It's About More Than Dead Heroes . . .

Memorial Day . . .

. . . . Supposedly a time to reflect on the soldiers who've fought valiantly and died to preserve our American way of life, for what its worth. But for most of us, it's the starter pistol announcing the birth of summer frolic and debauchery. The scent of steaks grilling, families fussing, and bad-ass kids running around doing shit they shouldn't . . . might come to mind. Or . . . maybe a decadent dash down to DC for OUR yearly convergence might come to mind also. I know that when I was a younger whipper-snapper, that was the ticket for me. BBQ's, sweaty house-parties, clubs, strippers, and of course . . . Boys Boys Boys, beautiful overly-body