world where spirits walk among us every day and speak to us frequently, where navigating a life’s path is similar to reading a bus map, where fate is as inevitable as dusk. So it’s all connected to him, my parents doing it in January, me being born in October, being stood up on Valentine’s Day (fuck you Joey!), my argument on the bus (double fuck you 5B!), it’s all related… and all unavoidable… and I’m just a little uncomfortable with that.

One thing my clairvoyant friend told me was that he had a hard time making/keeping friends because people would either demand that he tell them their future or when he did, his “visions” were as unfavorable as they were dead on true and they blamed him for it. I told him he would never have to worry about that with me because I never want to know. Even if I planned a trip home to Chicago and he flat out sees a crystal clear vision of my plane dropping in a ball of flames, don’t fucking tell me, I don’t want to know. I don’t know if it’s being delusional or not but I don’t like the idea of being powerless to my own fate. It kind of screams hopelessness and victimization like, “I’m going to die anyway, why not have the five pounds of macaroni and cheese and follow it up with a bottle of gin and cocaine.”

I’m not completely convinced on the idea of life being predetermined but if it is, I think my destiny is not to believe in destiny. I think I was meant to believe in change and hope and evolution. Don’t tell me that the plane is going down or to not make the date on Valentine’s Day because he going to ditch me or to avoid the 5:36 p.m. crosstown bus or to pledge my undying friendship after a couple of hours of tequila shots at the Bear Bar… I think I’m supposed to experience my life unscripted and rehearsed. I’m supposed to do this improv style. And that’s not my zodiac sign talking… that’s me.

THE FIFTH ANNUAL TOP TEN BEAUTIFUL MEN LIST

2010-06-10T23:49:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz It's that time of year again. The time when every state in the union does it's best Los Angeles impression; the sun is shining, the sky sparkles magnificent hues of blues, the grass beams with an almost fluorescent of green, so bright that no one notices the dog poop… Most major cities are spurred by such natural beauty to host LGBT pride celebrations in which Lesbians, Gay, Bisexuals, Transgenders and their heterosexual counterparts take to the streets in glorious abandon to celebrate the lives, achievements and rock hard abs of our brethren (… and sisteren). Here at the Monthly Breeze we give our own accolades with our very own Beautiful Man List in which we give props to the beautiful men who rarely make it on the Beautiful People lists published by main stream publications (e.g. People, US Weekly). Maybe it has something to do with their lack of fame, or maybe it has something to do with their abundance of melanin and/or cellulite. In either case, we salute each one of you Beautiful Men… whether you are Gay, Straight or the "Tyler Perry" grey in between...
	10. Hemky Madera While most people were laughing at his comic attempts as a killer/bodyguard on the television show "Weeds", I was hoping nobody sitting next to me was paying attention to my growing crotch area every time he bent over or walked around in those wife beaters showing those beefy arms or that hairy chest, or that scruffy beard, or that… oh… well… you know what I'm getting at… and don't look at my crotch right now!
	9. Craig Robinson The pluses: He's from Chicago, he's beefy, he's masculine, he's funny, he participated in a parody that promoted the elimination of Proposition 8 and encouraged gay marriage. The minuses: In my mind I'm thinking he participated because his girlfriend/wife has a flaming homosexual for a brother and she threatened to cut off the pussy supply if he didn't participate and once they break-up, he's back to gay-bashing. But in the meantime… cute!
	8. Kevin Phillips Once upon a time there was a little film called "Pride" whose advertisements displayed a bevy of buff young Black boys dressed in nothing but wet swimming trunks. I sped to the nearest movie theater in hopes of seeing soft core porn about Black Gay Pride. I was disappointed to find it to be about swimming or… something but seriously… you need to see this dude wet, half naked and in swimming trunks.
	7. Matt Kemp Let the record show that my knowledge of sports is minimal though usually I can make a few references if the team has somebody cute on it. For example, Jason Kidd plays for the Dallas Mavericks, Charles Barkley used to play for the Houston Rockets. Matt Kemp plays for… oh… I don't know… I just know he's doing Rhianna right now. Man that girl knows how to pick them!
	6. Common Moving up four spaces from last year's Beautiful Man List is another Chi-town favorite, rapper/actor Lonnie Rashied Lynn, Jr a.k.a. Common. I don't know what it is about this dude but every year it seems like his sexy quotient goes up and up and I always like a non-minstrel show rapper who takes cares of his kids. And whatever training he did to get that six pack in "Just Wright" does not hurt at all...
	5. Gerry Garvin I've never really "hoped" for someone to be gay. Not really. Not with all my gay crushes in all my years… I just let people be people. But Gerry, Gerry, Gerry… you big ole manly straight chef you! At least you are changing people's minds about men in the culinary arts. But if you ever change your mind about… "other" things… info@monthlybreeze.com… dude, hit me up.
	4. DeMarco Majors So not only do I not follow sports, I don't really follow too many television shows. However, Mr. Majors of Logo's "Shirts & Skins" fame has shown up on a few media streams as the heir to John Amaeche's "hot-openly-gay-basketball-player" throne. He seems leveled headed enough and sexy as all hell. Throw in a little more gruff and a couple of tattoos and you'll have...
	3. Shawne Merriman I have yet to see a bad picture taken of this guy! Let's see, what do I know of his sports career… Tila Tequila had him arrested after he supposedly tried to choke her while trying to leave his home and he was in Keri Hilson's "Knock You Down" video as well a Nike Football advertisement. I think he plays football or something. My God… look at those arms!
	2. Gregory Keith Dear Gregory, I have no idea why you are not on the cover of every single men's magazine in this country (abysmal performances on Noah's Arc aside). But you are the sexiest, kindest most interesting person I have seen on television in a really long time. There is no one else like you out there and America needs more of that energy… preferably with your shirt off. Love Always, Breeze
	1. Dhani Jones So the show is called Dhani Takles the Globe and it follows the NFL linebacker around the globe as he learns how to play sports and simultaneously explores the culture of each location. He traveled to ten locations in first season but the one that set many hearts a fire was when he traveled to Phnom Park Penh, Cambodia and learned Pradal Sery with Kru Long Salavorn a.k.a. he was half naked and rolling around on the ground with other beautiful, buff, half naked Cambodian men. There are other parts of the show where he visited a youth center and a Cambodian Televison Network but really… he was half naked and rolling around on the ground with other beautiful and half naked Cambodian men. Add to the fact that he was once charged with a misdemeanor of failure to obey a lawful command after he allegedly refused to stop dancing outside a South Beach night club and you have the absolute PERFECT date on a Friday night...

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

2010-06-10T23:46:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

As a man of size, and a certain amount of body hair, after the initial shock of divulging my homosexual tendencies, the usual follow-up query is whether I'm a Top or a Bottom. I have skirted the answer for so long that many people just assume I'm a Bottom because no self respecting Top would ever shy away from the title. The truth lies somewhere in between.

As forward thinking as I try to be, I was brought up in the ghetto of 1980's Chicago. The most famous gay men in my generation were RuPaul and Jeffery Dahmer. If the 70's were about "free" love, the 80's were about it's "resale"; either by putting it on glittery display for profit, or feeding it to guilt ridden notions for psychotic satisfaction. In either case, fame was at the end of either fork of that road and I for one did not want to be anywhere near it at the time. In my teenage mind with my Housing Project home life and my Catholic school rearing I was under the strict belief that as far as sex is concerned that anyone who gets penetrated is the submissive one and anyone who penetrates is the dominate one. So in my mind as far as "gay" sex was concerned, I envisioned Jeffery Dahmer fucking RuPaul… and eating him afterwards.

Yeah, the 80's were a glorious time to be a questioning gay man. By the time AIDS fully hit the scene I was starting to question if maybe Rev. Fred Phelps had a point.

But as with most things, my nature won out over my warped nurturing and I could no longer deny my insatiable lust for "Man-gina" no more than Ronald Reagan could deny that there was a "arms for hostages" deal during the Iran-Contra Affair. No, we both had to come terms with our dirty deeds and somehow reconcile the aftermath.

For me, it was finding my own paradigms and understanding my own truths. Finding out at the core, with all of my past experiences, good and bad, without a cool soundtrack, dramatic lighting or special effects, without collegiate phrasings and clever quips, in front of my mom, in front of God, by myself… what exactly did I want. It always funneled down to a vague image… of a guy… with pretty decent abs… a hard cock… who could kiss… and an awesome Man-gina.

But even still, after fully coming to terms with the fact that I dig dudes, I ashamedly still have remnants of those antiquated notions rolling in the plasma in my brain that someone who is being penetrated is submissive and someone who penetrates is dominant.

But I do wonder exactly how archaic those notions are. How important is it truly when it comes to relationships between two men? It's a conundrum that doesn't really exist in heterosexual relationships. For the most part, these politics don't exist with them. With a man and a woman, there's a plug… and there's a socket. Now either partner can either be dominant or submissive but as for the actual act itself, there's a plug… and there's a socket… and the plug… goes into the socket… there's no getting around that. With two dudes, there is a bit of game play involved, a bit of ego negotiation, a bit of machismo compromise. The plug doesn't necessarily go into the socket that easily. Unlike our female counterparts… we've got options in that department. We don't have to solely get penetrated and recoup some semblance of power over our partners in other areas of the relationship… we can flip them over and fuck them right back, right then and there. And when you think of it in terms of power, as most ego driven men do, that's when you run into problems. Because most men don't want to give up that power. Most men only see power in penetrating. And as forward thinking as I would like to believe I am, I do have to admit that I feel a little unnerved by the thought of someone more feminine, in voice, appearance and/or demeanor… fucking me up the ass. I would honestly think of it as a relinquishment of some part of my manhood. I imagine that if I were in a an actual relationship with someone like that, that I could make that compromise but there would be no denying… it would be a compromise, I would indeed be giving up just a little part of myself, but I have always figured that true relationships were all about compromise; you give a little, you get a little. I let Clay Aiken fuck me up the ass, he gives me love and mortgage payments. That's a relationship to me.

To answer the question of whether a man's sexual preference of being strictly a top or strictly a bottom would be a deal breaker for me I would have to answer… yes, it would. Not necessarily out of a physical need to experience both, but for me I would interpret it as… that guy is not willing to compromise. He hasn't had the life experiences enough to redefine manhood on his own terms. He hasn't sat down with himself and thought of his life without a cool soundtrack, dramatic lighting or special effects, without collegiate phrasings and clever quips, in front of his mom, in front of God, by himself and thought... what exactly do I want. Because regardless if you fucked or been fucked… you know how good it feels. And to deny that experience to your partner that you supposedly care about just reads selfish to me… and a little cowardly… because I actually did walk down that road, that gay road that I thought only had drag queens and cannibals at the end. Because I knew in my heart of hearts that there had to be something more, that there was goodness and truth in that journey. I walked though that valley of the shadow of death, and I feared no evil. And accepted the Dahmers on the way to be the absolute scourges of the community as I accepted the RuPauls to be the absolute epitomes of charisma, uniqueness, nerve and talent… and I made it to the other end, and I'm still here… 38 years and counting.

I'm not sure if I would be willing to compromise for someone who was too chicken shit to go down that road also. I'm not sure if I would be willing to compromise for someone not willing to compromise for me.

And as for the irritating question that keeps coming up of whether I'm a top or a bottom I guess I can put it like this, plug or socket… it's all electricity baby… it's all love.

Author/Poet/Kindness-Giver Breeze Vincinz doesn't nearly get fucked enough and would totally think it's cool if you pick up his poetry book, "Life As A Boy" and short story anthology "Dog and Pony Show."

"JUST WRIGHT" TRIES TO GET IT RIGHT

2010-06-10T19:05:00.000-07:00

(c) Steven G Fullwood

"A female physical therapist is drafted by an all-star basketball player to help him recover from a career-threatening injury. The two soon fall in love in what is a modern-day Cinderella story."
- Yahoo.com film blurb.

I went with my bud "R" to see it even as I made fun of it after getting a waft of the stinking trailer. Corn-nee romantic comedy starring black people. Still I see enough bad (white) mainstream films (unintentionally) and apparently have shitloads of disposable income (in my mind) so I parked my yellowed ass at Harlem's Magic Johnson Theater, which has the amenities a self-satisfied critic like myself sometimes needs and desires: black movies and black people. Of the black movies, there are only maybe two per century, primarily written (hahaha!) and directed (bwahahah!) by Tyler fucking Perry. Of the black people, I want to be with my people as they talk their asses all the way through the film, laughing at the funny parts, booing and hissing, and saying things like "Oh no she didn't!" as if they were sitting at home alone in their draws.

Black groupspeak at the movies works for me…in doses. Aint tryna be at the MJ Theater all the time. Sometimes I just want to see a movie and want everyone in the theater, black, white or whatever to shutty up. But a running commentary has its special delights. Saw Cadillac Records there and the only thing that kept me awake was the running commentary by my homies, and I appreciated that.

So…Just Wright. Let me get this out of the way first so that we all know what page we're on. Queen Latifah and Common have absolutely ZERO chemistry and so the movie doesn't really work because it is a romantic comedy and there's the glaring expectation that we have to imagine these two going at it some point like rabbits. Imagine for a moment Latifah and Common boning? I'll wait. How's that working out for you? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Much of the film is spent on Latifah, who is by the way equal parts feminine and butch hot, so she doesn't exactly work as the placid girl-next-door type. And while she's beautiful and got puppies-jumping-up-and-barking cleavage, no frumpy t-shirt and jeans combo can hide that baby got front and back. You really can't imagine her (voluptuous) and Common (who is a little tiny) making babies because again, we have to believe these certain conventions so that the tired old romantic comedy script holds our attention.

Common, despite his banging body, looks like Skeletor and acts like Prince in the wildly successful, but poorly acted, Purple Rain. Not a great act to follow unless there's a great soundtrack to boot, but no, there ain't. Like Prince he mumbles and pouts and offers sideways come hither glances in a deep mumbling voice and a distinct "I'm reading this line off the back off a chalkboard behind the camera" acting style that no amount of gratuitous bare chest shots can erase from the cerebral cortex. In sum he's a cardboard. If they had just used a cardboard cut out of him, and superimposed animated lips, you wouldn't have known the difference.

Despite Latifah's charm and natural skills, this be not a love match.

Then there's Paula Patton, the epitome of why men and women love some light-skinded tail. Remember now, she was the concerned hottie lesbo teacher in the film Precious? Here she plays a sizzling gold digger, the kind that rappers rap about all the time as skeezers but somehow end up in their videos and as their wives or wifeys. Much of Patton's screen time is spent scheming trying to nab an NBA athlete and if art imitates reality, she'd most certainly bag a sack of 'em. Her voice is a bit distracting. Not Macy Gray throat-slashed-in-fight-in-Detroit- scratched-up distracting, but enough to wonder if she has a sore throat and in need of antibiotics.

So you know the story. I opened with it, silly, pay attention. Okay, so here's a quick run down so that you know precisely what's up. Girl meets boy, boy invites girl to party, girl's hot best friend nabs boy, girl shuffles off to corner to jump into a vat of Haagen-Dazs, boy gets hurt, hot best friend dumps boy, girl helps boy recover, best friend comes back, boy dumps girl, girl shuffles off to corner, jumps back into the vat of Haagen-Dazs, boy sees through best friend, boy discovers his true love (girl!) and finds girl, licks the Haagen-Dazs off her mouth, and lives happily ever after, yay, yay, yay!

Not much there as a movie, but to be honest, not much really to shake a stick at. Sure Latifah has the glint of masculinity bouncing off her broad shoulders, and so it looks as if we are watching two black homos go at it. That made me laugh a bit. And when the two go to bed, we see them AFTER they supposedly rocked each other's world. She's all aglow and dancing in the bed like she's in an advertisement for bed sheets. You'd think that maybe there was two-headed vibrator involved, or that two other people showed up making it a naughty foursome.

As for rounding out the rest of the cast, Phylicia Rashad plays Common's mother, channeling her standard Claire Huxtable. I half expected her to say, "Cliff do you know what Rudy did today?" Forever hottie Pam Grier plays Latifah's mom and we see her and her hottie husband, some Danny Glover doppelganger, offer the appropriate sage advice at the appropriate moments. And then there were what I think were actual professional athletes in the film, but who cares? I'm only concerned about how many times I can use the word "hottie" in this review.

MJ Theater did not disappoint as there were about 8 preteen girls and somebody's little brother running around the theater, causing a ruckus. When they did settle down they offered interesting, if age appropriate commentary about the golddigger, Latifah and Common. I'll spare you most of it, but the last one came as the film's end and we were leaving the theatre. "That was garbage," one girl complained. A bit harsh I think because frankly, good creative romantic comedies are hard to pull off.

Sure, Just Wright was fairly color-by-numbers, but when do you ever get to see a larger voluptuous black woman get the man (and no, Precious doesn't count.) This is important to consider for folks who deserve to see more than Halle Berry types, particularly those 8 little girls, tragically impressionable and in need of diverse screen images, of women of size and in love, in the bed, being loved, than the bullshit they normally digest and mimic, and often get destroyed by.

Steven G Fullwood is a critic of massive talent. He's not trying to sell you a damn thing. He enjoys cultural criticism for the art of it. Buy his book of humor, FUNNY, atvepress.com.

BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

2010-06-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

(c) Dale Guy Madison

Would a man’s sexual preference in being strictly a bottom or strictly a top be the ‘deal breaker’ in considering a long term relationship with him?

Back in the day, let’s say the late 1970’s, I received a copy of my GAY 101 TEXTBOOK and I flipped to the chapter called: “Pancake Queens.” Old school fags used to call them “Confused Sissies” or “Flip Flop Queens.” It seems there was this unspoken rule that states:

Some of us strictly take dick (BOTTOMS), Some of us strictly throw dick (TOPS) and then some of us are confused who do both (VERSATILE).

There is a delicate balance that cannot be disturbed between Tops & Bottoms. I upset that balance because I refused to be strictly anything.

I was one of the lucky fags. About 10 of my high school buddies all came out of the closet with me in 1976. We were a wonderful support to each other. We had each other to guide us through this magical world of GAY-O-RAMA. What we did not know was that our generation of disco, platform shoes and glitter dust ushered in a revolution that upset the balance of gay nature. We loved giving and receiving. We dressed asexual. We weren’t extremely masculine nor were we AB FAB! You could say we were like Marlo Thomas, “Free to Be… You and ME”:

Every boy in this land grows to be
his own man

In this land, every girl grows to be
her own woman

Take my hand, come with me
where the children are free

Come with me, take my hand
and we'll run

to a land where the river runs free
to a land through the green country
to a land to a shining sea
to a land where the horses run free
to a land where the children are free

and you and me are free to be
and you and me are free to be...
...you and me

I came out the closet in 1976 and although I was young and full of cum, I was not dumb. I quickly purchased a copy of The Joy of Gay Sex. I rationalized that this gay life was the ultimate “best of both worlds”. Where else could you go and have as much sex as you want to and not get anyone pregnant? My Dad had 13 illegitimate kids; the last thing I wanted was to get some girl pregnant. I loved sex, this was the perfect solution! How dare you tell me I can’t use both organs God gave me? I loved dick as much as I loved ass.

The generation before me seemed to think that gay life had to be some reflective version of a heterosexual life. Gay relationships had roles. There was a masculine (TOP) role and a feminine (BOTTOM) role. To me, that did not seem very GAY. I did not want to be locked into a role. You see the TOP role inferred better and BOTTOM role suggested less.

I did not think of myself as less of a man because I choose to give up my manhole. I did not think of myself as better because I was enjoying a tight juicy ass. The multiple options of gay sex made me feel that two men enjoying each other in every versatile way possible was the best sex.

Larry was the first man I was involved with who was an exclusive top. He took that role seriously. Emotionally and sexually, he had to be the one in control. He was older, made more money, liked to take care of me and shower me with gifts. That’s where we had problems. He wanted me to be a quiet, passive lover who stayed in the background. But my personality was too “out there” to settle for being quiet. I loved the gifts and the trips and the Sunday ritual of massaging his scalp with Sulfur 8 ointment. He used to let me go through his closets and select a tie for each of his suits; I would pre-tie each in a Windsor knot so they were ready to pull over his head. He was romantic and sweet and kind to me, as long as I stayed in place. I did those chores for him because I loved him, not because I wanted to be placed in a symbolic role of a “woman serving her man.”

The problem was I could not just stay still in one place and fill that one role. I enjoyed playing the dominant role sexually as well. It was one of the things I relished about gay life. You could be a top one night and flip the script and be a bottom the next. There was no such flipping with Larry. He said I was “confused.” It was our deal breaker.

Don’t call me confused.

I know exactly what I want.

I want your ass, I want your dick.

Your ass…

Your dick…

Your ass…

Your dick...

Your ass round my dick…

Your dick inside my ass…

Don’t you see,

it takes a real man to say:

Drop the masks

and drop ya drawers

Total bottoms bore me

Total tops annoy me

Give me a FLIP FUK

any day

I do u

U do me and as we

fuk we do each other

Fuk U/ Fuk me

Then flip it

Signed,

A 50 something Old School Brotha.

Actor/Author Dale Guy Madison is the author of “Dreamboy: My Life A QVC Host & Other Hits” and is currently publishing the adult fairytale, “Sissy Sammy in the Land Of West Hollywood 90069.”

THE NAKED TRUTH

2010-02-10T23:51:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Once upon a time ago in a galaxy called Hollywood, your favorite upwardly immobile African American homosexual in an unbridled show of affection and horniness for his boyfriend allowed himself to be photographed in the buff. And we're not talking Playboy "Art" shots with soft lighting or a furry kitten gently resting upon dramatically lit supple skin. We're talking full boogie post coital open orifice money shots with vodka bottles, audio cassette cases and that old "Isobel" poster of Björk kissing herself in the background. And as is the nature of everything regrettable done in life, at the time… it was great, it was nasty, it was fun. Years later after sobering/growing up I now consider it to be stupid, stupid, stupid. I recently came upon these pictures not too long ago while perusing some old backup files I have kept over the years. I have always considered these pictures to be the bane of my existence and the anchor to an otherwise aerial life. I imagined my eventual happiness to have the obligatory Halle Berry/Sandra Bullock Oscar suffix whereas the greatest thing in the world happens only to be followed by the worst thing in the world to happen. There I am, Toni Morrison giving me a hug after I accept my Nobel Peace Prize, then the next morning, there I am on the front cover the LA Times, all of the 400 pounds that I was at the time, with parts of my body showing that typically only my proctologist, my ex-boyfriends or a few lucky gentlemen down in Atlanta during 2009 pride have seen with the headline, "BREEZE IN THE BUFF" or "BIG BREEZE TINY DICK" or "NOBEL REVOKES PRIZE STATING, 'THAT AIN'T NOWHERE NEAR PEACEFUL!'"

But looking at those pictures in the present day, observing my rotund body, my unruly hair (facial and chest), that look of complete and utter contentment on my face in a moment where I felt utterly safe, protected and loved I realized… I don't look that bad.

After having a conversation with a friend who said that writers tend to overexpose themselves on social networking sites, blogs, websites and such, I began to think about my own compulsion to… make my privates go public.

For the most part it's been a fairly productive endeavor. However as of late it has provided some amazingly uncomfortable moments, personally and professionally. Personally I have stifled some people just as quickly as I have befriended them as my overexposure has caused some sobering misconceptions and judgment calls. The same is also true professionally whereas chunks of my personal life have been slopped down into the laps of several members of the administration at my place of employment, these newsletters notwithstanding.

Option A would be to censor my provocative, incendiary and off color leanings and become conciliatory both in tone and content. Option B would be to say "fuck you" to all the "hataz" and post those naked pictures of myself everywhere as a roadmap to the different places of my ass that they can kiss. I've settled on Option C whereas I remain cheeky but to also hold certain cards a little closer to my chest.

One thing I've been preaching to friends and family alike for quite some time now is the idea that you can't change people, you only change yourself. In this case, if I write something provocative or make out with a dozen guys in a drunken stupor in a bar or some rogue blogger somehow finds those pictures of me au natural and posts them in "Elephant Fancy" magazine, I can't control what people think about them or the subsequent judgments following. All I can do is control my actions and stand by what I've said and what I've done. In that, Plan C is basically to say and do things with just a little more integrity, a little more resonance but in essence still do what the fuck I want to do. Which in this economy is quite the bold statement to make when there is a chance that members of Administration of your place of employment will find out that there are post coital open orifice money shot pictures of yourself that show body parts that typically only your proctologist, your ex-boyfriends or a few lucky gentlemen down in Atlanta during 2009 pride have seen (Big ups to ATL by the way!)

Another tenet I have been preaching is that when someone pisses you off, it's because you're seeing a part of yourself in them that you don't want to deal with. In that, I have definitely been seeing myself in the friends and administration that have been pissing me off… none of us want to give me credit for the good things. The naked truth of the matter is, I'm an African American homosexual male. This newsletter has been out for almost six years now and I have been kissing strangers in bars for far longer than that. I love my friends. I love my family. I am, in truth, an awesome employee. A grocery list can be made of all the shit I've done wrong over the years but a comparable list could be made on all the things that I got right. I have this tendency to look at the face value of the more comical and seedy parts of my life and downgrade it just a bit. Well, just like those naked pictures of my portly self, I have taken a good long look at my life, all of it, the good, the bad, the dudes, the dildos, the mothers, the motherfuckers, the accolades, the insults, the awards, the disappointments, and I just have to say for anybody who still has a compulsion to stand in judgment that despite it all… I don't look that bad.

FACEBOOK FIERCENESS

2010-02-10T00:57:00.000-08:00

(c)Breeze Vincinz

For those not in the know, I stopped watching television awhile ago. There are a few shows, however, that I have kept up on via their respective websites. One of which is RuPaul’s Drag Race which has turned out to be one of my favorite television shows. As many times as I have heard the phrase, I never thought “Bitch, your pussy on fire” could be said with the dignity and class that RuPaul gave to it. While I originally questioned the final result of Tyra Sanchez taking the title of Drag Queen of the year, it was great to see (s)him with a touch more humility and grace during the reunion show.

Inspired by the fantastical mind fuck the show put me through, I was inspired one evening to jot down on my Facebook page several drag queens name for myself in the off chance that one glorious day I would ever don a dress. Here are the finest suggestions given that night:

Chamomile Tampon
Patchouli Snatch
Amber Areola Summer Tit
Julie Crisco Rectum
Princess Lemon Sphincter
Amanda Sucken Blo
Chlamydia Pepper
Dew Shand Spray
Lucy Felcher

AN OPEN LETTER TO RICKY MARTIN

2010-02-10T00:03:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Dear Ricky,

I recently I had a talk with my brother about sexuality in youth. His belief is that children are asexual. I don't particularly believe that, not when so many of us have play-boyfriends and play-girlfriends starting in kindergarten. It's not the perverse sexuality of us heathen adults but I remember getting a special little knot in my stomach sitting next to Leah Richardson in grammar school. I remember how flush I would get when my fifth grade teacher Mr. Dickens would walk anywhere near me. And I remember you from way back in the day when they used to show Menudo videos in between my Saturday Morning cartoons. It wasn't gratuitous or graphic or even remotely explicit notions. I was just this little boy who got a pit in his stomach whenever he saw another little boy on television… who just happened to be wearing gym shorts, a cut off shirt and a headband at the time.

So fast forward through our lives, our loves, the first time we kissed a boy, the first time we kissed a man, the first time we made love and well… the first time we just flat out fucked a man. Though I have definitely screamed from the mountaintops about the differences that exist within the gay community, there are certain aspects of the gay experience that remain consistent for all of us. We may all use different seasonings... but the meat is still the same. And while I don't know your story, I don't know your timetable, I don't know when you first had that special pit in your stomach and whether it was for a boy or a girl or which teacher made you blush or who you watched on Saturday mornings that got your motor running… but I'm willing to bet that you had all those experiences and a ton more.

And because of those experiences, I felt that when you finally acknowledged your homosexuality last March, that you weren't admitting it to yourself, because I think you already knew… a long time ago. I imagine that it was really for the media and for the sarcastic bitches on the rag who waited with baited breath for the next attractive celebrity to out themselves so they can pull out their kazoo and proclaim to the world in a screechy high tone voice, "I knew it!"

And I also guess that, being a father now and wanting to live an honest life, you just wanted the question to be done and over with so you can live and give an authentic life to your little boys. What I'm trying to say is, because I don't think anybody has actually said this yet, it's been more of a collective "Well, DUH!" from everybody in the states… but thank you. Thank you for having the balls to be true to who you are despite the shitload of derision, sarcasm and late night talk show host jokes that you knew were going to be thrown at you. Thank you for inspiring those other little boys out there still looking at you that not all homosexuals are tragic victims of an out of control libido… but can be financially stable fathers… with buns of steel. And lastly… welcome to the community dude. And in the immortal words of Ms. Rupaul… don't fuck it up.

Love always,

A CERTAIN LEVEL OF AWARENESS

2009-12-10T01:46:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Once upon a time my parents had sex. It’s an absolutely horrible, atrocious and downright sickening thing to come to terms with. The majority of my life has really been supported with the image of my parents innocently holding hands on a front porch drinking lemonade and watching the sun kissed horizon when a stork from the heavens gently cascades down and presents them with me, a wonderfully pre-scrubbed little cherub lightly dusted with baby powder with nothing to offer but subtle purrs and giggles of enjoyment. They sleep in separate beds and any copulation pretty much consists of a light kiss on the cheek over breakfast toast or maybe he would help brush her hair after a rainstorm. This theory along with other concepts like incurring weight loss by drinking Diet Coke with a large pizza and buffalo wings as well as “hope” being a financial plan have kept me in a warm, comfortable state of oblivion for quite sometime now. But the truth of the matter is 0 calories + 2,100 calories = 2,100 calories. Management companies don’t accept “potential” instead of rent checks. Once upon a time… my parents had sex.

But still, I remember the blissful days of yore, chubby and content in my asbestos lined abode, satisfied that danger, inequity or harm would never really be bestowed upon a baby powered cherub like myself. This came to mind recently after a wonderfully grimy sexual tryst with a faithful Booty Call of mine.

Booty Call: a visitation made with the sole intent of arranging a meeting for sexual acts with the person being contacted.

The way we interact is that he comes over, we have a really nice conversation from anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, maybe even watch a little television. We put on some jazz, we talk a little more, we move a little closer and become and little more intimate and then… well… we fuck… really hard. We fuck like rabid monkeys who haven’t been fed all day. We don’t make love, we fuck. When it’s over, we have a little more of that easy conversation that we both adore and if time allows we might go at it again and if not there’s a nice kiss and a hug as we part separate ways.

We’ve had this routine for years now and it seems to work for the both of us. Coincidentally he has been in significant relationships during all this time, both with men and women. Currently, it’s with a man who resides thousands of miles away. No matter. I charged my two liter diet coke and large supreme pizza on my credit card at a 37% interest rate and invited him over.

After our last sexual tryst, however, while lying in his arms for our comfortably predictable post-coital wrap up, I mentioned in a relaxed and breathy tone how happy I was that he came over. And in that candle-lit room he intoned even more relaxed and breathy, “It is what it is, nothing more, nothing less, just really good sex.” I yawned and stretched and breezily said, “You… sir… got to get the fuck out of here.”

I mentioned this to a couple of friends and the consensus is that, if the sex is good, astoundingly good at that, why end this relatively functional tête-à-tête. And if I really didn’t have any intentions of truly pursuing him, then why did my body go cold, my skin frost over into ice then crack all the way through to the core? Why was I a little surprised he didn’t get frostbite from just lying right there with me?

The truth of the matter is that I never really had any intention of elevating our association to something more substantial or formal. The truth of the matter is that I have always been fully aware of his more substantial and formal relationships. But I will admit I did think it was a little more. Nothing akin to a “relationship”, but definitely something respectful, cordial and even-keeled. But I’m realizing that this is something akin to babies being dropped off by storks, Pizza Hut diets and I.O.U. financial plans. The truth of the matter is that… what we have is just really good sex… nothing more, nothing less…

…and I just didn’t need to hear it, regardless if it was true or not.

To put it into words somehow made everything off kilter. In this, I really needed some delusion here. For him to say that what we have is just sex implicated that I want more or that all of the extra accoutrements of our fucking, the talking, the caressing, the candle-lit room, is completely inconsequential. In this, he was no longer my Booty Call, but I was Cum Dump.

Cum Dump: someone who has a tendency to malign the need to receive fundamental respect in an effort to ingest as much semen as possible.

Prior, it was more like we were each other’s Booty Call, Fuck Buddies, Friends with Benefits. Lying there I realized that this was not the case; when his husband is away and he needs to get off, I’m just the nearest hole around. And while I didn’t feel like that before, I wonder if that’s what I have always been and just didn’t realize it, the same way I never realized my parents ever fucked… really hard… like rabid monkeys who haven’t been fed all day, or drinking Diet Coke thinking it would soak up the fat of the large pizza and buffalo wings or counting on my student loans to be paid once my million dollar check comes in from being on the cover of Rolling Stone one glorious day. I was realizing how much a little delusion has played a part in my psyche all these years, and how sometimes, in my own passive aggressive way, I have mistaken it for hope or optimism… and how that has to stop.

It reminds of something Maya Angelou intoned whereas when you know better you do better, and that’s the soap bubble of delusion; once you realize you’re in it… it bursts, and you can never get back in. So hear I am, the chubby, check bouncing, cum dump descendant of fucking rabid monkeys. Yeah… I miss my delusions of grandeur. But I can say that certain level of awareness that thrusts upon you when the bubble bursts is nothing short of an orgasmic spiritual revolution. Now that you know, you go to the gym, you balance your check book, you’re grateful your parents comingled because otherwise your sorry ass wouldn’t be here in the first place, you know who you are and you are no one’s cum dump and now you know how to never put yourself in that position again but first and foremost you stop fucking other people’s men. And once you realize all that… you write it all down so everybody who dares take a look at it rethink what they’re doing… and wake up too.

HUMILITY IN THE AGE OF ASSHOLES

2009-12-10T01:14:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

The situation has happened a few times now. I visit a city specifically to participate in their Gay Pride celebrations taking place (Black and otherwise) and when I contact the people I know who reside in said city they respond in the most sarcastic tone, “Why would you come here during gay pride? I’m avoiding it like the plague!” Keep in mind that said friends are most definitely gay. This happened three times in three different cities with five different friends last year alone. Not even a month into the new year while making plans to go to a Gay Pride celebration later this year and I am already hearing grumbles from an inhabitant of, “Oh God, I’m not going anywhere near the pride celebrations. Why would you even come here during that time?”

It’s definitely something that affected my trip to Atlanta last year where I had unfortunately gravitated towards a brood of people who deemed the whole concept of the Pride celebration to be passé, uneventful and tiresome. At one point I wanted to go to the park where a lot of the participants would be gathering to commonwealth and enjoy the day and I wound up being convinced by said brood that, “nobody’s at the park but young queens twirling around and sashaying about.” The brood, as it were, were closer to my age range and their arguments that these pride celebrations are more for the younger set regrettably spoke to my more spinster-like sensibilities and I wound up instead spending a lot of time at the Olive Garden, going to the gym, buying a Honey and Oatmeal scrub mask from the Body Shop and other activities just as mundane and antithetical to having a kick ass vacation á la the movie “The Hangover”.

It wasn’t until I got back home when I realized that I had been bamboozled, that I had let my own insecurities and fears take over and I had spent an extended amount of time being the disgruntled old man that I figured my everyday waking life had predetermined for me. I wanted a vacation from that too. I wanted to kick up my heels, meet some new people, drink a couple of beers and observe the young queens twirling around and sashaying through the park. Which is why I did get a bit perturbed recently when talking to an Atlanta native about returning this year with a strengthened resolve to fully partake of the festivities only to be met with the same dour diatribe of, “Oh! Why would you even bother?” And this time by somebody under 30.

It got me to thinking about the cynical state of modern Black gay-dom. Geographical and age differences aside, there is a certain burning thread of bitterness that seems to be cutting through the souls of my Black Gay brethren nowadays and I can’t seem to find where that spool begins, where it will eventually knot and end… or even how to cut the goddamn thing. I start with myself and my own bitterness, jealousy and discontentment. I imagine what I would say if someone from out of town were to come to Los Angeles specifically to partake in our Black Gay Pride celebration and what my response would truly be. I would more than likely accompany them in discovering what the city and the organizations dealing with the festivities had to offer but I know there would be this blasé undertone of, “Seriously… this is all bullshit.”

I think as the years go by and society continues to mold itself to whatever Zeitgeist deemed appropriate by the powers that be, every faction that falls short of that paradigm creates a succinct disgruntlement that embodies their hopes, dreams and fears. The struggle for equality for different groups, while having obvious similarities also has distinct qualities intrinsic to said group. The Feminist movement had a specific agenda, as did the Civil Right movement, as did the Poor People’s Campaign… as does the Gay Rights Movement. And the same way each movement had its own plan of attack and rallying cry, the battles that were lost created their own cynicism and modes of bitching and complaining. In modern times, the African American community is commonly clumped with Republican Conservatives as the duly appointed antagonists against LGBT equality, leaving the African American LGBT community who witness White Liberals covered in the American flag rolling on the ground demanding equal rights via Gay Marriage with the distinct rallying cry of, “Fuck you Shirley! Quit blaming me for your goddamn poor planning and maybe I’ll help your sorry ass!”

And is the nature of cynicism, it’s contagious and self replicating and get’s in the way of anything positive that could happen. Thus, instead of celebrating and supporting each other during Black Pride Celebrations, we get the glowering, “Oh God, I’m not going anywhere near the pride celebrations. Why would you even come here during that time?” It’s like with any family whereas you have all this built up frustration about things that happen outside the house and when you get home you unleash on the people closest to you because they just happen to around at the time.

I could give an extended grocery list about the state of disarray that previous Black Pride celebrations have been here in Los Angeles but the truth of the matter is that despite all my bitching and complaining… they provided a much needed confirmation that, whether I like it or not, assholes and angels included, these people, all of these people, are my family. And there is a certain humility in realizing your own place in that family. I do believe that the person who avoids Black Gay Prides like the plague is doing so because, unconsciously… they don’t want to deal with the virus that they are themselves. That they too have been bamboozled into believing that they are not who Black Gay Pride was meant for, that they are either a level above or a level below queens twirling around and sashaying about. Well… I have a cousin who shot up his house and almost his wife because he dumbfoundedly hid his guns in the oven without telling her before she started making dinner. I have a brother who insists on wearing his socks up to his knees when we go to the gym together. My dad is a Republican. I sometimes squeeze my chest together to make it resemble a pair of ample breasts. And you know what, I’m not a level above or below those guys. I love then all I’ll go home to watch them “sashaying” around any day of the week.

LIFE AS VIDEOGAME

2009-12-10T01:04:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Although I am a computer geek I have never been a big gamer, though there have been a few games that I was ever so happy to envelope myself within… Super Mario Bros. 3 being on the top of that list. I always thought that this was a game that truly captured the essence and spirit of American culture. I used to be obsessed with it back in my twenties. I would come home every night after six hours of school, eight hours of work and a couple of hours of tending to my physically ill husband and pseudo-mentally ill family to comfort myself within the multi-hued sunny skies of Mario and his compatriots. I have never been able to dissect exactly what was at the core of my fascination with that game outside of the fact that its realm existed so far away from my own apocalyptic reality at the time that I imagined it to be closer to any heaven than I could envision. There were certain things about that game I just thought was so beguiling. For one, there was no scoring involved. No matter what you did, you were never ahead or behind in regards to scoring; there was no high score to beat, just other worlds to get to. Additionally, the main goal of the game was to get to other said worlds and the best way to do this was to develop your skills in one to get through to the other, and to also gain as many extra “lives” as possible along the way so just in case you did get killed… you had a couple of other lives to live in these other worlds. And the most beguiling aspect of this game was that the only way to acquire these extra lives… was to acquire as many gold coins as your chubby little avatar could come into contact with.

Thusly, your goal became not necessarily to win but to live and the only way to live was to make money… and the only reason why you wanted to make money was to live… to make money… so you could live longer… to make more money… ah… to suck the sweet milk from the teat of mother capitalism.

Lately my newest obsession has been with Farmville. Now with Farmville you plant different forms of vegetation and when you harvest the crops, you get… yup… gold coins. Now with those gold coins you buy more seeds to plant more crops to harvest so you get more money… to buy more things… that help you make money… so you buy more things… that help you make more money… and the teat keeps squirting on.

I’ve never really been too much into the rock ‘em sock ‘em genre of video games such as the Grand Theft Auto series or Doom. I very much prefer my videogames of the blue sky variation with a Casio keyboard theme song. With that I’ve been thinking of developing my own videogame. I’m thinking of calling it “Breeze’s Superhero Love Gang Bang Double Happy”. You are a Superhero and you are in a Gotham City-like urban environment filled with bitchy queens, starfuckers and player haters who are destroying the city with derision, cynicism, questionable fashion choices and back handed compliments. You defeat them with honesty, kindness, love and antibiotics. For every villain you defeat you get to fuck another superhero and if you defeat several enemies at the same time you get to fuck several superheroes at the same time. And with each villain you defeat you get to a higher level, until you reach the ultimate level… “Heaven.” So the more you love, the more you fuck… and the more you fuck, the more you love… and the more you love, the more you fuck… and you wouldn't get any gold coins until you get to heaven.

THIS DISCUSSION OF SEX

2009-11-11T02:10:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Believe it or not, my father is a very conservative, traditional, old-school type of guy. There is a belief that my apple gently fell from some sort of Richard Pryor-cum-Lexington Steele-cum-Divine tree. In reality, my dad is more like “Frasier”, my mom is more like “Roseanne”, my brother is like Will Smith in “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” and I see myself more or less like a Kathy Griffin-in-training. In broad strokes, I would consider my family to be a somewhat pedestrian PG brood; I am usually the one pining for existential enlightenment through enema jokes, anal sex and/or the words “autoerotic asphyxiation” (they just make me laugh).

Recently, my African-American “Frasier” father decided to create a profile on Facebook and decided to be my Facebook friend, much to my chagrin. I discovered a long time ago that, unlike Kathy Griffin with her humorously supportive parents, my folks could truly live a lifetime without me talking about bathhouses and glory holes and such. And while I still spout on about those topics, I have put in a consorted effort to shelter them from my racier prose. Then my father comes along and becomes privy to one of the last great outlets I have to be as provocative and offensive as possible, Facebook. I warn him that some of the things I say are a bit “blue” and he reassures me that over the years that not only has he grown to accept that I have an idiosyncratic sense of humor, but that he has also acquired a thick enough skin to handle any off color element that might protrude from this direction.

When I went on vacation this past Labor Day I changed my status to read, “Going to Atlanta for an extended four day proctology exam, I can’t wait!” To wit my other Facebook friends responded with barbs such as “And I have a needle for you baby!” and “Make sure you clean it out thoroughly before you get to the office girl!” and “We’re doing oral exams at the Peachtree Hotel, you should come and get a check up!”

He disabled his account about a week later.

Like many American families, sex was never discussed in our household so like many American Families; I grew up with a heightened sense of curiosity, inquisitiveness and fear in regards to it. It’s something that I have been working steadfastly in resolving in my adult years and hoping I can help in changing for the next generation, the idea that sex is this taboo exercise only for the most downtrodden of us, particularly homosexuality which is only to be performed by the excommunicated and/or insane,

I think we as a society have come light years from our sanitized and shellacked puritanical beginnings, but there is still enough racial tension, gender politics and sexual dissention in the ranks to refute anyone’s thought that someone fully sexually aware equates to an intelligent, capable, strong member of society. Those double standards are also still there. A man with an active sex drive is still considered a stud while a woman with an equally active sex drive is still considered a slut. A heterosexual man with a girlfriend is still considered wholesome while a homosexual man with a boyfriend is still considered unholy.

I sometimes get the same judgment calls from my own circle of friends with whom I have begrudgingly expressed my sexual proclivities to. Two friends in particular, one male, one female, have found it increasingly hard to look past my sexual practices and focus on the guy behind the penis as it were. With the male, it’s a fascination that pops up in absolutely any conversation:

Breeze: Hey, did you see the new Chris Rock movie, “Good Hair”?

Male Friend: No. But did you see it near that bathhouse you went to and got fucked by five guys!?

…or…

Breeze: I’ve got so much work to do tomorrow. I think I might go to bed early.

Male Friend: Is that what you did when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?

…or…

Breeze: How’s your mom doing? Is she out the hospital?

Male Friend: She’s good. Not as good as you were when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?

With the female friend it’s a deep seated belief that the moments I have outside of eating, sleeping and working are most definitely involved in some sort of sexual activity:

Female Friend: I called you last night and you didn’t answer phone. What were you doing? Were you sucking somebody’s dick!?

…or…

Female Friend: You were taking a long time in the bathroom. What were you doing, sucking somebody’s dick!?

…or…

Female Friend: That’s a nice shirt you have on. Why did you wear it? Are you planning on sucking somebody’s dick in it!?

Usually when these conversations occur I get a little perturbed and recently another friend told me that my “puritanical” reaction is a bit hypocritical considering the fact that I am so sexually active. The thought being that if I have, indeed, been fucked by the entire Lakers basketball team then I should be willing and able to receive any joke, teasing or musing in regards to it at any time. And the more I thought about it the more I realized that I had indeed opened that door. If you pontificate on the amount of anal sex you have on a regular basis I think it’s natural for your friends to giggle when you accidentally sit down on a can of soda that someone has left in a chair and you don’t notice it going up. But I guess there is a concept of pretext and context that is usually missing in discussions of sex within my inner circle. Personally, I think its cool to, let’s say… have a chart in your house that ticks off every time you have gotten or have given head this year (personally I had to buy a new Sharpie for the month of September, Labor day in Atlanta and all), I think it’s another to bring said chart to work, or my mom’s house, or a funeral. That thought made me think of pretext and context. I’m pretty sure that even Jenna Jameson would be upset if over Christmas dinner with her mom if you would say she’s eating a turkey leg in the same manner in which she sucks a dick. Not that it wouldn’t be true, not that there wouldn’t be a level of humor to it, but it’s the timing of it all, and the pretext that just because she is one of the most famous pornographic actresses out there that there are no lines of decency that could exist in her world.

I am starting to realize that over the years, life does wear you down, scrubs the edges off of you like those smooth rocks you might find in a river bank. I’m not sure, however, if this is a good thing or bad thing yet. I keep remembering Sarah Tobias, the character Jodi Foster played in the movie “The Accused” and the fury of conversations it caused back when it was released. No one deserves to be disrespected, defiled or debased. But as I grow older the question I ask myself is… would she put herself in that position again years later. Because it wasn’t her fault that she got attacked, in that... she did nothing wrong. But I do wonder if a 40 or 50 year old Sarah Tobias could still taste the sweetness of being sexually free; wearing a revealing outfit, having a couple of drinks with her girlfriends, flirting with some cute guys, or has life smoothed that over for her. I wonder about this because I am realizing that more and more people are beginning to think that because I constantly spout off about my own sexual conquests, experiences and mishaps that I deserve to bent over the metaphorical pool table also. And I think it was that thought, the presence of that condemnation from society if not from his own self a little, that forced my father to delete his Facebook account.

The compromise I have made is to become “Cautiously Promiscuous”. I think it’s the perfect culmination of life smoothing me over but still being able to maintain my hardness.

Cautiously Promiscuous (‘ko’-sh?s-’le-pr?-’mis-ky?-w?s):

The act of fully manifesting an enormous sexual appetite while showing discretion when describing said acts to your messy ass friends who are more than likely dealing with their own sexual hang-ups and are giving you the same shards of judgment that they feel society would give them if they had the balls to go and get as much ass as you do.
Not convincing your father to re-establish his Facebook page so you can continue to change your profile page status to read something on the lines of, “In an effort make a statement in regards to the sodomy laws still established in Detroit and to boost the spirit of it’s citizens as they face the worse unemployment rates they have ever seen, every time I have anal sex I am going to refer to it as getting some ‘Detroit’”
Having as much Detroit as humanly possible and choosing the correct people to have in your inner circle who won’t mention it every fucking five minutes.
Not mentioning it every fucking five minutes myself.
Choose partners who won’t mention it every fucking five minutes… you don’t want to be an Idaho.

SUICIDE AND THE SINGLE MAN

2009-11-10T02:19:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

I have been under an absolutely immense amount stress and anxiety for the past couple weeks, maybe even a month or two. And then today… it started raining.

The other day while at the gym, I was pondering the whole concept of suicide. Sometimes I think it’s good to get in those heart spaces when everything is just completely out of whack and fucked up. I think it’s good for your personal space to be shitty sometimes. Mainly so you can remember it when someone else is going through the same thing and you can at least for a couple of seconds identify with their humanity. For me, I’ve been thinking of some former managers, evil reality show villains, that asshole bus driver that dropped me off like a half a mile away from my bus stop, all those other people whom I wanted to see dead and wished them harm. Then I’m hurt, like right now, and beaten, and downtrodden and run over and I just want it to end and I realize when all those people were being so shitty, they probably felt the exact same way I feel right now. I got to remember this feeling, because what I really want right now aside from reprieve is just compassion. I just want somebody to hold me, not want anything from me and just tell me that every thing is going to be okay.

I think I would choose death if it weren’t so… you know… final. I somewhat believe in reincarnation and the transfer of energy once you leave this space but I think some things are very succinct. Fingerprints are unique for a purpose. When you die, you may come back again, but you’ll never have those same fingerprints, it’ll never be the same. What we’re going through right now is very unique, and as much as “right now” completely fucking sucks for me, I guess I’m not ready to completely give up on it just yet. If I go right now, there’s no turning back, I wouldn’t just die, everybody I know would die, everything I do would die. I may come back but, this whole thing that I know of right now wouldn’t exist for me anymore. There would be no more Monthly Breeze or Downtown Los Angeles City Walk or momma or America’s Next Top Model, or Diet Cherry 7up or Facebook or, just the slew of other things that make up my world view… I would have to start completely all over again and who knows when and where I would turn up… if I would turn up.

As I get older I’m trying to come to terms with my own mortality. I remember a grade school teacher once telling me that the main thing separating us from animals is the fact that we know that we are eventually going to die. Dogs just bark, fish just swim, but we know eventually one day, it’s all going to go, and once you make that realization, that’s when you begin to live, and take advantage of your opposable thumbs, your working limbs, you appreciate your lungs still being able to be filled with air, your voice still being able to speak a cognizant language. I know one day I’m going to eventually die and the thought totally sucks…. I got so much more game to play! Right now, I have a grocery list of shit that I feel is just beating me down and just raping the happiness out of my soul but I just have to think of the bigger picture in that… no one really leaves this earth completely “clean”, like… everybody gets a little shit thrown on them at one point or another… everybody, from Ghandi to Audrey Hepburn toOprah… nobody’s perfect and no one has had a life completely filled with perfect circumstances and easy loving… everybody has had some shit thrown on them at one point or another. You just gotta wipe it off and keep going. You gotta realize you aren’t the only one, the first one or the last one really… to ever be shitted on… and it’s okay. It fucking sucks… but it’s okay.

Besides, I keep going back to my parents. Well… all of my family and my friends really but mainly momma and daddy. They’ve been through about thirty or so more years of being shit on than me. Who am I to complain about anything or consider ending it all when I haven’t even begun to go through the crap they have. And for some particular reason I just think they would just be extremely pissed off at me… ending my life… for my job?! For my ex-boyfriend!? For the credit card people!? For the Federal Student Loan people!? For the Gas Company!? I think they would be enraged at me for not having the balls to stand up to all of those entities and say, “Fuck you! You can’t have me!”

But I do understand the inclination. And I hope I can offer some sort of solace to anybody who might be going through the same thing… because we all do… and we just got to get over it.

It’s stopped raining by the way.

ICONIC DIVAS AND WHY GAY MEN ARE ATTRACTED TO THEM

2009-10-10T02:58:00.000-07:00

© Dale Guy Madison
It’s an age-old question: Why are gay men so fascinated with divas? Is it their attitude or a vicarious experience? Are we inspired by triumph over adversity? Entertainers have attitude. Who has not lived vicariously through their favorite star? Has there ever been a person in general who has not triumphed over some kind of adversity? Gay fans unlike others in entertainment are fiercely loyal, dedicated, and steadfast to their icons long after the hit records and box office bonanzas have dried up.

A gay icon is a public figure, gay or straight who is embraced by many in the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender communities. Qualities of a gay icon often include glamour, flamboyance, and strength through adversity. Judy, Barbra, Diana and Madonna embody many of these qualities and more.

Somewhere over Judy Garland, skies are blue
(1929-1969) Judy Garland could be called the first non sexual gay icon. According to Jon Murphy of ScotsGay Magazine, the first example of a gay icon was St. Sebastian who, in the Nineteenth Century, was viewed by gay men as a classic closet case (suppressed homosexuality) and a tortured image of homosexual desire (Murphy 1). St Sebastian was a Christian saint and martyr, who is said to have been killed while the Roman emperor Diocletian engaged in the persecution of Christians in the 3rd century. There exist many paintings of him nude as a young man with arrow piercings all over his body.

The Twentieth century gave birth to the Hollywood film system giving gays females on screen they could adore without any sexual attraction. Gay audiences have related to Judy Garland’s journey to the land of OZ as the perfect metaphor of being different in a world and the acceptance of social outcasts. Judy sang “Somewhere over the Rainbow” and ironically the rainbow flag is the symbol of the gay pride movement.

People who need Streisand are the luckiest people in the world
(1942- ) In 1963, when Garland sang a duet with Barbra Streisand on her television variety show introducing her to audiences, it was like one icon passing the torch on to the next. If Garland typified the diva of the fifties, Streisand carried the banner through the sixties.

With the success of the Broadway show and film Funny Girl, Barbra also embodied the ugly duckling/beautiful swan syndrome perfected by Garland. She won an Academy Award for her first movie performance. Unlike Garland, Barbra refused to have her large nose fixed to fit the image of standard beauty. She made awkward beautiful and had success with movies that reflected that attitude in “The Way We Were” The Owl and the Pussy Cat” “What’s up Doc,” “Yentl” and her own remake of “A Star is Born.”

If you need me… call me Miss Ross
(1944- ) When Berry Gordy, founder and creator of Motown discovered The Supremes, his goal was to create the perfect crossover act that would appeal to both black and white audiences. The same cross-generational mix of black and white gay fans that followed The Supremes made Diana Ross a true gay icon with major crossover gay appeal.

Diana Ross, the lead singer of the trio, stood out from the start. She is a drag queen image come true. Her huge wigs, heavily made up eyes, and sequined gowns are imitated nightly in gay clubs across the country. In 1964, Ross was a skinny black, hunched back singer with popping eye movements. She inched her way ahead of the two identically dressed background singers beside her. Diana became the first cross-over gay icon. She became an icon for white as well as black gay followers.

Madonna, like a virgin touched for the very first time
The 80’s marked a new kind of gay icon when Madonna exploded on the musical scene with her smash hit “Borderline” in 1984 as the AIDS epidemic took off. Rebellious and fearless, unlike Diana Ross, Madonna tackled controversial gender, religious, and sexuality issues in her songs and music videos. Madonna boldly acknowledged her gay fans with open arms and was one of the first celebrities seen embracing an AIDS patient. Previous icons surfaced form some tortured kind of image. Garland was plain looking, Streisand had the Jewish nose, Ross was the skinny poor girl group singer, but Madonna was brazen, self confident and attractive from the start. She posed nude for art classes while a struggling singer.

Like Ross’ brother Chico, Madonna’s gay brother has always lived in the shadow of his big sister. Christopher Ciccone recently wrote a tell-all book about his sister’s life, but everyone must surely wonder (“What’s new?”) since Madonna has always been very candid about her life. She has talked openly about her bisexual experimentations and flaunted her affair with Sarah Bernhard.

CONCLUSION
These women survived adversity or at least portrayed a struggle on screen. They have had personal connections to the gay community and used the public personas to embrace the situations. Are they divas because of an attitude or have they lived up to the attitude that was expected of them? That could be the subject of another paper.

These women have evolved into a distinct personal style that was not considered traditional. These women have set fashion standards. Their larger than life images are emulated by gay and straight fans who adore what they have seen. The stories of triumph are like dreams come true for gay audiences who want to believe the odd one out can come out on top.

Wayne Koestenbaum is quoted in the “Fabulous Sublimity of Gay Worship” saying that “gay culture has perfected the art of mimicking a diva—of pretending, inside, to be divine—to help the stigmatized self imagine it is received, believed, and adored. (Farmer 8)” Gay self image is constantly under attack. Diva worship reinforces self esteem and adds a coating of invisible protection. Queer theorist Daniel Harris suggests gay worship paved the way for gay liberation (Milnes).

What stands out most, is the connection these women have to gay audiences during their concert performances. The audiences feel their love and total acceptance. It is something that cannot be faked. Their gay audiences believe their divas truly love them.

When Judy Garland cries, singing Over the Rainbow, her fans cry. When Barbra Streisand says she has stage fright, her fans support her fears to get her through those moments. When Diana Ross goes into the audience and sings Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, her fans get to touch her. When Madonna shocks the world by kissing a black man in a field of burning crosses they know she speaks for them by breaking all taboos. It is hard not putting these women on pedestals who have given themselves to their gay audiences in the most pure honest way they know how, through their art. It is this complex connection to divas and gay men. It is an unarticulated awareness of his own differentness and society’s signals to him about his emotional orientation, sexual identity, and gender roles.

POVERTY: A LOVE STORY

2009-10-10T02:40:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

I remember an episode of the original “Melrose Place” when Heather Locklear’s character Amanda, a ruthless, cutthroat Donald Trump/Omarosa Bin Laden hybrid whose net worth seemed to be in direct proportion to her immorality explained with all the romanticism in the world that when she was younger her main goal in life was to write poetry and paint in oil and acrylics. When it was asked why she didn’t pursue those dreams, all the romance dropped from her face and she responded very flatly and coldly, “Because poverty sucks.”

I began to think of the tumultuous relationship with Poverty that I have had over the years. Truth be said, he’s been the one asking for a divorce; it’s been me who has wanted to talk things over, see if we can work things out. He’s been so consistent; my childhood friend, my adolescent confidant, my adult lover-rapist-therapist… he’s always been around to kiss and/or kick my ass when appropriate. For the past couple of years I have been talking with other entities: Prosperity, Self-Sufficiency, Affluence, Brand Name Ravioli… it’s been pissing him off. “Haven’t I provided for you? Haven’t I been there! When those financially rich and soul poor people demean you haven’t I masturbated you into a cynical, derisive, generic Ravioli and Ramen Noodle calm! Do you think they care about you? When you had no shoes haven’t I always provided you with Payless Shoe Source shoes! When you needed to travel haven’t you consistently flown coach because of me! You would be barefoot and immobile if it weren’t for me!”

And the truth of the matter is… he’s right. If I would have listened to Opulence I would totally be on Skid Row by now or at least have moved back in with my mom… homeless not being able to afford a condominium mortgage, car note, insurance, credit cards for Macy’s/Bloomingdales and such. It was Poverty who sat me down and said, “Kiddo… don’t save up for a car, just get a bus pass, and why buy when you can rent this ghetto ass cold water flat off of Sunset Blvd. with me and we will be just fine.” And I guess we have been… for awhile at least. But there is something awfully unfulfilling about our dysfunctional little relationship lately, something that I used to think was this manifestation of my growing ego, of me wanting to keep up with the Joneses as I get older. It doesn’t feel like that anymore. In certain ways it feels like I want more just to keep up with me. And it other more prominent ways, I think I have just become exponentially co-dependent on that relationship. I have used it as the punch line ofso many of my jokes, the excuse for so many of my short failings, the hub of so many of my dispositions. And while Opulence has his distracting attributes of wanting you to live beyond your means, Poverty can be just as destructive with never wanting your means to ever grow or flourish

Not too long ago I received a comment about one of my articles in which the author touted that I need to “stop claiming poor” with the inclination that if I claim poor then I will be poor. I was extremely pissed reading that comment and I still am not in a pleasant enough state of mind whereas I can thank the author for the advice but what it did do was open my eyes to the type energy that I am giving out to the world. I don’t think that proclaiming myself to be poor makes me poor but I do think that it gives people who are listening an opportunity to treat me as if I am thusly welcoming them into my already dysfunctional relationship with Poverty… and the last thing any shaky relationship needs is well intended advice from someone who only has half of the story. One part of the story is that I have embraced Poverty, the other half of it is the reason why, and the reason why is that in certain ways….I’ve fallen in love with Poverty. You know, he has always been there for me. If there was ever one thing I could ever count on in life, it’s been my inability to pay shit on time… if I pay it at all as well my ability to be self deprecating in regards to my finances and to usher comical shards about my appearance and/or manner due to my income. And like with any relationship, you go through your changes, you both grow at different rates and hope that at the end of the day you still wind up together. Well, I am realizing, and I am putting this energy into the world, that as bittersweet and comforting as these decades have been for me, yeah… I think it’s time we get a divorce.

And dude… like any divorce, it’s not as easy as it sounds! I have been obsessed with anything that emanates from the mouth Suze Orman lately and last Monday I actually sat down, listed every single one of my creditors and gave each and every one of them a call to work out a repayment plan, which let me tell you… took courage of Herculean proportions to do! That along with trying to get back on schedule with paying my rent is probably going to affect my trip back to Chicago this Christmas and that’s when Poverty keeps creeping back in, “Fuck all those Credit Cards, and your management company doesn’t care if your rent is late! Go to Chicago! Get more credit cards to pay for the trip! You won’t have any money when you get back but you don’t have any money now and if you stick with me, you’ll be eating Ramen Noodle dinners again for the next couple of months to pay for the trip and you’ll be fine… just like you always have been!” It’s a convincing argument. It’s one I listened to and atoned to for a couple of decades now. But I also keep hearing two other voices in my head also that are basically saying the same thing, “You’re in a fucked up situation, but you can get out of it, and never return.” One voice is Suze Orman’s, the other, is my own.

So, I want to say that this is a “trial separation” but I somehow feel like a battered wife with a bloody nose and a blackened eye saying she wants a “trial separation” from her husband. You can just feel swarms of voices screaming, “No girl, he needs to leave!” Yeah, my sweet love Poverty has to go. I don’t forsee myself ever becoming a ruthless, cutthroat Donald Trump/Omarosa Bin Laden hybrid… but I will honestly and loudly proclaim that “Poverty Sucks!” And if I ever eat another Ramen Noodle as long as I live it will be too soon.

HOMOCOSTAL

2009-07-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

(c) Calvin McFadden

I was recently talking with a friend of mine in Los Angeles about the differences between how gay men relate to each other out there as opposed to the way gay men relate to each other here in my hometown of New York City. I’ve had my fair share of relationships in both cities and as I began to ponder my experiences, I realized that the differences between the two locales are pretty huge.

I spent my entire twenties in Los Angeles and I remember having several conversations with paramours that expressed that they did not prefer to be penetrated yet on several occasions it did not take much coercion at all to actually “infiltrate their citadel” as it were. There were even partners that said that they did not perform oral sex yet would attach themselves to my crotch faster than you can say “J.L. King.”

Back here in New York, I find that men are more honest, direct and upfront in pretty much every aspect of life including their sexual proclivities. There are no metaphors when comes to the New Yorkers’ sexuality, there are no grey areas or phrases up for interpretation. When someone in New York says that they are a “top” it means that they are a top, unlike in Los Angeles when it can be interpreted as, “Really-I’m-a-notorious-bottom-but-I-totally-have-issues-with-my-sexuality-so-I-wear-the-baggy-jeans-the-Timberlands-and-walk-with-a-pimp-so-no-one-will-know-exactly-how-much-of-a-flaming-homosexual-I-am-so-I-will-tell-you-that-I-am-a-top-but-if-you-make-the-slightest-effort-to-try-and-fuck-me-I-am-going-wrap-my-butt-cheeks-around-your-dick-so-fiercely-they-are-going-to-need-a-crowbar-to-separate-us.”

As my friend in Los Angeles conveyed, the brothers there still have huge hang ups when it comes gender roles, particularly when it comes to matters of sex. Tops are seen as masculine, virile, prodigious. Bottoms are seen as feminine, weak, powerless. The ideas of strong femininity or solicitous masculinity are foreign concepts to Los Angeleans, particularly when it comes to matters of sex. Sexual positions are not seen as innovative means to an orgasmic end, but rather deeply embedded identification markers that represent your lot in life. In Los Angeles, your desire to penetrate and be penetrated can be synonymous to bar codes on produce, if you like to be penetrated, your bar code will read, “punk.” If you like to penetrate your bar code will read, “rough trade.” And did I mention that these codes are being read and interpreted by other gay men? When did Los Angeles adopt the sexist and homophobic attributes of our heterosexual counterparts and how in the name of all that is sexy did they turn those attributes into erotica?

Now of course being New York born and raised I do have a certain biased towards the games men play on the East Coast as opposed to the West Coast but there is some truth in that you would be hard pressed to find a higher percentage of sexually repressed gay Black men in New York as opposed to the “DL” brothers in Los Angeles. I think of the sexual experiences I’ve had in Los Angeles (e.g. those benches upstairs to the back right of the dance floor of the Catch, behind the curtains at the El Rey) and there is always a certain surreptitious gleam in those memories, not out of remembering the fear we had in getting caught by security and being escorted out, but more of a social concern at the idea of an associate catching us and spreading the absolutely horrible rumor that you, a gay man, were actually having sex, with a gay man… in a gay club. This doesn’t really exist here on the East Coast. Like I said earlier, there are no grey areas when it comes to sex here, there is no hierarchy. There is no “penetrate” you are gay level one, “get penetrated” you are gay level two. Here, we are all able bodied, oversexed men and if someone were to catch me playing naked twister behind a curtain here, there would be no infantile gossip mongering because everyone who would be told would either understand that we are all able bodied, oversexed men and/or would just stand in line for their turn.

The more I think about it I realize that it is an idea of “image”. Like those old “Sprite” commercials that used to tout “Image is nothing, thirst is everything”, Los Angeles is an industry town and it’s industry is the production of images so it’s no wonder that much like the coal dust that has a tendency to spread through Allentown, PA, the toxicity of the images produced from Hollywood has a tendency to spread through the city’s paradigms. In Los Angeles, it’s not whether or not you are a top or a bottom but rather if you represent yourself to be a top or bottom that matters. Which I assume has some amiable qualities since people have been playing that game there for so long… but fuck if I know. Personally, I would rather just cut to the chase and be honest. I don’t particularly view my relationships, sexual and otherwise, as commodities or tools to improve my social status or allure, I view them as sacred talismans, customized to always remind me that at the end of the day, I am alive, I am blessed and I am damn beautiful.

And as far as my sexual practices are concerned, they are what they are. And some might go on and on into oblivion trying to classify my state of being solely based on those practices but I have a tendency to think those same people are over compensating for something lacking in their own personal regime; top, bottom or the salacious space in between, at the end of the day I’m a man… and that’s all that matters. As I was talking to my friend we both began to see our sexual practices a lot like pets and we both began to see New York as walking the dog and the dog walking Los Angeles. And while I love my friend dearly and his constant fight to gain control of the leash… I wouldn’t trade New York for any other bitch in the world.

THE FOURTH ANNUAL BEAUTIFUL MAN LIST

2009-07-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

The Beautiful Man List started in retaliation to the “Most Beautiful People” issues of mainstream magazines (e.g. People, Us Weekly). More than likely the lists would be filled with page after page of thin, chiseled, young, clear skinned people of no color that would fit in quite well in your typical Gossip-Gilmore-Girl-Smallville-90210-esque television show. At the time, I wondered where in the world James Avery, the guy who played the dad on “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” would fit. Or Heavy D. Or any of the “Wassup Guys”. These were the people who rocked my world at the time and in certain ways still do. It began this train of thought of what exactly do I consider to be “beautiful”… and why.

Over the years I have gotten some slack over the choices I’ve made, mainly because the choices I have made have been quite antithetical to the original rebellious intention of the list. There have been more than one thin, chiseled, young, clear skinned man of color that would fit in quite well in your typical I’m-a-thug-but-I-have-a-stylist-and-a-Pilates-trainer hip hop video.

What I have learned is, you just can’t please everybody. And while I do understand how grueling it is to compose a comprehensive list, I’m still unsatisfied by what the mainstream considers to be “beautiful”, and maybe just a little ashamed that in certain instances, I concur.

Over the years when I have posted a personal ad what I have done is reprinted the lyrics to Alanis Morissette’s “21 Things I Want In A Lover” with the notice that these things are exactly what I’m looking for also. They are also what I consider to be the most beautiful attributes of men. The gist of the list is someone who smart, funny, conscientious and can fuck like a stallion. All of which you don’t need a six pack to be… though it wouldn’t hurt… thus the overlap.

So without further ado, I present to you the 4th Annual Monthly Breeze Beautiful Man List. Each one of these men I feel embody every one of the 21 things I and Alanis are looking for in a lover. The majority of these dudes are straight, married or both… but even still… just beautiful…

10. Common (Rapper)

Over the years I have garnered quite the appreciation for Common. He’s truly one of the very few rappers out there that comes off as street smart but not a minstrel show. And that body doesn’t hurt at all.

9. Luis Guzman (Actor)

I have just always loved this dude! I just think he’s adorable and his eyes get me every time! I read this interview he did in Esquire magazine once and fell more in love with him. He has this very unassuming masculine yet humorous quality about himself that just knocks me out. And he’s short… always a plus.

8. Nate James (Singer)

So this is my dream. I’m in NYC, 2:00 a.m., having a hot dog while looking at some magazines on the corner. Nate James gets out of his cab, preferably after a performance of some sort and asks the cashier if he can break a $100 dollar bill. Cashier gives him a smirk no. I give him a smirk yes and give him five $20 bills. He graciously thanks me, hands the cabbie two of the $20 bills, comes back to me and says, “Thanks so much man. I don’t mean to stare but… have you heard that song ‘21 Things I Want In a Lover’ by Alanis Morissette?” with the biggest smile on his face.

7. David Otunga (Reality TV Star)

Truthfully, he should be much higher. Physically, I can’t think of too many men who are as blatantly attractive. But he does have a few flags, volunteering to be nick named “Punk” on national television is one. Literally crying because he could not win the heart of Tiffany “New York’ Pollard on the same television show is another. And though I absolutely love Jennifer Hudson… I mean… come on… have we learned nothing from Star Jones or Terry McMillan?

6. Diesel Washington (Porn Star)

I am very proud to announce the first official Porn Star on the Beautiful Man List. And if I were going to choose a porn star, Diesel would most certainly be the dude. The physical attributes are obviously there: tall, dark, handsome… and his sexual prowess has been documented and certified platinum on several DVDs by Titan Media. But if you ever took a look at his MySpace you’ll see he’s actually a very funny, sensitive and thoughtful guy. If Michelangelo's David were a human I imagine it would be Diesel, you know… if he were bald, had a ten inch penis and liked to fuck white boys into pretzels… which you know… would be kinda weird.

5. Manny Ramirez (Los Angeles Dodgers)

So I know as much about baseball as your typical baseball fan would know about Tori Amos. What I do know, however, that his face was plastered on every screen in my gym for weeks when he was getting into all that trouble with his drug use. I know it’s politically incorrect to think but all that was rolling through my head at the time was… he’s a professional athlete with dreadlocks who’s willing to share his stash… I GOTS to get me some of dat!

4. Deadlee (Gay Rapper)

Once upon a time me I was fooling around the internet and found this really cute dude who claimed himself to be a gay rapper. Fast Forward a year or two and I’m performing with the same cute dude at Los Angeles’ Outfest Spoken Word festival. Fast Forward a couple more years and I’m actually drinking and having conversations with the same cute dude at my local bar. If Diesel is the first porn star on the list, Deadlee is the first person that I sorta know on the list so it’s a little hard to gush here but I’ll say this… I’m still a fan, he’s still cute as all hell, and I wouldn’t mind doing a tequila shot or two off of his stomach.

3. Naveen Andrews (Actor)

Now this one I have to attribute to my friend Jair who listed him in his “Beauty of Humans” section of his MySpace page. I have always thought this dude to be the heartthrob on “Lost” and always thought I was alone in my lust until I saw an incredibly handsome and groomed picture on Jair’s page and decided to search for more pictures on the net that resulted in just a bevy of photographs that fully show this dude to be a walking aphrodisiac. I get that there’s a certain allure between that whole Kate, Jack, Sawyer triangle but I think it’s definitely time for Sayid to get some naked time… how about with Hurley!

2. Michael Eric Dyson (Academic)

I think anybody who has ever seen this dude talk for even thirty seconds would be convinced without a doubt that the rivers that run through this dude are endlessly deep. I love the fact that he constantly challenges all Black men including himself to rise above the inconsistencies that we all fall into. Add that sexy ass beard of his and you have got one well rounded brother that would most definitely have me stuttering if I ever met him.

1. Barack Obama (President Elect)

“This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes We Can.”

Dear Mr. Obama,

Yes I Will.

Love,

Breeze

PLUMP FICTION

2009-07-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Over the past year or so I have lost a substantial amount of weight. I never really had any plans on talking about it or mentioning it until I got down to some ridiculously Olsen Twin-esque weight but the gist of the matter is that I joined Weight Watchers last January and as of date I have lost 140 pounds. I've got about 80 more pounds to go so I'm still big as an elephant but more like a cute baby elephant… with tattoos.

I have really been avoiding sitting down and penning my "fat memoirs" as it were or extensively journaling about the journey, but so many people have come up and asked about that journey either out of curiosity or a subtle plea for assistance that I've been thinking that maybe I should sit myself down and have a good long look at how my exterior has affected my interior and vice versa all these years.

As far as I can remember I have always been a big guy. I once saw a picture of myself in the first or second grade and I was just amazed that there was a time in my life when I was weight and height proportionate, I can't remember that far back. All of my memories from grammar school to high school to college to strip clubs all revolve around me trying to find my own little niche as "chubby-funny-guy-with-a-good-heart" in whatever clique I decided to squeeze myself into.

Needless to say, finding that niche in Los Angeles proved itself to be quite the challenging task. Keep in mind that I have always bucked trends. When most people went to college and gained the "Freshman Ten", the ten pounds that most freshmen gain from overindulging in the cafeteria, I actually lost fifty pounds. I didn't stay in a dorm; I got an apartment and had to fend for myself which led to a couple of unintentional extended fasts as I simply could not afford food for almost a year. And when most people come to Los Angeles and lose the "Los Angles Five", the five pounds most people who relocate here shed immediately in response to the smaller waistlines here, I gained a hundred pounds by munching on mountains of "low calorie" and/or "low carb" meals. And after getting my heartbroken in a million pieces, I ballooned up to my all time highest weight of 382 pounds.

And I do have to say that being an obese African American homosexual man, in Los Angeles of all places, is quite the daunting occupation to have. We're the platypuses of the community, an odd conglomeration of different images patchworked together to reflect different parts of ourselves that we have been fighting against tooth and nail ever since we were kids and learned the meaning of the word "fat". To some I represent the pure depression and sloth that fed many a Hollywood serial killer, to others I represent the safe, kind and intelligent momma's boy who has to pay a prostitute and/or bathhouse in order to get laid. And to others I'm the uncouth ghetto boy whose major thrusts involve fried chicken, marijuana and cartoons. I represent a litany of negative connotations that this city has deemed upon people who don't look a certain way and unfortunately, this city's digestive system (particularly the Black Gay Community's) is designed to evacuate people like myself. And if you don't have some semblance of self here, you're going to get shit out… or go crazy from all the shit that people will dump on you.

The myth is that, once you get to some particular material place in your life, all will be fine with the world. Once you make this much money, once you have this car, once you have this condo, once you date this person and for me it was once I weigh this much, nirvana will be near. But one of my group leaders asked me one of the most simple and profound questions I've ever been asked… "And then what?" So after I'm able to fit into a size 32 jeans… then what do I do. I've always thought about "riding into the sunset", I never thought about "the day after".

One of the mottos my group leader pines on about which I think is trite as all hell but it's pretty true, is that "Weight loss isn't a result, it's a journey" and the same can be said about life. It shouldn't be an ongoing accumulation of things in which, once you have them you'll be happy, the happy comes living your day to day life. I remember once dating this guy (the one who broke my heart in a million pieces) who figured that once he made enough money and got back into shape and I published a book (and maybe did something with my hair) then maybe we would be happy. I remember telling him that… this is it, this is the relationship… this is supposed to be the good part.

I always figured that once I lost some weight that I would be happy but that's just not true. I had to get happy first… or at least a true desire to be, the weight loss just helps that. Truth be told, I don't particularly want to be thinner more so than I want to feel good, I want to be good, I want to do good. I want to enjoy the time I spend with my friends and family and not be concerned with whatever bullshit reindeer game that might be going on or concerned that I'm not wearing the latest clothes or have the flashiest car or that I don't have the best body. I honestly believe that there are some guys and gals out there who are 382 pounds or more that are perfectly comfortable in their skin and to them I honestly say God bless you, because that's what it's all about. For me, I can tell you that I wasn't. I was just extremely self conscious, self depreciating and a bit defensive, traits that haven't particularly gone away… but I'm definitely handling it a lot better and that is just as important if not even more so than the actual weight loss. The thing is… if you're an asshole at 435 pounds, you're going to be an asshole at 155 pounds. Weight loss might change the way you appear, but if you're still attacking the world in the same passive aggressive, heavy handed, shoddy way you were beforehand, you're still going to be unfulfilled.

Needless to say, the relationship between me and that guy did not workout… though I started to… three to five times a week at Bally's Fitness. It's a mind numbingly slow process potholed with setbacks, plateaus and a few failures but at the end of the day I feel better and that's what really matters. Don't get me wrong, I totally dig the fact that I can buy clothes that don't have silhouettes of animals in place of their size label, but I was just ecstatic when during my last trip to San Francisco I was able to walk from Ashbury and Haight to the Castro district with one of my best friends without hacking up a lung or passing out from exhaustion.

Another myth that a good friend who also had experienced a major weight loss told me was that as I become more fit, the dating world will reveal a higher level of men of which to choose… which I just think is bullshit. I think it's going to be the same sons of bitches that have always been out there, I'm just going to have a harder time sifting through the mulch. I liken it to a very fair skinned Biracial girl who dates a white guy, they have a beautiful relationship and really dig each other then six months down line the guy makes some disparaging remark against African Americans, maybe even spouting off that he doesn't like them. If the girl were dark skinned, the both of them would have known from the get go where each other stood. Without that filter of skin color, the Biracial girl could conceivably date a member of the Aryan Nation. The same goes with weight. Even though I have lost a great deal of weight, I am still quite the bulky 242 pounds, far from being mistaken as anorexic, and right now I can tell within the first five seconds of meeting someone where their intentions lie as far as dating and/or associating with someone who isn't as pretty as they are. I imagine that the closer I get to my goal weight and getting something that at least resembles a six pack, that filter will slowly fade. At a healthy weight, I could conceivably date some pompous asshole whose main thrust in life is keeping his waistline, IQ and age under 30. The dating world might reveal more men in which to choose… I just doubt if they will be of a "higher level." I think that there will be a higher percentage of physically active assholes thrown in the mix.

It's been my experience that a lot of information out there in regards to weight loss, body imaging, cosmetics and such are all marketing based smoke blown up our collective asses. Every time I see a billboard for the lap band surgery nowadays or an infomercial about some product that promises that you can lose 20 pounds in 20 days or even a fast food commercial that touts the bliss in a deep quadruple fried barbequed bacon burger dog pizza I can't help but roll my eyes at this crazy capitalistic system of ours that tries with Orwellian proportions to make the rich get richer while the poor get poorer by making us feel even more shitty about ourselves, these carrots dangling in front our noses promising the fulfillment of all nirvana once you acquire some waistline, fade cream, hair cut, jean, house, car, burger… which in reality never happens.

You know that old saying "Give a man a fish he'll eat for a day, teach him how to fish and he'll eat forever"? Well that's basically been the most important thing I have got out of Weight Watchers and it has slowly become the lynch pin to my virility nowadays. Weight Watchers isn't trying to sell you prepackaged products that promise good health, they're giving you information on how to obtain good health on your own. They're not giving you fish, they're teaching you how to fish, and from there I just began to look at the world more holistically. If you give me a million dollars, and a car, and a beautiful house, will I get an adrenaline rush and feel happy beyond my comprehension? Fuck yeah! But then there's that question again, "And then what?" What about next year or five years from now, what about after I pay insurance, taxes and utilities on the house, insurance and maintenance on the car, after the big screen television, the trips to New Zealand, the shoes… where did my life go? Wasn't I trying to get healthy and watch my weight before I started ditching my Lean Cuisines for the deep fried quadruple barbequed bacon burger dog pizzas that I can now afford in abundance? Wasn't I trying to increase my writing skills so I can become a better writer, help people, help myself… find God? And the what fuck… wasn't I hanging out with my friends, trying to settle down with somebody who wasn't some pompous asshole whose main thrust in life is keeping his waistline, IQ and age under 30? Giving me the fish of house, car and money would keep me happy for a minute, but learning how to be happy on my own is one of the greatest gifts of life.

When people who I haven't seen a really long time see me nowadays, usually the first thing they say is, "Wow, you lost a lot of weight, you must be happier." I try not to come off as unappreciative but the optimistic truth of the matter is, I'm about the same, I just lost a little weight… but I'm getting there.

THE CULPABILITY OF THE ELDERS

2009-03-10T23:32:00.000-07:00

I was having a cup of tea with a friend of mind recently and we began to peruse the current political, social and even spiritual landscapes of the African American LGBT community here in Los Angeles. A fellow comrade once mused that he could feel some sort of malevolent ethereal pulsation within the community very much like fauna can tell when a storm is coming to their flora. In his mind’s eye, he could see a common thread that tied every incongruity, absurdity and broken collaboration that has occurred over the past year or so together, and like a blind man using a fence made of knotted rope to feel his way down a path, he felt that each tether was bringing us closer and closer to some sort of spiritual Armageddon for Black Lesbians and Gays. My friend and I could not claim the same “Cassandra” complex but we were in agreement that when/if the history books ever document this particular moment in time about our contributions to the greater social scheme, this would most definitely be our “Before” picture; this would be the rhetorical dark days before the dawn.

Without adding any more insult to the multi-tiered injuries going on I will say in the broadest of terms that there are substantial factions within the African American LGBT community that have surreptitiously placed themselves in diametric opposition to each other. And while my fellow comrade might blame some sort of cosmic retribution, my friend and I think it’s more of a case of overactive human ego on every one’s part. But who knows, maybe it’s both. Maybe we’re just reaping the piles and piles of self righteousness, self hate, self loathing, inactivity, immobility, macho posing, DL supporting, racist, misogynistic, materialistic, egotistical bullshit that we’ve been sowing for years now.

What I do know is that… when Proposition 8 passed and placed a ban on same sex marriages, one of the main people that I most sorely blamed for specifically not educating the African American community on the importance of the issue… was myself. Now in no way, shape or form do I think that the African American community was solely responsible for the passage of Proposition 8 but I do think that the information that was filtered through our community was highly flawed and toxic and I for one did absolutely nothing to alter that flow of information or even stop it. At the time I was in agreement with the majority of my heterosexual counterparts in believing that there were much more pressing matters to attend to within the community. I was also in agreement with my Caucasian counterparts in assuming that California, arguably the gayest state in the Union (outside of maybe Florida who gets extra points for having the most phallic shaped state in the union), would easily allow same-sex marriages to exist. I was wrong. I was flat out wrong on both counts.

So when I’m talking about the state of disarray that the African American LGBT community might be in, I have to factor in my own culpability in that because… I’m not talking about “them”, I’m talking about “us”… and as a whole, “We”… fucked up. “We” didn’t step up to the plate, “We” are bickering with each other trying to claim the title of omnipotent spokesmodel for all Black “Gaydom”, and most notably as of date… “We” are not listening to our youth and “We” are not learning from our elders.

Talking with my friend I imagined the state of African American LGBT affairs here in Los Angeles to the part in “The Wizard of Oz” when Dorothy and the gang looked behind the curtain and found out that the wizard wasn’t really a wizard but a lonely old dude trying to do the best he can. There is a certain level of transparency that a lot of organizations that serve the Black LGBT community here in Los Angeles do not operate under and much like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” there have been ambitious, young “go getters” who have peeked behind that curtain and have made the absolute horrible realization that… it is not wizards or gods who have sustained our community, but flawed human beings who have had the wherewithal and maybe just a little luck to maintain all these years. And while they most certainly deserve our respect, they just as similarly deserve our scrutiny. And while it is the obnoxiousness of the Dorothys out there that needs to be quelled, it is their ambition that should be nurtured.

And whether this influx of ego driven acrobatics that has played out over the past couple of years is the result of our community’s full concession into the Gordon Gekko Reganomics whose initial bittersweet blooming stages were caught in Jennie Livingston’s “Paris Is Burning” or some unquantifiable cosmic retribution, I think the one thing that we all should be striving for at this point… is reprieve.

While we were bickering and bitching and having pissing contests to see whose experience and/or eagerness could go further... we lost the legal right to get married, we lost a quantifiable portion of one of our most treasured pride celebrations, and most importantly we stand to lose actual lives as more and more of us feel as if there is no quantifiable support system for the Black LGBT and are deciding to slide back into the closet without acknowledging our HIV status and/or the homophobic incongruities that we might encounter further encouraging an environment ripe for hate crimes against us. According to Kim Pearson, a professor at The College of New Jersey, there were 659 stories in major newspapers about the 1998 gay-bias murder of Caucasian Matthew Shepard. When African American Sakia Gun was the victim of a gay-bias murder in 2003, there were only 21 articles written in the seven month period after her attack. Numbers like these could not be encouraging for the brother or sister dealing with coming forth with their own sexual identity.

I just feel as that at this point there are several factions wanting to take the lead and be our Gay Black Hope, be the hero who could thwart the evil doers out there and transform us into a healthy community. Well... to quote Tina Turner, I just don’t think we need another hero; I don’t think we need a singular representative voice. I think all of us, young and old, need to be accountable for what we do, why we’re doing it and how we do it. I think we should always be cognizant of the fact that there will always be some young “whip snapper” coming up behind us and pulling back our curtains to see what we’re doing and we shouldn’t take that as an act of disrespect but an opportunity to teach and maybe even learn. I think the visibility that we need to have cannot be facilitated through one voice; it has to be individually in our homes, in our churches, in our playing fields, in our jobs, in our governments, it’s going to take all of us. I don’t think it’s necessarily a hero we need more so than the strength, the courage and the wisdom it takes to save ourselves.

But alas, I do believe in the idea of “community” and the strength behind numbers. The trick to that is, however, you can’t have many unless each one is committed to the task at hand. Or rather, me and my friend can’t, as a community of two, patronize Starbucks if we don’t know what we’re thirsty for individually. Thusly, The Black LGBT Community can’t fully support the efforts against Proposition 8 if we don’t know what we emotionally thirst for individually.

But I have noticed in the past couple of years, that there has been a collective thirst building in those of us “out” LGBT people of color. So the trick to that is to agree on how to get what we need, where to get it, and to allow people who follow us the same access.

GAYS, LESBIANS AND CRENSHAW BOULEVARD

2009-03-10T23:19:00.000-07:00

While I had my own reservations about picketing a community on an issue in which there was arguably no outreach done to ask for support beforehand, I decided to march in the phenomenally momentous “March for LGBT Equality” down Crenshaw Boulevard last year. The march, organized by Love at Work – The Exchange, was a response to the passing of Proposition 8 which banned marriage between same sex couples in the State of California. After the Proposition passed, there was a flurry of conjecture, accusations and assumptions about how something like this could happen in California of all places, one of the most liberal and quite frankly… “gay” of all the states in the union. One of the first responses was that the African American community was to blame which of course started other flurries of conjecture, accusations and assumptions.

I think one of the most positive things that came from the whole brouhaha was that it gave an opportunity for homosexual and heterosexual Black people to have a good old fashion no holds barred, face to face, technologically-free conversation. Blogs, Twitter and instant messages are fine, but there is a certain intimacy that exists between people sitting face to face with each other and experiencing the beauty (and horror) of live, unedited, unscripted interaction that I find truly amiable.

I’ve noticed that it’s really easy to talk about “them” when you don’t really know who “them” is or when “them” is sitting right next to you. During the town hall meetings that I attended I was fascinated to hear the true voice of what African American heterosexuals had to say unadorned and unedited. The main thing I got out of the meetings is that both Black homosexuals and heterosexuals are guilty of stereotyping the other faction and we really don’t have a lot of experience in interacting with each other on a sober, respectable, daily level. I could sense that it was fairly difficult for a lot of the homophobes to spurt out the evils of homosexuality or the “ultimate homosexual agenda” to convert children when there were actual homosexuals sitting across from them who did not have the remote appearance or decorum of a bunch of extra rejects from Fame or America’s Next Top Model. It was equally just as difficult for me to spurt out my own ideas about the devil obsessed “breeders” more jealous and curious about anal sex than appalled by it when there where actual heterosexuals sitting across from me who basically just wanted to know why were we so angry and how is this going to effect the homicide and HIV infection rates in our community. It was just very refreshing to have an actual conversation where people spoke for themselves and I did not fill in the blanks with my own biased opinions and experiences.

It was definitely the motivating factor for me to participate in the march. While going into it I did feel as if it was a case of “too little too late” in regards to the Proposition 8 issue, but I mainly felt that… time was due. When I first moved to Los Angeles in 1998 I remember having a conversation about having a Black Gay Pride Celebration in Leimert Park with a couple of other brothers in a Discussion group that I used to patronize. The consensus at the time was overwhelmingly pessimistic as the brothers pined on about how it would never happen, how Crenshaw (and Black People as a whole) would never accept open homosexuals, how the gay version of Boyz-N-Da-Hood would never be told…

Fast forward a decade later to me in my Black Gay Pride t-shirt video taping a hundred or so African American homosexuals marching to the Crenshaw Mall chanting, “What do we want! Equality! When do we want it! Now!”

To me it wasn’t necessarily about Proposition 8. It was about visibility, it was about acknowledging our extended presence in a community that is quite frankly… ours. I remember at one point this irate older gentleman screaming at me and friend of mine, “Go home! Take that shit back to Hollywood someplace!” At which point my friend, enraged, screamed from the top of her lungs, “I am home brotha! I grew up across the street over there!”

There were a few little outbursts like that along the march route but all in all it was pretty positive. Afterwards one of my best friends told me that there was a pink “Yes on 8” mini-van that was following us in an effort to counter our efforts. He equated the van to the KKK’s antithetical efforts during the civil rights movement, a sentiment I thought was hilariously misguided. A pink mini-van with a tinny bull horn is pretty insignificant compared to burning crosses, lynches and fire hoses. But days before the march I honestly have to say that I was a little fearful. I was so hopped up on “Righteous Civil Rights” juice that I forgot that not everybody drinks that same drink… and that there was a possibility of some real danger, some real violence. This is South Central Los Angeles after all. It is a beautiful part of town but seriously… N.W.A. wasn’t lying about the gangs, the drugs, the corruption. On the bus ride up to Crenshaw and Vernon I do have to say… I was a little scared. Particularly since I sarcastically figured 15, maybe 16 people would actually show up to proclaim their full on homosexuality in the hood. But the one thing I kept thinking was, and I’m not sure who said it, but courage isn’t the absence of fear… courage is actually being scared completely shitless, and still going through with it. So I just stayed on the bus with images of the numerous drive-by shootings that could occur, some religious nut driving into the crowd or maybe a malitoff cocktail or two thrown at me thinking that what I was doing was righteous enough to accept any reciprocal effort.

Well when I got off the bus I was thrilled to find the park filled to the brim with supporters and as far as the drive-by shootings, deaths by speeding cars and malitoff cocktails… we had some numb nuts in a pink mini van with a tinny bull horn who had seen too many “Men on Film” skits and took them way too seriously. We also got the occasional name calling here and there and once when we passed by this barber shop, everyone in the place sprinted towards the windows to slam the shades shut and lock the front door… which till this day I think is just funny as shit.

What I’m really hoping is that the idea of this march continues. The dialogue, the visibility, the courage… it was for me a very proud moment in the history of the Black LGBT community and despite my reservations about the actual intent of the march, I do have to say that I am extremely proud to have been a part of its outcome. I had a chance to look my people in the eye and tell them that this is who I am. And while not all of them agreed, they let me be; they didn’t pluck my eyes out in retaliation or shoot at me or anything. Maybe shut the shades and lock the door… but that was cool, beats a bullet any day of the week. And I am most certain that the brothers who I had the conversation with back in 1998 about having a Black Gay celebration on Crenshaw who did not make it this far would say the same.

THE REBEL WITH A CAUSE

2009-01-10T02:51:00.000-08:00

© Breeze Vincinz

Pornography as described by Merriam-Webster is defined as material that depicts erotic behavior intended to arouse quick intense emotional sexual excitement. I imagine most Freudians claim Merriam-Webster's dictionary to be their bible. Maybe I'm being cynical but it just seems to me that the basis of modern day society is the management of sexuality and perversity. It seems to be the diving board in the construction of everything from baby toys to skyscrapers to governmental policies; the main query being, "will this somehow arouse the most depraved of us to the point where the monkeys will overthrow the monkey house?" Everything has to go through that filter. Let's go back to the baby toy suggestion. I can only imagine the canals a new toy has to go through to make sure that a generation of toddlers aren't slobbering over some thingabob that while smooth, bright and too large to swallow doesn't even remotely resemble parts of the human anatomy that are smooth, bright and too large to swallow.

Now as a confirmed bleeding heart liberal, I have been trained to taunt and ridicule factions that try and make this a more anal retentive country. In the metaphorical Woodstock of existence I have rolled around naked in the mud and shit with my brethren as the acid rock of life is played on the stage. I have smoked a doobie passed to me by someone else with a noun for a name as we smoothed clay and excrement out of our hair. I missed the last presidential election because I was too busy spending the day arranging my Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell cassettes and giving head to my boyfriend and I'm damn proud of it! But alas, as I grow older, I have begun to appreciate, if not the actual presence, then maybe the concept of the keepers trying guard the gate of decency.

While I appreciate an ever growing world and the artistic interpretations of that evolution, there is something to be said for its reciprocal effects, for every angel born there is a demon sired. And while I have shed tears in the presence of some of the most ethereal art I have had the pleasure to experience, there is also a Brittany on the MTV Awards, there is a Hot Ghetto Mess and most recently, there is a 2 Girls, 1 Cup.

For those of you not in the know, and I pray that this means you, 2 Girls and 1 Cup is a video that is making its rounds through the annals of the information highway. It features two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths, eliciting sexual arousal from the acts.

A friend of mine suggested that I take a gander at this little nugget of heaven and for the life of me my anarchist spray painted little hearted just wouldn't let me do it. I will admit that there is a mild curiosity, I have even gone so far as to see the first two seconds of the video where the two girls are embraced in a homoerotic kiss but I couldn't bear to see in actuality what my imagination has already sickened in my mind. But it wasn't your typical right-wing "lemon" fear whereas I was afraid that it would be so tantalizingly awful I would be interested in licking again, this was more of an adult morality calm of, "I don't need this in my world view."

There have been several things that have occurred in this life in which that high road didn't seem necessarily haughty, just simply a good choice. I never saw the leaked pictures of the deceased body of Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopez. I thought that it actually was a breach of Geneva Convention rules on the treatment of prisoners of war when pictures of Saddam Hussein in his underwear shuffling around after his capture were shown in newspapers and I was even more thrown at the pictures littered everywhere showing the torture and abuse of prisoners in Abu Ghraib. When Madonna is photographed with naked men surrounding her, MTV bans her, when Lynndie England is photographed with naked men surrounding her, they preempt Saturday morning cartoons to show that shit.

And all of it, the graphical reproductions of it, I don't need to see. I can honestly say in my heart of hearts, from the pits of my very existence, that I can live a full and meaningful life without ever having seen Iraqi prisoners pile their rectums up on one another in front of two redneck soldiers, Saddam Hussein in his boxers, the corpse of a beloved R&B star, two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths. Not that I want my world view to be filled with kittens, lemonade and dandelions, but the more I am made aware of the depravities of this pin prick of a world, the more I understand the fight to keep the few precious kittens, lemonade stands and dandelions patches we have left around.

And keep in mind; I say all of this while (metaphorically) covered in mud and feces, smoking a joint and listening to acid rock. There's an old saying that a Republican is a Democrat who's been mugged. When I hear about things like 2 Girls, 1 Cup, I begin to feel like that robbed Democrat, getting out of the mud and shit, putting down the bong, taking a shower, cutting my hair, damning those dirty hippies to hell.

I gave my father a copy of my poetry book "Life as a Boy" for Father's Day last year. I never discussed it with him outside of him saying how immensely proud he was of me when he opened the package. After a recent conversation with him, he informed me that he would never show that book to his friends and he deemed the work pornographic, something to wit I took great offense to. But after a talk with my sister I began to see the bigger picture. I began to see that that threshold of civility is different for everybody and I tend to think that no matter how you fight it, it gets lower as you get older. I can call my father a 63 year old stick in mud for being offended by poems about fellatio and enemas but I also can hear the young calling me a 36 year old stick in the mud for being offended by 2 Girls, 1 Cup. Who knows, maybe if we were all 22 we would read my raunchy poetry, watch offensive videos then tape our reactions and post them on You Tube to see if we can get the most hits and wind up on Letterman.

But alas, I've come to the conclusion that I think I'm just too much for my Dad. I think that sometimes I force him to experience some of the more verboten aspects of my life and demand him to accept them and me whole heartedly and that maybe I am in the wrong for doing that. I am sure there are certain things that he can live a full and rewarding life without ever having experienced either and maybe my short story, "Enema: A Love Story" is one of them. I often imagine what my reaction would be if my kid came home and showed me his latest work "2 Girls, 1 Cup". It's a startling thought. And I've been reconsidering the idea of pornography, profanity, being cutting edge and turning over the apple cart just for the sake of turning over the apple cart ever since.

I've been trying to come to terms with the artistry of being a cart turner, the rebel rouser, the revolutionary. I don't think I want to leave the mud and shit but I also don't want to get anybody else dirty that doesn't want to get dirty and I most certainly don't want to add anything else even more septic into the shit I've been playing in all this time. And I guess at the end of the day I want my shit to have some higher purpose, some higher goal, some resonance. There has got to be more to life than mindlessly smoking weed and playing in shit, and there has got to be more than watching two women eat it.

ROCK WITH JANET

2008-11-10T00:56:00.000-08:00

© Harold Jacobs

After seeing Janet Jackson perform at the Staple Center, I decided to call her hot line to leave a message saying how much I enjoyed the show. In the message I made the comment that I couldn’t believe how anyone could pull off doing such an elaborate show like that, night after night when in fact I was tired from just watching it! Weeks later, Janet cancelled a number of shows due to illness. Subsequentially, this illness became the fodder of many gossip rags and media outlets proclaiming, once again, that she is pregnant. There are even reports that insinuate that Janet is faking her illness in an effort to avoid shows that have “poor ticket sales” when the truth of the matter is that not only has Billboard and Live Nation reported that nearly every show Janet has performed over the past month has nearly sold out (both Los Angles and Vegas were sold out shows) but she has also gotten rave reviews from both the fans and critics alike. No one outside of Janet herself and her medical team can decry with any level of certainty about her health status and frankly, I just don’t think it’s anybody’s business. Janet has been known to be very passionate, very professional and a workaholic who cares very deeply for her fans. I don’t think she would cancel her shows for any frivolous reasons.

I definitely think there is a mutual respect that Janet shares with her fans. She has been there for us in song and dance for over two decades and as evidenced by the sold out show I attended, we most definitely will always be there for her. From when the lights first went out and L.L. Cool J hit the stage to the very end of Janet’s show, we all were on our feet, enjoying the music and loving every second.

There are many other female performers on the scene nowadays but I have yet to see any other female artist bring it the way Janet does. The woman still has “it” and she did not miss a beat! The Rock Witchu Tour is definitely Janet Jackson at her best. She started the show with “The Pleasure Principle” and from there she, her dancers, and her band kept hitting us hyped up with hit after classic hit. The highlight of the show for me was seeing Janet perform her old songs from Control, Rhythm Nation, and The Velvet Rope. I nearly died when I saw that she added the chair routine back to “I Miss You Much”… that was definitely one of the many high lights of the show for me.

I was also very much astounded by the show’s artistic directions. While the music was most definitely nostalgic, bringing up memories from when I was 14 and saw her perform for the first time with her Rhythm Nation Tour in 1990, the stage and costumes were lavishly designed with more futuristic textures and visuals, giving the whole show a gratifyingly unique experience. There were also large video screens that also projected beautiful visuals that went along with the performance as well as virtual appearances by recording artists such as Q-Tip, Dave Navarro, Nelly, and Jermaine Dupri. While the pyrotechnics were a bit frightening sometimes, I do have to say that it added quite a bit of excitement to the show‘s opening and songs like Black Cat, Rhythm Nation.

When the show ended, I was on cloud nine. On my way out I actually ran into her older brothers Jackie and Tito of Jackson Five fame. I actually had an opportunity to speak with them. Not only are they legends who contributed greatly to the success of both Janet and Michael, but they also are both very kind and down to earth guys. Tito even complimented me on the tee-shirt that I was wearing with Janet’s face airbrushed on the front.

Coincidentally, there was also a little blonde woman with a ton of security being escorted throughout the crowd. It was until much later when I discovered that it was indeed Britney Spears. From the performance Janet just gave I imagined she was front and center taking notes.

As Janet continues on from her illness and fulfill her other concert dates, I and countless other fans wish her nothing but the best and we thank her for giving us the opportunity to rock with her all these years.

BEARS WITH BROKEN HEARTS

2008-11-10T00:48:00.000-08:00

© Lowe Thomas

The effects of failed relationships in the Big Boy community. As a promoter of Big Boy parties, it has come to my attention that some of us within the Big Boy community are somewhat scared to make that first approach, albeit in a club or any other social function. The communication that I have received is that there is a strong fear of rejection and shame. So I was pondering how would a Big Boy change the perception in this situation? So here's my suggestion: Walk out on faith and allow yourself the confidence to step up to the plate and make that approach in a club or any other social setting.

And remember REJECTION often times is not about you, its the loss of the guy you were confident enough to approach. Always after making that approach pat yourself on the back as a job well done! And if he does not have the fortitude to know BIG BOYS is where its at, than move on to the next guy who peaks your interest, and try again. It's like fishing your the bait and your confidence is the hook. Just an opinion of a guy who has found luck in making the first approach, with undying confidence.

SOMETHING RAINBOW, SOMETHING UNIQUE

2008-11-10T00:43:00.000-08:00

© Dale Guy Madison a.k.a. A Damn Good Man

Saw an old friend on the street
She said today’s your wedding
My heart stopped
The tears dropped
Saw my whole life pass me by

I never ran so fast before
I rushed inside the chapel door
You turned around and heard me call

Congratulations
"You know the California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.
So now it can be me
Cause she’s not the person you love
And there he was, walking down the aisle
& as he passed me by, he turned & he stared
The preacher joined their hands
& all the people began to stand
When I shouted:

"You know the California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.

I don’t have to scream in my pillow at night:
“It should have been me
Instead of her walking with you
Getting ready to marry you”

Then the preacher asked, "Will there be silence, please?
If any objections to this wedding
Speak now or forever, forever hold your peace"
Then I shouted, CAN”T YOU MOTHER FUCKERS HEAR ME?
The California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.

We know those haters gonna try to fight
We can’t let injustice stop our right
So man/ man gal/gal tran/tran
We all can stand

So down the aisle I'll walk with you
Just to hear the words I do
All of our life we will be
Man & Man till eternity

Something fabulous, something chic
Something rainbow, something unique
I am yours to cherish and behold
With this little band of gold

So I do
Take you for the rest of my life
Through HIV tests and Starbucks addictions
Through good times and through bad
For richer or for poor
To cherish and to love
We kissed and then we became man and man

Baby
Years from now we'll never regret
Oh, how could we forget
All the prides we marched
All the petitions we signed
All the vows we made
Until death do we part

THE REDEFINITION OF WE

2008-11-10T00:31:00.000-08:00

© Breeze Vincinz

In the story of my life, one of the most absolutely horrendous chapters would most definitely have to be my experiences with working at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip. In retrospect I can see now that "disappointment" was a huge part of my ill feelings towards that experience. To me, the House of Blues was synonymous with everything young, hip, fresh and liberal. It was for me a den of profound hippies making an honest buck on their search for a higher truth and I was ever so honored to be elected to be a part of that trek.

However, it did not take long for me to see the little impotent men pulling the strings behind the great Wizard of Oz's paper mâché head. This was not left of center, alternative types staking a claim in mainstream society for the pursuit of individualism and culture, this was corporate America whoring out their own sanitized version of the cutting edge at prices just inflated enough to keep it out of reach of the working class it was exploiting and palatable enough for the upper class it was catering to.

Despite the exaggerated slogans, catchphrases and artwork that saturate the place, there was really no true regard for culture, ethnicity or multiculturalism. This was never as evident as in its (in)famous Foundation Room; a VIP room where the crème of the crème come to drink, mingle and hobnob. The Foundation Room has two private exclusive dining rooms; a Buddha Room and a Ganesh Room, the centerpiece of each room being a splendorous statue of Guatama Buddha and Ganesh in each room respectively. And throughout the House of Blues itself are various statues and depictions of Mexican gods, Hindu gods and Mayan gods; all under the auspice of an environment that is multicultural and forward thinking.

However, one glorious day, the Retail Store stocked little figurines that displayed Jesus Christ on a crucifix with an exaggerated afro. Offended customers complained so much that the Retail Store decided to not stock them; though patrons still bought coffee cups with Ganesh rocking out with a guitar, t-shirts with Shiva holding various cosmetics in each hand, piled themselves into the Ganesh and Buddha rooms, made out, drank alcohol and smoked weed in front of statues that represent God for millions of people… including some of the cleaning staff who used to leave tidings of dried flowers at the feet of the statues every morning after cleaning up the mess left behind the night before.

It really got me thinking about the true meaning of multiculturalism and can it be respected and understood in an environment that is monolithic or exist in an environment that is ruled by a monolithic state. A friend of mine had this same query back when Hilary Clinton was in the running to be the Democratic Nominee for the President of the United States. The media automatically reported that because she is a woman that she would automatically get the female vote. My friend was angered by this assumption as well as the assumption that the Feminist movement was to uplift womankind as a whole when in her mind, neither Hilary Clinton nor the Feminist movement even remotely addressed the specific needs of African American women. Because the majority of the women in America are Caucasian, the media always seems to trump their opinions over their African American counterparts.

The same way I feel the beliefs of the Christian patrons of the House of Blues trumped the belief systems of the multitude of other religions that are on display there. People smoke blunts and make out with random sketchy concert goers all the time up there right in front of Ganesh. The same way Matthew McConaughey asked a juror of all white men in the film A Time To Kill to imagine the crimes perpetrated on a little black being perpetrated on a little white girl in an effort for them to sympathize with the pain, I ask the House of Blues and Christianity as a whole, imagine people smoking blunts, drinking and making out with random sketchy concert goers in front of a statue of Jesus Christ on a crucifix in the "Jesus" room or Mary Magdalene in the "Magdalene" room.

I ask Caucasian women, would they feel comfortable with the idea of all media outlets claiming dark women with afros and hips to be the epitome of the classic American beauty? Would they begin to curl their hair in thick locks, wear dark brown contacts and eat carbohydrates the same our sisters dye (die) their hair blonde and wear blue contacts?

I experienced a multitude of other incongruities within the House of Blues in terms of mishandling issues dealing with age, gender, sexual orientation and sometimes even class. I think that they were trying to handle situations the best way that they could, however this meant that the solutions consistently came from a young, Caucasian, heterosexual, male paradigm. There was always this explanation that was some paraphrasing of the phrases, "This is what WE feel" or "This is what WE feel should happen" or "WE can't have you feeling that way about us Breeze." Really. Well… define WE. "We" couldn't be the Buddhist community who object to fucking in front of Buddha. "We" couldn't be the homosexuals who heavily patronize your establishment but yet you have never had a Gay Sunday Gospel Brunch despite the fact your establishment is in West Hollywood. "We" couldn't be the multitude of immigrants disproportionately employed there in minimum wage positions while their Caucasian counterparts are managers and supervisors. And "We" most definitely could not be the Black people whose music the place is named after despite the fact you could count on one hand the number times that music has been featured in your venue.

The upcoming election between Obama and McCain has reentered these questions into my world view. The platform for McCain is "America First." Really. Well… define America. Who's America do you plan to put first? The homosexuals with a desire for the basic civil right of marriage? The inner city whose education system is horribly flawed? The African Americans disproportionately underemployed? The immigrants in need of realistic immigration laws? The women who want to make their own decisions in regards to their own bodies? Because they're all Americans too.

I see a McCain run America as one big House of Blues; a state where "We're First"… and so many of us are not the "We" he has in mind. A state where our culture, our customs, our ethnicity are not respected, cultivated or appreciated but more or less… commoditized and used to filter money to the upper class. We'll never be on the main stage, but we'll clean the toilets, and sweep the floors and sell the tickets. Our sexuality will be acknowledged if it affects the greater fiscal picture. Our Gods will be nothing more than amusing fixtures in the background.

"We" would still be maligned.

I actually thought it was somewhat unwise for Oprah Winfrey for the first time in her career to make such a biased political opinion and fully support Barrack Obama. Once you make such a glaring endorsement for any political party you automatically alienate half of your supporters which could prove to be detrimental if your supporters are directly connected to your income. But I can now understand the decision. For one, for Oprah, to lose half of her audience would mean she would still have another billion or so left. But most importantly, this change has to happen. The idea of a McCain run America sends a chill up my spine. Just thinking about it makes me think of that little girl near the end of "Poltergeist" when the ghosts came back and she said wearily, "Oh no, not again!"

"We" are not the monolithic brood that saturated the Republican National Convention, "We" do not all worship the same God(s), "We" do not all have straight, blonde hair, "We" are not all heterosexual, "We" are not all young, "We" are not all men, "We" are not all American-born but… "We" all are Americans, and "We" all need to vote… before "We" all wind up living in a House of Blues.

THE SECOND COMING OUT

2008-09-10T06:44:00.000-07:00

© Breeze Vincinz

I was a preteen when I first heard of AIDS. By this time I had already accumulated enough “evidence” to support the theory that “faggots” were the absolute scum of the earth whom were far removed from my plebian project surroundings and I could never be one. I remember when AIDS first hit my world view; it was a moral dilemma more so than a medical one. The news wasn’t that people were mysteriously dying but that gay men were mysteriously dying and the mystery that surrounded their death in my neighborhood was automatically tethered to those guys’ sexual proclivities.

Over twenty years has passed since Gaëtan Dugas was controversially found to be Patient Zero, the initial patient who was vilified as a “mass spreader” of HIV and the original source of the HIV epidemic among gay men. But even after all of the medical information that has been gathered, investigated and tested to explain HIV, and there are now tangible medical treatment options available, its umbilical cord is still very much attached to this womb of judgment, fear and derision.

Stepping back and looking at the whole picture, it is quite disarming to realize the universal disdain the world at large still has for the HIV+. Growing up I remember the newscasts of men who were critically injured in car crashes and the emergency medical units refusing to even touch them out of fear of contracting the disease and immediately dissolving into dust on contact. I remember the kids joking about which one of us had AIDS as if it were cooties or lice. I remember when Ryan White was shunned by his friends and expelled from school once it was discovered he had acquired the disease through a blood transfusion.

But this was the 80’s, Regan was in office, I had a carefree curl, The Color Purple lost all eleven nominations at the Oscars, LaToya Jackson released six albums… it was just a fucked up time for everybody. Though we could have predicted the pandemic that it has become, no one truly believed that it would actually get this far; and we most certainly didn’t have the spiritual accoutrements to deal with watching dozens of our closest friends, family and associates wither and die right before our eyes. Not in the 80’s, not when there was so much money to be made, legal or otherwise, and so many luxuries that could be bought. It was much easier to contain the disease within a group of people who have been so universally maligned anyway.

Well, it’s 2008; America has a real possibility of having our first Black president, Whoopi Goldberg went on to win two Oscars, Oprah Winfrey is one of the most powerful people in the world and I got cornrows now… things are looking up. Though not perfectly, Latoya released four more albums and people still look at HIV/AIDS as a moral judgment, a spiritual condemnation… a gay disease.

I recently watched “Coming Out Stories” on the Logo Network. Each show focuses on a “closet homosexual” and his/her journey to tell their closest family members that they are indeed gay. The premise of it to me always seemed really mundane to me, mainly because my own coming out story was about ten seconds.”

“Mama, you totally know I’m gay right.”

“Uh huh.”

“You got any questions?”

“Yeah, when are you going to clean your fucking room?”

But there were parts of certain episodes that I found truly endearing. However, I think in 2008, there is a second coming out that happens; when you tell your friends and family that you are HIV+. It’s a tremendous task, I would think even more so than telling people that you’re gay. As socially elevated and intellectual that we as a society would like to think that we are, we still hold on to that judgment of people who are HIV+. We still believe that they are less than, or less worthy or as a friend once told me, “damaged.”

Not too long ago I had a candid discussion with a group of friends about our collective sexual practices. One of my friends said that he doesn’t use a condom with one night stands all the time because he can usually tell if the person is HIV+ or not. I asked him to explain. He basically told me that people who are HIV+ look drawn in and emaciated, don’t really smile and you can kind of smell of them.

There’s a tone that exists between a primal scream and an atomic bomb exploding… that’s the sound you’re hearing right now… it came from me weeks ago when I screamed at the top of my lungs at him.

And the sad fact of the matter is that he’s not alone in that assumption. Despite the fact an estimated 33.2 million people are living with AIDS, surprisingly enough, there is a quantifiable number of people whose inner circle has not (yet) been effected by the disease and who get their notions about carriers of the disease from some bullshit “The Birth of a Nation”-esuqe film or television show where the only Black people are the main character’s best friend and anyone who happens to be physically ill is a balding drag queen with a lisp.

Those misjudgments are still out there, strong and proud. I remember when the brief rumor got out that Madonna had contracted AIDS, she went on the warpath defending herself saying in effect, “If I had AIDS, I would be more terrified at the judgments people would have against me than the disease itself.” It’s totally understandable. God forbid but if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract breast cancer, I imagine this country would rally around their efforts for recovery despite their highly sexual histories. But if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract HIV, I imagine this country would denigrate them as morality tales about the evils of sexual promiscuity to spite their highly sexual histories… as if they deserved the disease. No one deserves HIV more so than anybody deserves cancer, or lupus or sickle cell anemia (or Latoya Jackson’s eleventh album whose release date has been thankfully pushed back again).

Recently a friend of mine disclosed to me that he just received the news that he was HIV+. I do have to say that in my own personal inner circle no one has had their second “coming out” in quite some time. Emotion-wise, there is some overlap between the two events; there is a cathartic metamorphosis that takes place where everything you were before the conversation has a different glimmer to it after the conversation, your true family and friends stick by you and support you, and despite their support, you know in your heart of hearts that they are going to miss the person you were before you had the conversation because honestly… you do too.

I don’t think a cake or a party would be appropriate though with the second coming out. I don’t think it should be this dire funeral-like atmosphere but I also don’t think a Hallmark “Just-For-Laughs” card is appropriate either. With my friend’s second coming out, unfortunately, I broke down. It’s something I don’t suggest you do if someone confides their status to you but this cut threw me like a knife. It was around the anniversary of my husband’s death and also around the time where I had some post-coital worries from a recent tryst where I was just lucky enough to find a condom that exists in the 1% failure rate in the middle of intercourse… so… I was a little on edge and it was on my mind. But I eventually pulled it together and tried my best to be a rock for my friend.

Honestly speaking there was a time where a part of me believed that I was ahead of the game because I am HIV- but the truth of the matter is… it’s really fucking irrelevant in the big scheme of things. When I think about my husband, his diagnosis, his life and his death… I don’t feel… privileged. I feel sad, and angry and really pissed… because he’s not here… and my own existence is only a small consolation to help ease that pain. Sometimes, usually I after stop crying, I don’t see that line that separates the HIV+ from the HIV-… it’s all the same; we’re all in this together, and if some of us are in pain then all of us are in pain. I realized while holding my friend when they disclosed their status to me and the both of us were blubbering like two kids being sent to an orphanage that neither one of us was going to leave this moment unscathed; this… was going to hurt.

But we picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off and did what two true friends always do when one comes out (about anything) to the other… we had dinner and drinks and tried to figure out how this new information was it going to affect their love life, sex life and hairdo.

When my husband passed away I remember my mom steadfastly insisted I get counseling afterwards which I never did. In fact it was suggested that I join some HIV- support group beforehand and I never agreed to that either. However, for some reason nowadays I don’t think it would be such a bad idea to run some of my thoughts past a professional. I would be interested to know what they felt about my thoughts of people “coming out for a second time.” I still don’t think Hallmark should make a card for the occasion but I was thinking of a card that said on the front, “I heard about your diagnosis…” and in the inside it said “… dude, it totally fucking sucks. Let’ go get drunk.” Not the most uplifting of sentiments but I think it’s quite inspirational and honest.

And yeah… I’m getting professional help.

PASSION FOR FASHION

2008-09-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

When I was younger I concocted a future for myself where I would wear some sort of all purpose uniform in my daily life that would deflect the possibility of scorn or comment from an otherwise overly fashion-obsessed public. I imagined myself to be this ghetto version of Jem and the Holograms whereas at any given moment I could touch my nipple ring and a hologram would appear over my body resembling whatever high end fashion garment just happened to be en vogue at that particular time. I never really wanted to own clothing that was particularly luxurious or trendy but I have always, even as a kid, had this insatiable need to get people to… shut the fuck up about what I happened to be wearing at the time. Holograms always seemed to be the best strategy; throw some light beams at people, have them think I have on Bugle Boy or Karl Kani, move past that immaculately-plastic-first-impression bullshit and get straight to an actual conversation while I remain the true person that I am underneath.

I have always just hated the scrutiny people go through in terms of their appearance and fashion. It probably started, or in the very least was consummated when my father uttered in my youth one of his most (in)famous dissertations, “You know son, judging by the way you dress, I can only see you [in a relationships] with white folks or weirdoes.”

And so began years upon years of therapy.

I don’t know how it happened, I even mused about it with my mom, but somehow I grew up to be this sort of anti-capitalistic anarchist of sorts. Like most African Americans I had pretty humble beginnings (as if the middle right now is any better). I grew up in the Ida B.Wells Projects in Chicago and though we were never particularly destitute… we were pretty broke most of the time. I never remember going without, but I did always have this feeling of “the rest of the world ain’t like this.” Even still, somehow the whole capitalism isotope that usually infects preteens like public hair and menstrual cycles just never happened with me. While my comrades looked at television shows like Dynasty and Dallas and maybe saw the drug dealers on the block with flashy clothes and cars and slowly began to convolute their dreams and agendas to include such extravagancies, it just never clicked with me. I was never jealous of the bourgeoisie and I never really found it to be a more amiable way of life; which in all honesty is a pretty odd way to think of things. The majority of people who have nothing… usually want everything. It was no surprise to me when Eazy-E and 50 Cent came out to be Republicans, or in the very least, Republican sympathizers. One of the major tenets of the Republican Party has always been “fiscal first” whereas everything in this country should be built around protecting the sanctity of money and all of the accoutrements that it affords… or… “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”.

And the truth of the matter is that a lot of the people that I grew up with have that mentality and I can’t necessarily stand in judgment of it but I have often wondered why was I never enticed by that weird looking eye in the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill the way so many other people have been… I don’t understand how the projects could have bore a hippie!

And somewhere along the lines, my idea of fashion became steadfastly serious. I never thought of it as an expression of personality or an art form where color and silhouette could be appreciated. I guess I have always thought of it as a reflection of its owner’s perceived status in society; particularly when it comes to the African American community whereas so many of us are going without yet have this intense need to look the lie of aristocracy. I absolutely don’t see a single thing wrong with someone who makes under $30,000 a year shopping at Payless Shoe Source or the Salvation Army or just wearing affordable clothes and when I see someone not only sporting a pair of $200 True Religion Designer Jeans but also has this need to inform everyone that they are indeed sporting $200 True Religion Designer Jeans, I can’t help but roll my eyes and think, “Jesus… we’ve lost another one.” And my world gets just a little smaller.

But alas, I will concede to the idea that one of my closest friends summated that I “think way too much about this stuff.” I understand that there is a good chance that the majority of people don’t do the mental gymnastics that I do when looking at someone’s clothing but I still don’t think I’m too off the mark here. Just the other day a colleague told me that when he first meets a guy the things he pays most attention to are his shoes, his watch and his car. And as much as I would like to thing of this colleague as a typical shallow, image-obsessed Hollywood starfucker, the truth of the matter is… I do the same thing; my judgment is just on the opposite end. While he might find someone wearing a smart pair of Stacy Adams and a Rolex who drives an Aston Martin the most prodigious man to have a romantic relationship with, I am similarly looking at the same man with such extravagant trappings and think that he has never been south of Wilshire Boulevard in his life and outside of us both being carbon based life forms we have nothing in common. And the truth of the matter is… my colleague and I would both be in the wrong for judging this guy solely based on his physical appearance and acquired paraphernalia.

For me, I have always seen fashion as something that gets in the way of getting to the marrow of a person’s character, spirit and moral fiber and because of that I have always rejected it. But as I was listening to my colleague describe the shoes, watch and car that a potential paramour must have, I began to make the most startling discovery that… rejecting fashion is a fashion within itself.

I remember writing a letter to my father after he made that curious little statement about my lot in life based on my clothing that said something to the fact of, “Do you think that I purposely dress bad? Who in their right mind would wear clothes to intentionally make themselves look unattractive?” This is usually what goes through my mind when someone makes some off color comments about my baggy jeans or my wrinkled shirt or my dirty gym shoes. I’m not trying to be unattractive; I just want it to be easier for people to get to what I’m about. It’s not a reflection of my mentality, or my income or even my hygiene… I just want to make it steadfastly clear that… I’m not trying to impress you… and what you have on your wrist, feet and garage will never impress me… so let’s just cut to the bullshit and really get to know each other. A friend of mine once asked what I imagine people think of me when I walk into a nightclub or a bar with my beard unruly and untamed. I replied, “Well, anybody that doesn’t want to talk to me because of a couple of stray hairs in my beard shouldn’t really be fucking with me anyway.”

So for me, there’s an effort being put forth where my outside does in certain ways reflect my own personal struggles, feelings and concepts and that effort in and of itself… makes it my fashion. And as I get older I am “loosening up” a bit, which in my case would mean dressing up just a little bit more. I’m wearing a lot more shirts with collars and I totally stopped ripping the arms off of my t-shirts and that has to count for something.

I imagine that one glorious day I’ll probably have an abundance of money to afford an extensive wardrobe but it would probably still consist of a ton of t-shirts, a ton of blue jeans and a couple of gym shoes. If they still haven’t perfected hologram technology at this point I’ll probably have a handful of really expensive and luxurious outfits on hand to wear at dinner parties or award shows… just so I can get people to shut the fuck up about what I’m wearing.

Though… I don’t really think I will ever stop listening to Tori Amos or Björk or having starfuckers for friends so… maybe my father was right after all.

BEAUTIFUL MAN LIST

2008-07-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

For those of you not in the know, every year around this time in celebration of all the black gay prides going on around the country, I post my top ten most beautiful man list. It was made to counteract the mostly Aryan flavor of equivalent lists posted by People or US magazine. Don’t get me wrong, cute is cute and there some white boys out there who most definitely turn my head… but let’s give a little love to brothers right about now...

10. Marcus Patrick
I first caught a glimpse of this dude on his MySpace page and I originally thought he was a computer generated avatar. Low and behold, those abs, that chest, that face… it’s actually real! And all of that more was on sale for $5.95 in the November 2007 issue of Playgirl!

9. David Blaine
Ok… he’s a little weird, a little obnoxious and could definitely use a good night’s sleep. But as far as melancholy goes, it couldn’t come in a more handsome package. Besides… I like a challenge…

8. Alex Castro
Before he was Militia on American Gladiators he was Alex Castro, the Florida based model and exotic dancer who fit perfectly into Cirque Due Soleil’s Zumanity… and to answers of why I kept running out of lotion after I saw him in Las Vegas.

7. Lamonty Council
You might better know him as Pootie from season one of VH1’s I Love New York. There is no denying that this dude is crazy as a bed bug and more ghetto than a straw in a bottle of beer… but come on… that’s one cute motherfucker. And I’m pretty he’s remotely stable now that he’s on lithium.

6. David J. Malebranche, M.D., M.P.H.
This dude intimidates me. He’s smart, he’s a doctor, he’s got the face of a God and he’s a little on the short side which I always appreciate. I think he is the perfect catch and what everybody’s mom hopes you bring home to dinner. He’s a little too perfect. If I found out that he can tell a decent dirty joke… I’m going to hunt this dude down and marry him.

5. Timbaland
I think it is really funny how this guy has bulked up and gotten in shape only to unintentionally become one of the most sought after gay icons since Jeff Stryker. You would be pretty hard pressed to find a woman who would choose Timbaland over the litany of other overly buff and toned rappers out there but you can best believe that a nation of Black gay men would be quite satisfied to have him naked and oily under their Christmas tree… present company included.

4. ?uestlove
Last year’s number one and my doppelganger when I blow out my hair into an afro and stop shaving. Still have much love for this dude… but we got to give the other folks a chance like...

3. Kamal Gray
…?uestlove’s badmate in the Roots. He’s the quiet light skinned brother that plays the keyboards. I know absolutely nothing about this dude outside of the fact that he only wants women to be his friend on one of his MySpace pages… which I think is kind of funny! It’s always the cute on dude… it’s always the cute ones...

2. Tim Liggins
Another Black Gay Icon, though not so unintentionally. This dude has an ass that would put both Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce to shame, and he seems well aware of that fact as lounges around in painted on jeans and skimpy jock straps on YouTube.

1. Terrell Tilford
One of the main actors in the DL Chronicles. I saw this dude at the premier and he’s even more attractive close up. He is so cool and so fine and so masculine… he’s what every Black man should aspire to be, gay or straight.

FRIENDSHIPS

2008-07-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Awhile back I wrote about a New Years’ resolution that I had devised for myself where I would restructure my inner circle of friends. Truth be told, it’s actually been one of the very few New Years’ resolutions in my life that I have ever fully completed. I tend to think that I am happier and better off for it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t have residual bitterness and resentment over the restructuring. And while talking to my sister recently I began to honestly fear for my own future as I tried to truthfully imagine my life proceeding down the road that it’s going on in regards to friendships.

Not to say that I don’t love my friends because I honestly do. But there is a certain amount of censorship that is involved when talking to just about everybody in my inner circle. It’s a censorship that has literally taken years to perfect and allocate. There was a time in my life where I was an open book for whoever had an ear, and I believed that the people in my inner circle would respond, react and reply in accordance to that of a trusted ally. I think I got this idea via pop culture. Laverne & Shirley, Bert & Ernie, Mary & Rhoda, Bart & Milhouse, these were bonds that were unshakable in my mind. I laid my inconsistencies, incongruities and indiscretions out to my friends thinking, Larry would never consistently humiliate Balki if he told him he frequented bathhouses, Richie wouldn’t abandon Potsie if he started dating his ex-boyfriend again, Rachel would make an effort to go to a Tori Amos concert if Monica really wanted her to go with her. But in real life, it doesn’t work out like that.

I recently saw one piece of pop culture that has shoved the concept of Teflon strength relationships down the throats of American viewers like a teenage boy with Viagra and a blow-up doll… Sex and the City: The Movie. No matter what those gals go through, their commitment to each other remained unshakable. When one of the main characters breaks up with her fiancé, they all hate the fiancé. When she gets back with him, they all love him again. It fascinating really. I saw the film with one of my closest friends and after it was over I was in the most romantic of moods. I felt so emotional and full of hope and love, both passionate and platonic. Still tasting that sweet aftertaste in my mouth after the movie was over I decided to tell my friend that I had begun to talk to my ex-boyfriend again. Just talk, nothing more, nothing romantic. I told him that he has moved on and found another boyfriend and through our talks I have successfully put to rest the immense amount of pure hatred and rage I had towards thatman. I said that we are good friends who shared some intimate moments in the past and we are finally working on a platonic relationship and that as of date, it’s working beautifully and we’re both happy. I wanted him to be happy for me, understand that this is a good thing and that we both know what we’re doing and that we’re just friends. I wanted him to welcome him back into my life as a friend as much as the gals welcomed Mr. Big back in Sex and the City. But in real life, it doesn’t work like that.

He thought we were both being delusional. He thought I was especially being delusional. He faulted my ex for even talking to me when he has a boyfriend. He basically made up a scandalous little adulterous scenario and stood in judgment of it that was the complete opposite of the cordial, platonic, daytime friendship that I had clearly described. I was disappointed and a little hurt, and that sweet aftertaste soured horribly. I spat it out and vowed to never let that taste venture back into my mouth again.

I was talking with my sister about the whole scenario and the more I talked, the more I was realizing that I am, in all actuality, turning into a bitter old man. I’m going to be that lonely old dude in a studio apartment with fifteen cats who the kids fuck with on Halloween. I told her that over the years that I have learned to play certain cards very close to my chest, there are certain aspects of my life that I rarely talk about with anyone and certain aspects I just don’t discuss at all, in print or in person, and that over the past year or so, the list has grown exponentially… because no one that I know has proven to be able to handle it with a certain level of respect or decorum.

I tell one friend that I went to the bathhouse and I’m hearing about it for the next year or five about how much of a desperate whore I am.

I tell one friend that I am talking with my ex and I am automatically this weak delusional adulterous little boy who can’t say no.

I tell one friend that I started to manage my weight and now every time I put Equal into my tea it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m too good for real sugar.

I tell one friend that I’m thinking of relocating to the West Coast and now every time we meet it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m not strong enough for Los Angeles.

I told my sister that I have no one in my life with whom I can present myself to and they not respond with a sense of intimidation, judgment and/or jealousy and how I’ve given up on expecting any level of understanding, compassion or (God forbid) support of any kind from any of my friends… or the world in general really. And that’s when I got that crystal clear picture of myself at seventy-five years old, in a cardigan sweater that I knitted for myself, anorexic and sitting alone with a cup of tea sweetened with Equal, my twenty cats swirling around my studio apartment as eggs are pelted on my front door by the local school children. And I actually began to rationalize that… I would so much rather have that scenario than to talk about my sex life to my friends and have them throw it in my face and call me a spineless whore when it’s convenient for them to do so.

Sex and the City boldly proclaims that it wants to shatter the myth of fairytale romances but I think that what it does in turn is enable the myth of fairytale adult friendships. I think you would be hard pressed to find a group of four non related people over 30 who are that consistently dedicated to each other (outside of maybe members of fraternities and sororities which is a whole other story because those motherfuckers are nuts). In real life, relationships come and go, but so do friendships really. The only things that are real are your family, your God and yourself. And if you have a couple of really good friends around to share those things with, I think you’re ahead of the curve. With that said, right now, I do think I have some absolutely excellent friends, flaws and all. They’re not perfect friendships but I dropped that little slice of delusional hell back in my twenties. What I do have are a couple of highly earnest people who are, in all actuality, there for me when I truly need them to be. The trick, for lack of a better term, is to determine when do you really need them, and can you be there for them when they really need you. In that, I got a couple of genuine people who would most definitely check to see if the cats have eaten my face off, will wipe my front door of splattered egg… tell tales about how I deserved my lot in life because I was a filthy whore who went to the bathhouse and started talking to his ex-boyfriend back in his thirties…

…and a sister with whom I can tell all this to and more and cry with when I miss my grandma something awful.

MY HOLLYWOOD

2008-07-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

The other day I caught a glimpse of the movie Pretty Woman on UPN and I just couldn’t help but laugh my ass off! The stupid “hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold” scenario not withstanding, it was a delight to see Hollywood’s version of Hollywood. Now as I hear, Hollywood has gone through quite a few transformations over the years and I am but a novice when it comes to the actual history of Hollywood and its origins, but I can tell you that modern Hollywood is something of an enigma that has never really been accurately captured in any film, television show or book. Much like Woody Allen’s consistently sanitized versions of New York with its offensively blatant removal of ethnic minorities; Hollywood is usually depicted as some PG-13 Technicolor version of urban decay... complete with whores that look like Julia Roberts who oddly enough aren’t on crack.

More than not, I am usually disappointed with the way movies depict their geographical locations, especially if I have lived there for a particular amount of time. I can only think of a handful of movies that actually did Chicago justice for example, The Blues Brothers and Adventures in Babysitting being the most true to the spirit of my hometown. I have yet to see that with Los Angeles or more specifically Hollywood. I will admit that “My” Hollywood is quite biased considering my demographic… I am African American, I am male, I am in my late thirties, I am homosexual, I am most definitely lowerclass as far as income, I am morbidly obese. I can see how my Hollywood would differ from that of… oh let’s say… Charlize Theron. But there are still aspects of our Hollywood that I think overlap and I think it is these attributes that should be acknowledged as the true flavor of Hollywood.

For me, Hollywood would not be Hollywood without those tireless workers on Hollywood and Highland dressed as your favorite movie character hustling their asses off to get a picture with you and/or your kid for a couple of bucks. To me they are the epitome of what Hollywood is… tragically funny, or is it comedically tragic? Whatever the case… those guys are a hoot. It could be 110 degrees outside but you will still see a gaggle of people in Shrek suits, Marilyn Monroe dresses and Michael Jackson pants smiling, prodding and dancing for your attention and for your buck. I knew that I had become an official “Hollywooder” when I went to the McDonalds on Hollywood and Highland and stood behind Captain Jack Sparrow who was slipping something from his flask into his supersize Coke and in front of Princess Ariel who was royally upset that the line was taking so long because she had to go take a dump. At any even given moment around here you’re bound to either bump into some celebrity or celebrity look-a-like. It happens so much that it doesn’t really matter if it is a real celebrity… I mean, after you catch a glimpse of Diana Ross adjusting his testicles in the Television DVD aisle of Virgin Megastore, having Anthony Kiedis come up and ask you if you know where the nearest Mrs. Fields is, is no big whoop.

The nightlife here is also something to be desired. I’m pretty sure that you could do some deep research as to why things close so early in this town but all inquires would lead to… everything closes early in this town. Usually around 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. on Saturday but still… last call is at 2:00 a.m. This was a huge culture shock for me considering the fact that I usually didn’t leave the house until 1:00 a.m. back in Chicago. There is also no “Circuit Party” scene here in Los Angeles. Circuit Parties are when you go to club to club to club, drinking and partying all along the way. A good friend of mine explained the reason why. Clubs in Los Angeles are spread out pretty far… and as Missing Persons so eloquently chimed in the eighties…”No one walks in L.A.”, you drive everywhere, and you will have more of a chance in finding a gay guy not into oral sex than you would finding a parking space here. So you drive to a club and you drive around from anywhere from forty five minutes to an hour and a half before you find a spot or you just give up and pay $20 for valet parking. Once the car is taken care of, you wait for another hour behind the infamous velvet rope. After that wait is over, and it is determined that you won’t disrupt the guy/girl ratio within the club and that you are in the very least remotely fashionable and attractive enough to get in, you finally cross the threshold to realize that… there are only about twenty people in this joint. And you only got about thirty minutes before they call last call for alcohol. So… no… there is no Circuit Party scene, no human would intentionally inflect that kind of pain on themselves more than once a night.

Now West Hollywood is a little different. You actually could go club to club but unfortunately what you will find out is that they are all exactly the same and they all play exactly same the music and all of the men shop at exactly the same shops and workout at exactly the same gym and exercise the exact same muscles. Just think of the opening “Weeds” with really gay white men, “Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men made of ticky-tacky, Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men all the same. There's a white one and a white one and a white one and a white one, and they're all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same...”

In “My” movie of Hollywood I would definitely have to mention the residential areas. Most people think of Hollywood as that long strip of land on Hollywood Boulevard with the Star Walk of Fame. It is by far one of the worlds most famous landmarks and even though I have walked that thing a million times and have seen a countless number of both human and animal excrement slopped all over those golden stars, there is still a bit of awe walking past a star and realizing that once upon time Lucille Ball stood right there. It’s a little off putting to see some homeless dude scratching his nads over it but still… I do love Lucy, I really do. And the thing about the Hollywood Walk of Fame is that, while it is essentially the yellow brick road that leads you through Hollywood, it is also eclipsed by several residential units whose occupants predictably enough tire from the constant amusement park outside. Waking up on Monday morning and dragging yourself to work is bad enough. Waking up on Monday morning and having to walk behind a gaggle of I heart Los Angeles t-shirt clad tourists slowly dredging down the street to catch a glimpse of the Jon Edwards star that was adorned with the plumpest pile of dog shit you’ve ever seen in your life a day prior doesn’t do anything to help your commute.

My neighborhood in itself has always been very family oriented and somewhat quiet. As with the majority of Los Angeles it is heavily populated with Mexican Americans (I’m about the only Black person on my block) and everyone gets along quite well, although every once in awhile we do get infected by gangs… and infected is the right word… they’re like fucking roaches. Every one is getting along, kids are playing outside, the elderly are walking their dogs, it’s quite an idyllic scene, then the next morning you wake up and every flat surface in the neighborhood has been tagged with graffiti. The apartment owners paint over it only for the graffiti to return a couple of days later. This will go on for about a week or two until one morning you’ll wake up and go outside you’ll see a candle vigil at the place where someone was shot and killed the night before. The graffiti goes away, the kids come back out to play, the elderly walk their dogs again, there are barbeques and relay races in the streets… and then the fucking roaches come back and we’re hit with another bout of graffiti everywhere.

When I first moved here this happened about two or three times a year, usually during the summer months. That was until we experienced the wonderful world of gentrification. In no time flat, several homes that housed several Mexican families were razed in order to built these beautiful high rise condominiums for whi-, no, I can’t say that they built them specifically for white people (but it’s nothing but white folks up in there). Once they went up I can only remember one time I saw graffiti, some on my building and some on the ground in front of the condos. They were both covered up the next day never to be seen again, neither has the requisite post candle vigil returned.

I think that’s what’s missing from a lot of movies, television shows and books revolving around major cities, the gentrification, the replacement of homes for minority families with condos for the single upper class, the paving of paradise to put up a parking lot if you will. It always changes the face of a city. As I hear, Harlem as been going over quite the change in hue over the couple of years and the entire housing project that I was born and raised in back in Chicago has recently been completely razed from its roots leaving several acres of flat land in it’s wake with signs that portray happy Caucasian families that read, “Pershing Estates Coming Soon!” But this is nothing new, gentrification is a part of urban planning and as long a city needs income… they’re going to build for the young and the restles then pacify the old and the earnest and we all just sit back and hope that in the very least that the strongest aspects that old culture remain.

I wonder when they eventually tear down my building to accommodate the “new excellence of living” as detailed in Town & Country magazine, what of our stories would remain in those neatly manicured lawns. Would they remember the one legged guy who tirelessly cleans those stars on the walk of fame everyday, the skunks, raccoons and oversized cats that run rampart through the streets late at night, those corny inspirational sayings on the marquee of the Henry Ford Theater that are so syrupy sweet that sometimes I cry at the thought of something existing in this pin prick of a world that still has such pure amiable intentions, the since abandoned Vine movie theatre where you could catch two movies for $5 in a warm, funky, dimly lit catacomb of a theater. I wonder if anyone will look at those guys on Hollywood and Highland dressed as movie characters as guys looking to pay their rent and not some idle entertainment solely their to humiliate themselves for a couple bucks. Or that the prostitutes that have absconded to Sunset Boulevard aren’t walking the streets looking for the meaning of life or their one true love, they’re looking to pay their rent also.

I hope that when the next obviously oblivious movie director, producer, writer who wants to use Hollywood as a hip happening seedy backdrop for their “serious” PG-13 drug, murder, prostitute, crime, mystery love story that they at least get some of the flavor right. With gentrification going on here I know a lot of the taste is leaving but, maybe some of the aroma will remain and they can get some of it right. And I totally wouldn’t mind if they cast Charlize Theron to play me.

MADONNA AND THE GREAT CHASE

2008-06-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Probably the most effeminate thing about my character, outside of my predilection to fellatio, is my undying affection towards all things Madonna. I would tend to believe that I am on a slightly higher phase of existence than those silly school girls who used to scream at Beatles concerts but the truth of the matter is that I have often thought about what I would truly do if I ever did meet her and truthfully speaking I’m almost positive that I would scream at the top of my lungs until my eyes welled up with tears and then faint soon after.

In the simplest of terms, I just admire her. I am one of the millions of people who truly found inspiration in the lowly-girl-from-Detroit-makes-it-big story and for her to do it with such a sense of artistry, independence and humor has always endeared a very special place in my heart… and in my life quite honestly.

It’s no surprise that I was most definitely one of the people who pre-ordered her latest incarnation Hard Candy and downloaded it the second it was available. It’s been in heavy rotation on my iPod ever since and Beat Goes On, her duet with Kanye West, is the single reason why I started going back to the gym.

Usually when I dig an album this much I begin to peruse what others may think of it on such sites like Amazon.com or the comments on iTunes or YouTube. I did the same thing when Erykah Badu, Tori Amos and Björk released New AmErykah – Part One (4th World War), American Girl Posse and Volta respectively. With all of these releases the comments have all been mostly positive but then there are those rogue one-star comments that always get me, particularly with Hard Candy. More often than not, the people who despise the album truthfully seem to be pretty ambivalent to the actual music on the album but truly despise the negative aspects of what they think Madonna represents.

I got this same feeling when I read Rich Cohen’s interview in the May issue of Vanity Fair whereas he spent a lot of page space theorizing the idea of Madonna as opposed to actually presenting these theories to the woman herself and having her speak for herself or even in the very least, asking her about her music… you know… the shit that got her here in the first place.

Soon after, I bumped into article after article by different journalists and critics about how Madonna is just a waste of space, how desperate she is, how decrepit and old she is, how she should just quit because she’s embarrassing herself. One critic wrote an extensive soliloquy carefully detailing the myriad of reasons why she is a boring, desperate has-been who has absolutely has no place in modern music.

Considering that I do hold Madonna in fairly high esteem I do admit that I have a biased against these writers, but even still, even if I were not such a fan I think I would still wonder if these guys truly felt that their anti-Madonna ascertainments were actually helping people or… are they fighting against the cool kids that never allowed them to sit at their lunch table or even still… making the comments that they feel they will receive once they hit 50 themselves and have the audacity to not just roll over and die.

These critics are a single pearl to a necklace of thought I started a long time ago about the role of teachers, journalists, critics and bloggers alike. It’s a question of intention, integrity and consequence. There are certain artists that I personally despise that I want to scream from the mountaintops in hopes of there demise (James Blunt, Soulja Boy… I’m lookin’ at you…), but I do wonder what significance it would have in the big scheme of things… and what would it say about me since I’m slowly learning that… what you despise defines you as much as what you admire.

There is overlap in the roles of teachers, journalists, critics and bloggers. The ultimate goal of all them is to communicate information to a group of people. I think the differences lie within their intentions. I think teachers communicate to enlighten. Journalists communicate for the sake of communication. Bloggers communicate to self medicate. And critics, well… I think critics communicate to self congratulate, because it’s not really about enlightening people, or enlightening themselves really… it’s more about finding the wittiest ways to frame the most vile of intentions in the most urbane language and being congratulated for it (Rex Reed… I’m lookin’ at you...)

And the truth of the matter is, as much as people bitch about opinions and their similarity to assholes (everybody’s got one), people are curious to know about them. It’s what makes journalists, bloggers and critics that much more colorful than teachers. They all can present the truth, but journalists, bloggers and critics can add the flavor of opinion and that’s what makes them much more palatable. And while a teacher can come off as an intelligent drone, journalists, critics and bloggers have their opinions which gives them personality… for better or for worse.

But it does make me pause to consider my own intentions, because I think I have slid across all four circles at one point or another and I just hope that no matter the ranting (and Lord knows I can rant…) that somebody, somewhere got something out of it… and it’s that hope that keeps me going.

Or as Rich Cohen finally got out of Madonna after several pages of processing the idea of her without any real dialogue from her, “You have to get to a point where you care as little about getting smoke blown up your ass as you do when you become a whipping boy… because ultimately they both add up to shit. You just have to keep doing your work, and hope and pray somebody’s dialing into your frequency… if your joy is derived from what society thinks of you, you’re always going to be disappointed.”

So as teachers, journalists, bloggers and critics alike rattle on with great fervor, anger and passion about the significant insignificance (or the insignificant significance as the case me be) of a little lady named Madonna, she just keeps going and going to her own beat. And I in turn keep going and going listening to her music every morning on the treadmill, on the exercise bikes on the lat pull machines. In my mind I imagine a brood of teachers, journalists, bloggers and critics chasing after her as fast as they can, and she is always in front of them running as fast as she can, but not to get away from them, she doesn’t even know they’re there. She’s just running because she likes running and she has her own goal to get to.

I keep that in mind every morning now on the track listening to Madonna’s duet with Kanye West “The Beat Goes On”... to just keep going, for my own sake, not for the multitude of people who have demeaned, emasculated and humiliated me over the years about my appearance, or for the family members who deemed my lot in life to resemble a wildebeest and not to achieve an acceptable weight to comfortably slide into gay culture’s anorexic-eque leanings. I run to my own goal for my own reasons. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not being chased… there are always going to be “playa haters” around trying to dismiss your successes because it’s not there’s, It’s always going to be someone around telling you you’re not running fast enough. You just can’t give in to it, because once you allow your run to become someone else’s chase… you’ll always lose.

LOVE, HEART AND SOUL

2008-06-10T23:14:00.000-07:00

I have recently begun to attend a poetry workshop where poets have an opportunity to have their work critiqued by both established writers and novices alike. One of the more interesting comments that have come out of the workshop is that one attendee proclaimed that he would like to ban the words love, heart and soul from any new poets’ vocabulary, the reason being that the words have been prostituted so much over the ages that they have just lost their meaning, or in the very least the immediacy that they once were so full of.

I thought it was an interesting concept considering the fact that as of date both my heart and soul have been taking an immense pounding and the little bit of love that I had left stashed away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front has been smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes. I wondered of a life without the words love, heart, and soul. Not particularly the concepts, just the terms.

How would I be able to describe my various states of emotional disrepair? The words are so unyieldingly tethered to their meanings… it’s like coming up with another word for Mother or God. I don’t truly think a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I think that if we called a rose a piece of shit… it would have a little taint to it. And like mother or God, I think there are certain words that never go out of style. Love, heart, and soul are the new black for me… they go with everything and they’re timeless.

I think it’s because those words can be so succinct in their meanings that their simplicity can make people embarrassed by the amount of weight they can hold. When you consider yourself to be a highly educated individual, I think it might be humbling to find yourself taken aback by words with only one syllable. I’ve noticed in this workshop of enlightened/elitist poets and writers that what gets them off are words like entanglement, disillusion, allegory, barnacle, zephyr, melancholy, sociological… I’ve been trying to come up with a piece that uses extranoematic or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

But in the meantime, I’ve been writing about how my soul has remained this tightly packed little ball of homemade soap that never ceases to clean me no matter how small it gets or dirty my situations, how I imagine my heart to resemble a magnificent compost heap made of bright Technicolor wet garbage that is slightly rusted on the sides, and how the years have chipped away my ability to love somebody, but I did find a way to stash the little that I had left away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front and when it was smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes… I knew how my mother felt, and I prayed to God… and while I feel a little better about the situation… it still fucking sucks.

Even still, I don’t think I’ll abandon love, heart or soul… the words or the concepts. At least not just yet. I’ve got a lot more game to play here in this pin prick world of self conscious elitists who’ll challenge my soul, handsome assholes who’ll break my heart, thesauruses to help me interpret the love I have for them all.

COMING AND GOING

2008-04-10T23:32:00.000-07:00

Spurred by the recent tragedies involving the deaths of young gay Black men in New York City, a friend of mine decided to pen some helpful tips that could prevent such tragedies from repeating.

Stories of sexually active gay men who did not survive precarious situations have always been the “ghost stories” for me and my friend, both of us sexually active gay men who have at one point or another have found ourselves in our own precarious situations. We tell the seedy details of our own sexual trysts and laugh uncomfortably at the thought that outside of pure utter luck, we have no idea why we survived and so many haven’t.

My friend’s list consisted of ten things you can do to ensure your safety if you decide to have a one night stand, or as it is more affectionately termed in the community, “if you decide to bring a trick home.”

When I first read his list I looked on in it with a heightened sense of humor, not really taking it seriously. I decided to pen my own comical version of the list. But after informing me of his true intentions to help people and then pondering over all of those ghost stories, my laughter wasn’t uncomfortable, it went away altogether.

With that said, these are my ten tips to help protect yourself if you are so inclined to bring a trick home. It is written in jest, but there is some hardness to this candy, and I hope it helps.

The Continuing Guide To Living A Promiscuous Homosexual Lifestyle on a Budget in an Urban Environment

DON’T tell those catty bitches where you are about to get some. Somebody should be aware of your location but the last thing you need is Laquiesha and them prank calling your ass while you’re getting some dick from Dave the Drug fiend.
DON’T meet someone from a chat room unless you have accurately Googled their ass first. Or in the very least have caught the last episode of “To Catch A Predator” and/or “America’s Most Wanted”.
- ...and maybe “America’s Next Top Model”.
DON’T refuse if someone asks if his boy can come over too. Seriously dude… how many times are you going to have the opportunity for a ménage a trios?
DON’T let the guy(s) entering your apartment walk further than two feet in before they completely undress naked. They might have weapons but at least you can get off before the knife fight starts.
DON’T forget that this is a one night stand/booty call. C’mon people… “Pretty Woman” was bullshit, Julia Roberts knows it, Disney knows it, you should too. A trick is a trick is a trick, you’ll never be able to turn a ho into a husband. Under no circumstances whatsoever do you share your personal information.
- However, if he decides to share his, remember it with pristine recall just in case you run short on cash one day and you need to get a credit card in his name.
DON’T miss the opportunity to take pictures of the dude in various states of undress, preferably inebriated. MySpace has been getting boring lately, we need YOU to spice it up.
DON’T go through any special hoops to hide your valuables. He should be naked by the time he reaches your $1,000,000 Fabergé Egg.
DON’T go over a stranger’s house… if he lives in the projects. In this case judge a book by the cover. Statistically speaking, poor tricks are 90% more likely to give you drama than rich tricks.
- Stay away from gated communities. If you get caught up in there… giiirrlll…. I hope you can jump.
DON’T do anything with a dude before you give him a thorough look over his body. Once he strips, check for lesions, sores, gun shot wounds track marks… stretch marks. There is nothing worse than giving head to some dude in the dark and tasting scar tissue.
DON’T let your guard down when it’s over. Make him put on his clothes within two feet of the door and gently kick him out. If you made it to this point and the sex was good, make a mental note to invite him back over and to show your appreciation give him three feet.
- If you got to this point and the sex was bad… quickly kick him out flail your arms about while screaming at the top of your lungs about how bad he was. A chorus of either “One Minute Man” or “Short Dick Man” would be appropriate here.
- If you get to this point and the sex was good but you suffered a body injury, amputate or try to amputate the nearest body appendage to hold him until the police come. In the meantime make sure you put some clothes on girl and make some tea and when the po po comes and asks how you know the dude smile demurely and say in a pronounced southern accent “Why I don’t know officer… I was just sitting here having tay…”

REPRESENTATION WITH INACCURATE SIMULATION

2008-04-10T23:21:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

One of the multifaceted aspects of being part of a minority demographic is the appointment of accurate representation to the masses. I have often referred to this phenomenon as “crabs in a barrel” whereas a bunch of minorities are in a barrel like crabs trying to claw their way to the top for acknowledgment and as soon as you get there… you got a brood of all the other crabs around you clawing at you, trying to bring you down so they can get to the top also.

What I have experienced is that more than likely… the crab that actually made their way to the top, forgot all the aspects of being a crab, up to and including the lifetime of clawing they had to do to get there and all of the clawing that’s still going on; and it is these amnesiac crustaceans that supposedly represent your best interest.

In short, there are people and organizations out there who are getting paid to represent you that don’t have slightest fucking clue about who you are, what you do or what you need… and they don’t have the slightest intention of ever finding out, particularly if it means getting back in the barrel with you.

In the black gay community I have seen this time and time and time again where some hollow non-profit gets an astounding grant based on ghost intentions to help the “community” and they don’t even know where the “community” is. Here in Los Angeles, there are organizations that supposedly exist for the sole purpose to help enrich the greater African American LGBT community, a community that quite frankly is in need of enrichment but whom thirsts for it and welcomes it whenever possible. However, these organizations are trying to target the African American LGBT community… in West Hollywood. Now those of you not in the know, West Hollywood, while a predominately homosexual area, is also predominately Caucasian. So trying to do an inclusive study of the African American LGBT community in West Hollywood would be similar to doing an inclusive study of Nazi Concentration Camp survivors living in the Marcy Projects.

And it is this disconnect that just pisses me off. Because more than likely these studies are being made in West Hollywood because these organizations either don’t know the social trends of the LGBT African American Community and/or they are simply too afraid to be enveloped by them. Which just begs the question, how are you going to accurately represent a people that you don’t know or even care to associate with, and how many slave ghosts have haunted your sleep because you get paid to do it?

Not too long ago I participated in a townhall meeting where several members of the African American LGBT community spoke on which current issues will most affect their choice in the upcoming presidential elections. The majority of the panelists spoke on their concerns about the current state of healthcare, tax incentives, social programs and a general need to get out of the Republican/Bush rut. But there was one brother who said that he personally felt that the greatest issue that should be addressed is the war on terrorism in an effort to not suffer another attack on American soil. And while I do have a concern about the current war, I do have to say that I was simply astounded that, out of the plethora of influences that attack us specifically as African Americans and as LGBT on a daily basis that his main concern was with the war or terrorism. The last reported Hate Crime Statics show that in 2004, there were a total of 8,804 victims of a hate crime. 1,190 were anti-LGBT and 3,322 were Anti-Black. In 2006,

In California alone there were 245 reported Anti-Sexual Orientation Hate Crime Events and 844 reported Anti-Race Hate Crime Events. It’s easier to be caught D.O.B. (Driving While Black) than it is to catch a cold, too many brothers are coming up missing or dead from some low self esteemed fueled DL sexual tryst and Hip Hop is still trying fuel it’s hyper masculinity by degrading women and homosexuals. Your main concern is the war on terrorism? In my head I imagine this scene where he goes to some rally to support the war but is pulled over by some cop who doesn’t believe a Black man could drive a BMW and then finally has it impounded it when he sees the gay pride sticker in the back window.

I think that problems overseas should be addressed and I think our foreign policy needs a complete aura enema, but the truth of the matter is… the Civil Rights movement hasn’t ended. We’re still fighting for justice and equality right here, right now. I just think it’s a somewhat lofty aspiration to negate the social atrocities in your own home in an effort to fix problems abroad. I’ve always felt that terrorism existed because there was a breakdown in communication, that the attacks on American soil were not random but because our adversaries did not agree with some fundamental tenets of American life, and I think that’s because… they just didn’t understand them. The way I see it, every human being to ever exist has wanted the same thing, provide for you and your family, give honor to your God(s), and get laid as much as humanly possible. I think our adversaries couldn’t see the forest through the trees and couldn’t realize that at the end of the day we want the same thing. And America, so (in)famously known for it’s brutally empty machismo, never presented that olive branch. Hell, we don’t even provide that same dignity and compassion to our own citizens. In other words, we don’t listen how loud our own radio is before we are so quick to try and get the neighbors to turn theirs down. And more than likely, theirs is only so loud because ours is.

I also think that is why same-sex marriage is simply not a priority in many African American homes, gay or straight. Honestly speaking, we’re still trying not to get pulled over and beat on the way to the chapel. Yet there are organizations here, also under the auspice of enlightening the African American LGBT community, whose main agenda is to promote same sex marriage amendments. But that agenda is not on the greater African American LGBT community’s schema. We’re in need of better educational programs, better vocational programs, more job opportunities, sensitivity training for our heterosexual counterparts, efficient liaisons between the Black church and the Black Gay community, better health programs, self defense training and discussion, HIV education and advocation… things that will make a difference in our lives, our families’ lives and generations after that. Legalizing our love life is great, but we still need to stop the legal system from demonizing our everyday life first. The Civil Rights movement is not over, and I think that is something that would be easily found out if these entities geared towards African American communities would actually go to… African American communities and do the work that needs to be done and not just play some contemporary Uncle Tom/whore amalgamation by collecting a paycheck for being the type of non-threatening “niggers” who smile pretty for the grant writers and have no clue as to needs of the greater African American LGBT Community.

THE BALLAD OF THE AMERICAN BLACK BEAR

2008-04-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

(c) Breeze Vincinz

A friend of mine used to run a, entertainment business on the East Coast that catered to the needs of overweight homosexual men of color. In it’s hey day the business thrived and everyone involved enjoyed the fruits of their labor, including the notion that, even in the most minuscule of levels, they were providing a service to a demographic that was grossly underserved.

The business has since devolved and my friend has since moved here to the West Coast, the hope being that the success of said business would easily transfer to California’s (in)famously oversexed gay shorelines. But alas, ever since his pudgy little toes touched down on Los Angeles’ sun-kissed terrain, he has found it increasingly hard to recapture the verve once established and even treasured back East.

We sat and discussed the current state of Bear affairs over our weekly Malibu Chicken special at Sizzler. “Bear” is a gay slang term used to identify homosexual men that are usually heavy-set with facial hair and hairy bodies. The Bear Diasporas actually are pretty wide including men who are thin, muscular, smooth, into leather or uniforms or have other physical attributes. But nonetheless, as it stands, for all intense purposes, the both of us would most definitely be considered Bears.

For awhile now I have considered myself to be on this Dian Fossey-esque exploration into the great beasts whereas instead of gorillas, I have studied the great American Bear for all it’s glory. I’ve been to Bear bars, Bear clubs, Bear orgies and was even invited to a Bear dinner but declined because it would have interfered with my weekly Malibu Chicken at Sizzler. All in all I have found most Bear outings filled to the brim with some of the most cordial, hospitable and affable men I have ever run into in my life (which is saying a lot considering the fact that I live in Los Angeles). But there is also another blaring consistency that is quite obvious in every Bear event I have participated in, little to no Black men.

There have been several upstart little grassroot efforts made to have gatherings here that cater to zaftig men of color and none have had any lasting resonance. Then my friend comes into town with a heart filled with big dreams, creative ideas and elevated cholesterol levels with hopes of carving a little niche for himself here in the untapped “Big Boi” market of Los Angeles and I have watched as those hopes and dreams trip, stumble and fall in the shadow of juggernaut party promoters catering to the new generation of barely legal, fashion obsessed, technologically advanced, ADD, anorexic gay black men who desperately want to sit with the cool kids. And that’s how they get them; they set up this table filled with immensely beautiful and over muscled models with the promise that they can always eat lunch with them. Then there’s the Bear table. You know who’s there… me, my friend, and the marks left on our hips from binding jeans after too much Malibu Chicken from Sizzler.

We are in a very peculiar demographic, we are a subculture, inside of a subculture, inside of a subculture. Less than 25% of the country is African American. Theoretically 10% of those people are homosexual. And even less percentage of those people are Bears. So at the end of the day, our pride parade would consist of about like twelve people (five of whom I’ve probably already slept with and two I would never admit to).

One of the problems I have noticed is that there is a large percentage of African Americans in general that really don’t want the extra baggage that comes along with being with another African American. I think its akin to not wanting to spend the rest of your days with your partner talking about how neither one of you can get a credit card or find a barber who can cut a descent fade. I guess the mentality is, “I just don’t want to think about being Black all the time and at least one of us should have a credit score over 500.” Which is all good I guess… unless you don’t mind being black, your credit score is over 650 and some cute Black dude tells you that he doesn’t date Black dudes because he doesn’t want to put up with the “drama”.

Then there’s your typical run of the mill African American gay man who isn’t trying to be “out”. In general we are a very religious people and very family oriented and in general, African American gay men usually feel it’s either homosexuality or God and you’d be pretty hard pressed to find someone who would give up God for… anything really. And as a people, we haven’t really gotten to that point where sex (gay or straight) is good or righteous or acceptable. It’s still taboo, we still don’t talk about it or at least not enough.

Then there’s the mainstream gay community whose main agenda is public displays of homosexual pride at any and every given opportunity… at all costs.

Then there’s the Bear community who is usually masculine, heavy-set blue collar guys who don’t mind being masculine, heavy-set or blue collar.

Then there’s Los Angeles whose delusions of grandeur has been oxygenated into our atmosphere since its inception. It’s about image here, not necessarily what you look like, but what you represent. So an overweight guy here can still fit in as long as it is clear that he clearly abides by the strictest rules of contemporary fashion which translates into, “You can be fat, but you better be fierce!”

And that’s where the conundrum lies; finding masculine, openly homosexual, heavy-set, African American men who don’t have delusions of grandeur of being America’s Next Top Model who actually like other African American men… which brings us back to it being a subculture, inside of a subculture, inside of a subculture; that’s the table dude, me, my friend, and the marks left on our hips from binding jeans after too much Malibu Chicken from Sizzler.

It’s no wonder his business failed.

I, on the other hand, have been delving into the wonderful world of the Bear in all its Caucasian seasoned glory. Who knows if I’ll ever actually date a White boy but I got to tell you… I’m starting to feel more of a kinship with the people who understand why I would rather sit at a table at a restaurant than my so-called Soul Brothas who scoff at the fact that I can’t fit in a booth, which is a very scary thought because I have always felt more of an connection with Black people than Gay people. Who knew that all that chicken grease would make my vision clearer?

But alas, I don’t see me trading in the profound love I have for my people, my Black men… unrequited as it may be. I still go to Bear bars, Bear clubs, Bear orgies... and I do very much enjoy the friendly fur of these, my ivory toned counterparts. But I’m always holding out for those Black Bears, aware, proud and not too bruised by this pin prick of a world.

CHANGING OF THE GUARD

2008-02-10T00:12:00.000-08:00

For the past couple of months I have seen some of the most despicable, backstabbing, wicked, deplorable acts being perpetrated within the Black Gay community and I think at this point I have officially had enough.

For those of you not in the know I have worked and been associated with a few organizations that serve the Black Gay community here in Los Angeles and while I have definitely only been on the peripheral in terms of the organizational duties of these businesses, I have been front and center as a handful of narcissistic bastards whose egos far outweigh their capacities spend far too much time and money (sometimes even there own pension funds) trying to destroy establishments whose core purpose is to do nothing more than to serve the community. What’s frustrating is that these bastards were once a part of the same organizations that they repel against. And what’s even more frustrating is that they never showed as much passion, fervor or dedication during their employ and/or association as they are now trying to raze, destroy and emasculate.

One of these organizations’ sole purpose is for the protection of Black Lesbians. During the course of the past couple of years, this organization has hobbled along trying it’s best to maintain fiscally and socially but their has been so much in-fighting, so much miscommunication and so many grossly enlarged egos that for every step the organization tries to make forward they wind up taking two steps back.

It’s now come to the point that every time this organization makes even the slightest move, this clan of disgruntled, cowardly, superficial witches swoop down to thwart the efforts being made. But at what cost? And to what end? And where was this mystifying fervor of excitement back when they were part of the organization and needed that strength the most? It’s to the point where even personal pension funds are being used to destroy. If you are going to sacrifice your financial stability, why not use it to build community instead of tearing it down?

Recently, yet another coal hearted, inhuman, bastard vampire stole the identity of a colleague of mine and under that stolen identity, began a verbal assault on various members within the Black Gay community here in Los Angeles. Who does that type of evil serve… and at what cost? And to what end?

It seems every day lately when I open my mailbox I see the work of these demons in flesh operating as the voice of the Black Gay constituency and I feel myself getting angrier and angrier as my questions never get answered… who benefits if you destroy organizations that benefit Black Lesbians, and what does it say about you when the only way you can speak your words is to steal someone else’s voice… and when you do that… who does it serve… and at what cost! Because at the end of the day… it is the Black Gay community that is suffering; there are hundreds upon thousands of Black Gay people in this country, present company included, that need to feel validated, authenticated and empowered. And if during the course of your day if your main concern is to tear down organizations that help Black Gay people or to steal the voice of a Black Gay person to push your own agenda I still have to ask… who the fuck are you serving… because it surely isn’t the Black Gay community… and I most certainly doubt you looked up for inspiration.

I often discuss some of the dissension I have witnessed to a heterosexual colleague of mine who does not quite grasp why there is so much discord. I usually brush it off with the inclination that, it’s a gay thing, he just wouldn’t understand. But the truth of the matter is; I don’t get it myself. To me, it comes off a little like cutting off your nose to spite your face; instead of dealing with the whole, you destroy this one part, and now the whole thing is fucked up. Instead working out your issues with a particular Black Gay organization, you put in this effort to disrupt their events, fucking with everyone involved: the Black Gay organization, the event sponsors and the greater Black Gay community who would have benefitted.

And for what purpose? And to what end?

During this season of presidential primaries I have noticed that the main chorus being sung from all of the candidates is “change”; that there were certain decisions made during this administration that were “questionable” to say the least. Most notably solving problems in a very patriarchal “cowboy” way. And the more I think about that, I think about what I said to my heterosexual colleague in regards to the conflicts I have seen in the Black Gay community. And I realize that, it’s not a gay thing. This concept of stripping down your adversaries to only their adversarial acts… it’s an American thing. Once you strip a person of their character, culture and history and leave only the repugnant parts that can serve your agenda, it’s much easier to hate them, or blame them, or bomb them. And as millions of Americans who are ravenous for “change” can tell you, it just doesn’t work.

This clan of disgruntled, cowardly, superficial witches maligning the work of an organization that benefits Black Lesbians to further their personal egocentric agenda just doesn’t work.

Me calling a group of women a clan of disgruntled, cowardly, superficial witches because of their current heinous actions, maligning all other aspects of their character, just doesn’t work.

Change is desperately needed, present company included. And no matter what the results of the 2008 election is… a change is going to come. I look forward to the changing of the guard here in America. I hope I can learn from the examples that will be set. I hope we all can. In the meantime, there are still lessons that can be learned from the mistakes that have been made. And I hope that with every decision we make as Americans, as Blacks, as Whites, as Gays, as Straights that we do it asking those pertinent questions like… who does this serve, and at what cost?

I just have a sneaky suspicion that friendships, reputations, lesbian retreats, pension money and thousands of soldiers’ lives alike could have all been saved if they were asked beforehand… and the answer came from above.

JIGABOO PORNOGRAPHY

2008-02-10T00:06:00.000-08:00

I remember when the movie Malcolm X came out they had plans to do a X-rated spin-off titled Malcolm XXX. Fortunately they couldn’t find a single African American actor, gay or straight, to agree in a production that would spoof the legacy of Malcolm X. It was a bittersweet revelation whereas at least in one point in history the highly religious African American community looked upon these lost soul sex workers as having some shred of morality. I imagine when Mr. Marcus, Lexington Steele, Midori, Gene Lamar and Randy Cochran collectively and publicly refused to participate in the project, it was similar to Shug Avery proclaiming to her father, “See Daddy, sinners have soul too!” at the end of the Color Purple.

But alas, although there was no Malcolm XXX, there was still Black Meat Warehouse, Black Bitches White Cum, Pain In Da Azz, and the ever so cleverly titled… Black Meat Warehouse 2. And with them returned the flood of judgment and morality. (I always wondered how long that shit with Shug Avery’s father would last once he found out she did it with Miss Celie)

Now the truth of the matter is, I think you would be hard pressed to find somebody who has never in there life watched a porn. I think it’s as American as baseball, apple pie and the denial of any involvement in the Iran-Contra affair. When I was first dealing with my sexuality as a teenager I came to the correct summation that the main cause of homophobia is the idea that once someone declares themselves to be homosexual you automatically imagine them giving head to a member of the same sex. It’s not about love, it’s not about relationships, it’s not about this person wanting to raise a strong black family with his partner… nope, once Julian tells you he’s gay, a hologram of a dick is automatically fixated in front of his mouth. And this is where porn comes in… because in porn, it is all about the sex. It isn’t about romance or love or commitment… nope, you fast forward past all that stuff and get down to the nitty gritty.

I also remember during my trek to become the flaming homosexual that I am today, shopping for porn with my Caucasian cohorts back in Chicago in my twenties. We giggled uncomfortably at all the naked men in various states of depravity, wondering with stars in our eyes, “Will I ever be able to get my ankles behind my ears like that too?” I distinctly remember us getting to the African American section of the store. My twenty something heart was all a flutter at the thought of some Malcolm Jamal-Warner or Alfonso Ribero looking guys butt naked getting it on. Imagine my disappointment and horror as I looked at rack after rack of anorexic and crusty Black men who looked as if someone gave them a couple of bucks to film them giving each other hand jobs then they went off, got some Mad Dog 20/20 and went back to their wife and kids… at the shelter. I remember my friends politely saying, “Hmmm, I don’t like these videos.” I figured the thought bubbles above their heads read, “I wouldn’t touch these jiggaboos with a ten foot pole!” And looking at those boxes of malnourished and inebriated black men… I could concur.

One of the most fascinating and frustrating things about porn is that it is just about the only form of mass communication that is truly carnal, uninhibited and improvised. Outside of Federal laws that (thankfully!) prohibit the participation children, animals and death, it’s a free for all. I have watched some porn that has simply amazed me. Not necessarily because of the sexual acts, but mainly because of the accoutrements that are involved in getting the scene right. I remember this one porno where all of these so called “gangstas” about 20 maybe, were up in a house up in the Hollywood Hills. There was one white girl and she was just waiting to be gang banged, but none of the so called “gangstas” wanted to touch her… except for this one guy who proceeded to fuck her, outside, on the lawn, in front of around 20 other black dudes egging on the scenario. The sex itself was ok… but I was just amazed at how far they went. There was no limit. Anybody can do and say what they want. The words “nigger” and “bitch” are allowed here, at any given time, said by anybody. (Personally I have never heard the word “nigger” uttered as often as I do in gay porn, even more than your typical run of the mill gangster rap song.)

This is why the porn industry is the billion dollar industry that it is today. It is the ultimate release of politically incorrectness in the most sexual of settings. Every stereotype is laid out before you in glittering, slathered up extravagance, the mammy, the pickaninny, the big bad buck, the innocent country white girl… all there for you, lubed for your pleasure, without explanation or judgment, they know you want nothing more than an oiled up black nigger bitch, and for $49.99, they will provide that to you… no questions asked. And who in their right mind, black or white, would ever admit in polite society that an oiled up black nigger bitch, male or female, gets them off? Yeah… that’s why it’s $49.99, and that’s why oiled up black nigger bitch videos sell so well underground.

So I watch the porn of today, mainly man on man, mainly all African American. Not too much is changed. No… I take that back. I guess I have. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older or maybe it’s because my priorities have changed or maybe it’s because with each passing year, a little of the humor I used to consistently find in life’s atrocities is being overshadowed by the historical and sociological attributes that have created the atrocities in the first place, but I look at Black Gay porn today… and I’m not aroused, and I’m not amused. They actually went ahead and made Malcolm XXX. I shutter at what could possibly be next… Stokely “Cock” Michael, Rosa “McArthur” Park… part 4. If porn is a reflection of society’s most basest and carnal attitudes, I wonder if that thread of morality that existed back when the original Malcolm X was released still exists today… or in our heart of hearts do we really see ourselves as oiled up black nigger bitches?

Now mind you; not all black gay porn is plebian drivel, but if I do say so myself, in contrast to our Caucasian counterparts, we got some catching up to do, mainly in the production value of the films. Say for example:

Wave caps. I don’t know when this became a trend but every video I have seen lately the brothas are wearing wave caps. Seriously dude… if you are getting the bottom pounded out of you… do you really care about the curl pattern in your hair at the time?
Eat a meal. Maybe I’m a little bias because I’m about the size of a Buick right now, but even still, it is a bit disarming to see men have sex with each other who appear as if they get fed through a tube when the cameras stop rolling.
The Handsome Factor. Again, a little bias. But I have to figure that at some point the producer or the director of “Cum N My Black Azz” would have to draw the line at someone with… oh let’s say… braces or psoriasis or a care free curl. I know we’re not making an Oscar award winning epic here but… seriously… how about some dudes with large endowments without gunshot wounds.
The Ebonics PR. Now this is something that affects the African American community in general, the idea that if you spell words out phonetically and in broken English it will seem more ethnic. NOTE TO EVERY PR FIRM IN EXISTENCE: STUPIDITY IS NOT ETHNIC, IT’S JUST STUPID. Say for example one of the more interesting loglines I have come across for a porn video: “Be Takin Dat Dick Til Da Brotha Cums In Ma Azz Fa Sho”. I would like to be aroused by this but I don’t know if I can use my own tears as lube.
Acting. There have been many a time when I’m watching these films and going, “Dude, it’s just a movie.” You know what I’m talking about? Where the scene is some “gangster” or “drug lord” taking his revenge out on some poor innocent bottom boy and he’s screaming at him and smacking him and degrading him and really getting into his character of a drug dealer? Okay, dude, you’re not a drug dealer, you’re a porn star, stop yelling at that dude and stick it in… I’ve only got so many quarters left.

I once got into an argument with a friend of mine about the aesthetics of pop culture. Basically he felt pop culture never affects society, only reflects it… which I think is bullshit… I think it can do both. I think Madonna is a prefect example of someone being a product and creator of pop culture. On that same level, I think porn can be both a reflection and creator of sexuality and sexual views. I list all of those things I felt were erroneous with Black Gay porn because I do think it is quite interesting the way our sexuality has been molded over the years. In 80’s and 90’s we had to integrate condoms into our sexual practices in order to survive. Now, it’s being integrated with… wave caps and rusty ankles and… “Be Takin Dat Dick Til Da Brotha Cums In Ma Azz Fa Sho”… and I can’t help but wonder, even though it is pornography and on the cusp of “civilized” society, is this evolution of this particular furrow in our sexuality really healthy?

Understanding the ripple affect whereas one drop in the pond can affect the rest of the water, I think I would like to see the bar raised on this, our lowest common denominator; putting the maturity back into our movies that are for mature audiences only. In reality, my attention and resources will definitely be used to uplift the people in more traditionally political and/or artistic outlets. I do feel you can inspire and incite change to a wider group of people using less graphically sexual accoutrements, but still… I do think I would sleep easier knowing that the next generations of Black Gay men aren’t masturbating with thoughts of poor lighting and gingivitis kissing. I mean… that has to be a step in the right direction towards liberation.

THE REBEL WITH A CAUSE

2008-01-10T02:45:00.000-08:00

GAY SUBJECTIVITY

2008-01-10T02:09:00.000-08:00

© Breeze Vincinz

One of the occupational hazards of living in Los Angeles is this city's incessant fascination with the life and lifestyle of celebrities. It's an old yet frustratingly true cliché about the ole city of angels. You can't take a crap in this city without having somebody with a respectable imdb profile in the stall right next to you. And with them come the paparazzi who have blood signed deals with the devil to get cash for getting even the most indistinguishable shots of even the most indistinguishable celebrities doing the most indistinguishable things in exchange for a little dignity, a little honor and more than likely at least one testicle.

And as much as intelligent contemporary audiences decry the audacities of those lizard cunts with auto focus and telephoto lenses, somebody's paying attention to them. Here in Los Angeles you will be hard pressed to turn on the television and not find some Entertainment Tonight Extra TMZ Insider TSH (That's So Hollywood) Celebrity Exposé drivel showcasing the beauty of the rich and thin (then demonizing the ones who decided to make that their goal then fail horribly at it).

And while rich white girls have been notably and understandably demonized during the celebrity witch hunts of 2007, I did find myself fascinated with the celebration and/or degradation of three E-List celebrities last year, Chris Crocker, Sanjaya Malakar and Perez Hilton, mainly for the noticeably gay slant they brought to the table.

Even if you haven't been keeping up with the sink hole known as Brittney, more than likely you have seen blonde by bottle Chris Crocker crying his baby blues pleading to cyberspace with all the desperation of a dying man for the world to just "leave her alone!" Sanjaya Malakar was one of the most memorable reality television stars by having the most consecutive off key performances in the history of American Idol. The fascination, celebration and eventual degradation of both of these individuals, however, was not totally in what they did in 2007, but more in who they are, two really fey men.

There have been many people who have supported Brittany's crazy ass in the past and there have been a plethora of people whose voices could induce gastro problems in cows on American Idol, but none have ever done it with as much direct and indirect male girlpower as Chris and Sanjaya and I often wondered if their heightened feminine appearances was a major factor in the media's voracious need to rake them over the coals. I can't help but wonder if America's longtime apprehension of effeminate men and homosexuality in general was the true reason these two were put on the spit? And as homosexuals, what exactly should our stance be?

Enter Perez Hilton. Perez Hilton has been slowly making a name for himself by being the "go to" guy to find all the dirt in regards to celebrities. Like Chris and Sanjaya, he too carries himself in a flamboyantly gay manner, to wit his critics attribute to being his allure or deterrent depending on their current mood. But without the gay hair and Cyndi Brady meets West Hollywood lisp, seriously, would anybody give a shit about Perez Hilton? He uses his flamboyancy the same way Don King uses his hair, and for that, I can't be mad at him (despite the fact he actually could be siphoning off the gay civil rights efforts made of the past couple of decades in effort to buy a couple of more boxes of Manic Panic AfterMidnight Blue).

I know that I am not comfortable with the idea of my own sexuality being so subjective to greater society; I don't want it to be the ulterior side note one keeps handy, ready to be used as icing if I succeed or bullets once I fuck up. I could simply be a hack writer. But with the whole gay thing, I would be the hack writer without a gag reflex because I give head so much. And I guess I don't want the lack of having a gag reflex to my "thing". I don't want it to be my blue hair, my off key feminine tune, my mascara-running call for a better Brittany understanding world. I would want to just work on not being a hack writer.

But God bless those three for taking their lemons and making lemonade. Let's just hope I can be such a mixologist if I find myself caught in the predicament of my craft on the spit and my sexuality dangling on display. Just a forewarning, if you ever see me with pink hair, now you know why.

TALLULAH, THE ORIGINAL GANGSTA

2007-09-10T03:55:00.000-07:00

While doing some research on a project that I am involved with, I recently came across several articles dealing with the bisexual practices of an immense number of celebrities both past and present. And while there was a certain amount of adolescent blushing, giggling and awe at my initial knowledge that Marilyn Monroe and Joan Crawford once bumped fuzzy muffins once upon a time, there was also this feeling reading story after story of lesbian and homosexual trysts in Hollywood that maybe I, and the rest of the modern world, might have an unhealthy preoccupation with this whole idea of homosexuality and homosexual rights.

Not that I would suggest that the fight for equality amongst all sexual orientations is a moot one, but as I enveloped myself more into the world of Tallulah Bankhead, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Billie Holiday, I found myself curious beyond belief to know what exactly would they think about today's almost fanatical leanings towards gay pride and identification. In their 1930's celebrity Hollywood world, homosexuality didn't seem to be such a point of contention or accord. There were no parades, no marches, no magazine covers or rainbow flags and they were just as out if not even more so than the most prevalent soap box preaching homosexual of today. I just wonder if today's homosexual is more preoccupied with the idea of homosexuality than actually being a homosexual?

And the same goes for the homophobes. I see Reverend Fred Phelps and his flock give such passionate discourses about the mortal abominations associated with homosexuals and homosexuality over the years and I can't help but wonder if in all this time if they actually know or even remember what that means. In my head I see them pillaging and marching and yelling offensive things at the funeral services for gays and lesbians and condemning their fallen bodies and fragile spirits to an eternity of hell when someone softly taps him on the shoulder and goes, "Uh, he just did it with a couple of dudes" and Rev. Phelps going, "Oh. Really? That's all? I thought it was so much more. Is that it? What was I thinking all this time?"

Homosexuality has just become a life of its own nowadays and we either grab a sign and march for it's promotion or we grab a sign and march for it's elimination and I wonder if Tallulah would have even given a shit or would she be too busy eating hair pie. Somehow I think she would she have chosen the latter and I think she would have had the right idea.

I think in my old age I am becoming more and more of a pacifist. Rev. Phelps himself was scheduled to spearhead a bullhorn session on the corner of Santa Monica and LaCienega here in Los Angeles not too long ago. There was a little army of protesters ready to combat his hate mongering but there was a more predominate group (led by Queer as Folk's Peter Paige) that suggested that nobody even acknowledge that fool, to instead go about your ordinary business and donate money to the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. I loved that plan. Why waste all that energy trying to combat "lifestyles", go out and just live your life.

I feel the same way in regards to Gay Marriage, you pick your battles. I am totally for gay marriage in the United States but my heart just truly isn't in that battle when the inner city school system has become one of the most expensive combustible heaps in the history of America. Besides, it just feels so counterrevolutionary to try and find spiritual recognition and acknowledgement only with the approval of the powers that be. I just don't ever want people feel like they can't fall in love because Dubya hasn't sanctioned it. I don't ever want to feel like I can't fall in love because his successors won't approve it.

I think Tallulah was very revolutionary in that sense, very gangsta. She didn't wait to be defined and she didn't need any outside agenda to define her. She did not march, she did not carry signs… she was just her. And like her or hate her, she got away with it.

It's definitely been on the forefront of my mind lately as I have swooped in and out of different areas of the black gay movement. I wonder, exactly how real is my reality? I speak to both my sister and my boss who are both struggling to raise children, maintain relationships with their respective spouses while remaining gainfully employed then I compare it to the trials and tribulations that I have voluntarily taken on as an African American homosexual (should I take the day off to go to the bathhouse or should I take the day off to go to the beach… should I continue to wear my hair in cornrows or try an afro for the fall… I'm going to have to plan my schedule for October around the next season of America's Next Top Model) and I come off like some modern day Ferris Bueller on Viagra.

I guess I want to get back into the real world with real problems and have real conversations with people that are not so heavily dripped in my own gay forward perspective. Like, Tallulah, I just want to live my life and fuck as much as I can and move on. Any need I have ever had to be in association with any entity, group or faction has since elapsed.

I recently had a conversation with a friend in which I was alluding to the fact that I don't really want to be apart of those tiresome cliques that exist in modern society, particularly the exasperating ones that exist within the black gay community which can eerily resemble a suburban high school lunchroom at even given moment. My friend alluded that it was a childish sentiment to believe that the real world is so childishly divided into jocks, nerds and cheerleaders. But I can't help but feel that a certain hierarchy exists with the help of strategically grouped cliques whose members have similar agendas. Within the black gay community there are several cliques vying for the top position of modern spiritual political artistic omnipotent fabulousness. It is very ageist, it very sexist, it is very class-ist… there are certain social circles that you have to be "this" height in order to ride their rides.

But I have to admit I did feel a bit like the paranoid outcast at my derision to a world that I felt the "beautiful people" built for themselves. Maybe I was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe I was trying to push off my own insecurities on other people and that had nothing to do with their agenda but my own idiosyncrasies. I began to feel that maybe that in all actuality there is no class system within the black gay community. Until it suddenly dawned on me that we had the whole conversation inside of his tricked out 2006 Mustang on his way to some posh dinner party thrown to support an upcoming black gay/lesbian center project.

My braces, scoliosis brace, therapeutic shoes and bifocals never weighed so heavy.

And I wonder if anybody in attendance really understood the importance of unity and fellowship or were these buzzwords to create yet another clique? Was this an opportunity to make a difference within their own lives or a preoccupation to avoid what they really want or need and make a name for themselves in the process?

Right now, I can't truly interpret if I am just being bitter or if there actually is a Gay Black Elite velvet rope that I can't get past. In either case, Tallulah has been the one getting me through. I think she would say, "There are way too many holes in a man's body darling for you to be preoccupied with what's coming out of one when you should be putting something in the other."

She would probably go to all those parties just to get laid and move on. I aspire to do that one day. For now, I'll just write about them… and her… a just be a lil' gangsta in my own way.

THE MYTH OF AMERICAN SANITY

2007-09-10T03:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I truly wonder about the general mental welfare of us bipedal primates. Adam and Eve definitely come to mind. As a kid, I could never understand why God never wanted them to eat from the tree of knowledge. I never understood why he felt knowledge to be this condemnable transgression. I imagine that it was done out of basic parental concern, like when you just want your kids to stay little… eat, sleep, cry and blow spit bubbles. You just don't want them to ever know about rape, abortion, murder, autoerotic asphyxiation, vodka enemas, crack or the litany of other occupational hazards that exist in this job called life. You never want them to "know".

I think it's a concept that has plagued mankind for centuries, this whole idea of free will. Can the idea of having 32 flavors to choose from make you go mad and is that why so many factions just want you to stick to vanilla and call it a day?

This year in particular has been quite arduous for me but it has been quite minimal compared to the tribulations of some of my friends. I have found myself on many occasions trying to spout some words of wisdom but I can't help but imagine that their thought bubble has Billy Joel's video for "Pressure" playing as loudly as it can,

"You've turned the tap dance into your crusade! Now here you are with your faith and your Peter Pan advice! You have no scars on your face! And you can not handle pressure!"

Last night while swapping ghetto depression stories with a friend of mine over Big Macs, I found myself offering consolation to him that I have to remember to keep in my arsenal to maintain my own mental health. It's the idea of narrow vision. I've noticed that when I have gone to those precarious places in my life where I have made the conscious decision to do physical harm to myself or other people with the goal of complete annihilation and had begun the process of that destruction, nothing else existed in those moments. It was just me and a knife or me and a baseball bat or, as Tori Amos so famously sung, just me and a gun. Nothing else was moving in my universe during those moments. Nothing proceeded it, nothing else happened concurrently, it was almost like being in the middle of making love where there is no consequence, only the present, you and the object of your obsession.

And while I think that is a preferable state to be in while making love, it is probably the absolute worse possible state to be in when your finger is on the trigger. You got to step back. You got to breathe. You are too close to the trees to see the forest. You've got this tunnel vision where you can only see you and this problem and you have to come to grips that something, anything else exists. I can only imagine how many kittens have prevented their owners' suicide by just licking their ankles and widening their world view just an inch to include the sight of a little cat at their feet; showing them that there's more to this life than this predicament. Or maybe the old lady who gives you a smile for no real reason than to be polite as you walk pass her with your Smith & Wesson .40 in tow on your way to do some serious damage. That's what it will take, just a couple of seconds of some outside stimuli to remind you that there is something else outside of this predicament… and it has hope, and it is sweet and you can just turn around, right now… and everything will be okay.

In certain ways, I think life is a series of conversations being made to talk you down from the ledge, constantly reaffirming yourself that this compost pile of an existence is in all actuality serving a greater purpose.

I recently commented on someone's blog who explained, in great detail, that he is a black man specifically looking to partner with another black man who will be his submissive "bitch". I commented that it wasn't my thing but I would love to get drunk with him and hear of his adventures. To wit he replied, in great detail, about how delusional and offensive I am and how he isn't even remotely interested in pursing the "intimate" relationship with him that he assumed I wanted.

And again I kept thinking of this idea of free will and tunnel vision. To this dude, when it came to relationships, nothing else existed for him but this hyper-masculine sadomasochistic situation that included him, his "bitch" and (I assume) a bridle. And this is something that he chose… out of the 32 flavors of sexuality and then some, he chose (really fucking) rocky road. Which, honestly, I am not making a judgment call on… like I said, it's not my thing but if he digs it, go forth and perspire. But I do wonder if he has taken that step back away from those trees and has actually seen the forest that he is so adamantly rebelling against. And if so, what purpose does the whole ordeal serve in the big scheme of things. I guess that's why I was so curious about him. But I think those are questions that he couldn't possibly answer outside of his comfort zone of being a "Bitch Owner".

To him, his agenda is no more sacrilegious than that of the passive aggressive duplicity of your typical homosexual relationship, which just begs the question, are we all just fucking nuts?

One thing I have to applaud the brother on is his honesty. I would so much rather have a guy that I am seriously digging tell me upfront that he is a psychopath before I decide to give him head… there is nothing worse than realizing you just licked the balls of the insane. Say for example, you meet a dude, and you're hitting off. Wouldn't you rather him say, "Oh, by the way, I like to kill people and eat their body parts" than to find out months later that you ate out Jeffrey Dahmer's ass? And this is the world that I'm living in, one set of brothas that are honest about their insanity and another set of brothas too insane to be honest.

All in all though, I think honesty, especially the succinct kind, goes a long way and it saves a lot of time. I wonder if, it is indeed, the cure for the common crazy. I wonder, in an honest world, how far incongruities, pain and suffering can go. I wonder if everyone were brutally honest about what they want, no matter how eccentric or whimsical, and worked towards that goal, how proficient the world would be. But alas, we are stuck in this flawed world with flawed agendas and flawed defense mechanisms. We accept the world's passive aggressive tendencies to "obtain" without "acknowledgement", to "love" without "passion", to "have a male-bitch" without "realizing it takes one to know one".

We are humans after all. I think by definition one of the primal aspects of being human is being flawed. I guess if we were not flawed, then we wouldn't really be human. Because it is our flaws that encourage us to strive for something more and it is that endeavor that separates us from other species… that and our ability to accessorize.

It's all about evolution and becoming more of what our potential claims that we can be. It's a never ending cycle and the carrot that dangles in front of us for as long as we're here… no matter how depressed you get there is always that voice whispering to you, "Dude, you sooo can do better than this." I think it's a good affirmation. I think once you stop doubting yourself, you leave out room to grow. You've got the carrot, and you're eating it, and now there is nothing left to do. I read in a Toni Morrison book once and I later read that it's a sentiment that originated from Ghandi that the secret to maintain life is to have someone to love, something to do and something to forward to. I guess realizing the butt load of flaws that I have accumulated over the years, my own multi-tiered psychosis and the psychosis of a world in which my dating pool includes Jeffrey Dahmer and some dude looking for a male-bitch that… something to look forward to, for me, equates to "sanity". I look forward to the day when I gain full sanity… or at least enough so I can believably fake it.

So I guess we just need to honestly accept people's absurdities and inaptness and be as honest as we can about our own. Appreciate all those incongruities and just try to get along on this small blue marble called Earth while we still can. Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone… and if you're thinking of picking up a rock right now… you're out of your fucking mind.

LIFE V. LIFESTYLE

2007-01-10T04:43:00.000-08:00

(c) Breeaze Vincinz

A lot of the conversations I have been having with friends lately have been revolving around the concept of being "Out" as homosexuals. Part of it, I imagine, is because I am becoming more and more aware of my own internalized homophobia and curiously enough, I'm not particularly trying to cure myself of it more so than I have been feeding it. I would even say that I am addicted to my own homophobia. I'll admit it… I hate being gay, the whole preoccupation of it. I've come terms to with the fact that I'm gay, I just hate having it be my "thing". I don't want a "thing" anymore, I don't want to have a point of contention. Ever since I came out to my brother it's like I lost my identity as "sibling" to him and have somehow turned into "big black gay thing" and it pisses me off and it definitely effects my eagerness to out myself to people with whom I share close quarters with who assume my heterosexuality.

I just don't have the patience for that initial cliché "hetero-shock" in finding out that homosexuals can have facial hair and watch football too. And I am so over the whole nature v. nurture argument. Have you ever seen a Bobby Blake or Flex-Deon porn video? No one in their right mind could ever be taught to enjoy that shit.

Maybe I shouldn't speak for all homosexuals but I can tell you with crystal clarity that I didn't choose this. Believe me, the last thing I would have ever chosen in life was to have my G-Spot be 3 inches up my ass.

In discussions about defining life, lifestyle and existence and the different elements that separate the three, I just find it all to be a matter semantics. On more than one occasion I have heard someone explain how they don't live a homosexual lifestyle or even further how they can't be a homosexual because they don't live a homosexual lifestyle. Which I always equated to a dog saying that they really aren't a dog because they don't bark and they like cats. But then again, what dog doesn't bark and loves cats? What makes a dog a dog? What makes a homosexual a homosexual?

By definition, a dog is a type of canidae or mammal in the order of Carnivora. Now that dog might abhor barking and might like a nibble of meow mix every now and then but that doesn't change who he is.

For me, I have always carried that theory through all anthropology. You are who you are no matter the circumstance. At the core, in the marrow, Michael Jackson is an African American, Madonna is a singer, I am a homosexual. Despite all the brouhaha that might pad the original intention; vitiligo, giving head to Evian bottles, using the word faggot every given opportunity, at the end of the day what you have is a an African American, a singer and a really gay guy.

What you do might define your lifestyle but I don't think that lifestyle completely defines who you are. A friend of mine told me that he does not live a homosexual lifestyle. He goes to work, he goes to the gym, he gets his groceries then he comes home. He doesn't go to the clubs, he doesn't go to the bars, he doesn't go to any black gay men discussion groups. He might go to a movie every once in awhile but as a whole his existence is pretty pedestrian. Do wit I asked, "Do you like to have sex with men?" He responded that he does. I said, "Well, then you do live a homosexual lifestyle. You're a gay guy who goes to work, goes to the gym, gets groceries then comes home."

Media is probably only second to religion in feeding myth to the masses and in accordance, we have been bombarded with images of what a gay guy should be. We should go to the gym and night clubs, tell witty jokes that all somehow refer to dick and/or ass. We should be fabulous and wear fabulous clothes and have fabulous friends with whom we can wave our fabulousness in front of to validate ourselves. We should be overly feminine and wear weird couture outfits and obsess about musical theater. In the very least, we should try and emulate the women in Sex and the City the best we can. It is those souls that pray to the altar of Jesuit Communiqué that get the most airplay and have molded the shape of homosexuality into a severe, thin, fussy silhouette.

Many people think that if they do not fit into said contour that, in turn, they do not fit into homosexuality or the homosexual lifestyle. I by far have fallen into that chasm of thinking on more than one occasion. But at this point, I just refuse to be "Queer Eyed" from my position as a homosexual. I would never be a love interest on "Queer As Folk" but that doesn't mean that I'm not queer as folk. The diaspora of homosexual experiences by far outreach what media deems acceptable for American Red State audiences. So for someone gay to say to me that they do not live a homosexual lifestyle I would have to respond, "You're gay dude, quit watching so much fucking television."

But the question does still stand, what exactly is gay or what makes a homosexual a homosexual? I have always thought that it was a definition solely based on sexual activity. Basic stuff really, you eat pussy: straight, you suck dick: gay. But that's just sex, there is still the question of sexuality, and that's not semantics, that's intrinsic emotion. The same way you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink, you can teach a dude how to suck a dick, but that doesn't mean he's going to like it… and yeah… if you're gay… you're going to like it.

A dude in jail is going to want to get his rocks off just about as much as guy on the outside. So if he does a little slap and tickle with another guy in his cell, does that make him gay or just a desperate straight dude trying to make due? I vote for the latter. It doesn't make him gay, it just makes him cum.

To me, sexuality is defined by what you want, not what you do. The goal being for the two to intersect but we don't live in a perfect world, sometimes they just don't. You have men wanting nothing more than as much mangina as they can handle but what they are doing is marrying some poor girl who didn't ask the right questions beforehand.

To me, that guy is gay. He too worships at the altar of Jesuit Communiqué and figured that he was too manly to wear the velvet purple pants that he feels all homosexuals should wear so he found a woman whom he may or may not have fallen in love with, but just isn't physically cable of fulfilling him sexually the way he needs to be fulfilled… because you know… his G-Spot is three inches up his ass too.

But it's all gay to me. Or maybe I'm just old fashioned. I don't like sexuality to be fluid or transitional. If you like dudes, then you like dudes. If you like women, then you like women. If you occasionally cross that line that's cool but just don't deny where your umbilical cord came from. I don't like the idea of the pansexual (or the omnisexual) that indiscriminately enters relationships without regard to genitalia. Politically, it does nothing to help the movement for civil rights for full blooded homosexuals. Emotionally, and let's just be real, I dig a guy who is into me spiritually with whom we can share chakras but really… I'm much more comfortable with a dude who sees me as piece of meat and who distinctly and specifically wants to suck my dick.

I don't the like the grays of sexuality, I prefer it all to be black or white. I'll never be a Berdache but my feet are too flat to wear heels so I guess that's a good thing.

All of which, and a lot more, makes up my lifestyle. I live in a coldwater studio in Hollywood that is way too small to hold all of my books, magazines and CDs which are neatly stored in milk crates all over my apartment. If you open my cabinets you will see Martini glasses, Margarita glasses, Champagne flutes, mayonnaise jars I drink Kool-Aid out of Combat roach baits. My radio never leaves the smooth Jazz station. There are tiny little rubber bands all over my bathroom that I use to secure the ends of my cornrows and there is usually a thin layer of baby powder in there from daily powdering my balls after I take a shower.

This is my lifestyle and I will totally defend its place somewhere in the spectrum of the modern homosexual's lifestyle. Mind you, it might not get on Oprah anytime soon and I doubt any self respecting straight guy would want to take fashion tips from my grungy queer eye and I don't ever remember Will having rubber bands around to secure his hair but that is all just one side of the spectrum. I'm on the other side, with MeShell NdegeOcello, Karamo Brown and Tim'm West. We might be a little bluer, but we're still just as bright.

BREEZE'S APPLICATION FOR LOVE

2007-01-10T04:17:00.000-08:00

So this idea did not totally originate from me. It actually was a post on a blog from an eFriend who posted his own application for love. I thought it was a little silly at first. I have become so jaded in my old age. There was a time I so believed in love and love at first sight. At tearing out those little "Love Is…" cartoons in the paper and keeping them in your wallet because they remind you of you baby. I used to burn CDs for my last notaboyfriend complete with illustrations and poetry printed on the labels. Dude… how fucked in the head was I to be doing some shit like that?

But alas, I was in love. And when you're in love, you do shit like that. And truth be told, and let's just keep this between you and me, I miss being in love. I miss having somebody on my side. I miss having somebody to feel all goofy, and cheesy and G-Rated about. I miss having somebody's name to write beside my own and wonder how the tattoo would turn out if I threw in a couple of roses and maybe a bear. I miss love.

So this application is just my little way of reminding myself that it's okay to be corny and a little cheesy. Besides, Valentine's Day is coming up and prospects are quite low this year for the old Breeze. So fill it out to the best of your knowledge. All applicants will receive a reply. I am an EOB (Equal Opportunity Brotha), all should apply. Fats and Femmes to the front of the line. Use additional sheets if necessary.

Applicants chosen will receive a date with Breeze which will include the following:

Dinner at some high class restaurant like Chez Mac Don Alls or Jaque N Dabocks
Movie of your choice as long as it is R-Rated and I want to see it
A hell of a story to tell your grandkids (or wife depending on who you are)

So be honest, be thoughtful, and be REAL...

BREEZE'S APPLICATION FOR LOVE

Name:

Birthplace:

Current Living:

Age:

Ethnicity:

Zodiac Sign:

Marital Status:

Have Kids: Yes No

Want Kids: Yes No

Do you know God? Yes No

Do you mention it every five fucking minutes? Yes No

Do you do drink/do drugs? Yes No

Are you willing share? Yes No

Are you a liar? Yes No

Was your answer to the previous question a lie? Yes No

Seriously dude, did you just fucking lie AGAIN? Yes No

Drag Queens:Deplorable or Damn Funny

Do you go to the gym? Yes No

Do you mention it every five fucking minutes? Yes No

Have you ever lived outside of the city you were raised in? Where?

Who's your favorite artist within the R&B/Hip-Hop Realm?

Who's your favorite artist outside the R&B/Hip-Hop Realm?

Are you bald? Yes No

If yes, can I sit on your head? Yes No

Do you have at least one Janet Jackson poster taped to your wall? Yes No

Pornography: Good or Gross

Are you more: introverted or extroverted?

Are you financially stable? Yes No

If yes, if I were to propose giving you a vigorous blowjob and maybe a rim job for… let's say... a CAR… would you consider that prostitution? Yes No

Would that be a problem for you? Yes No

Do you still live with your parent(s)? Yes No

Would fucking in their house be a problem?(circle one) Yes No

Would you object if I were to ask them to join if they heard us? Yes No

Did you spend the equivalent of a year's minimum wage on your wardrobe last year? Yes No

If yes, how does that make you feel?

If you answered "Fabulous" on the last question, are you blonde? Yes No

What do you want to do when you grow up?

Are you afraid to be happy? Yes No

Are you better talker or listener? Yes No

Does it take you a long time to have an orgasm? Yes No

Do you sometimes use marital aids to get you off? Yes No

When they are not available, do you resort to kitchen utensils? Yes No

Do you have a dishwasher? Yes No

Do you like to cook? Yes No

Do you like to eat out? Yes No

If yes, do you use a mint afterwards? Yes No

Would you be offended if, while performing oral sex I were to say, "Oh yeah, take that daddy's little fuck slut?" Yes No

How about during anal sex? Yes No

Would you be up for playing a little game I like to call "R. Kelly and the Teenage Choir Boy"? Yes No

Lastly, are you or have you EVER been a bus driver? Yes No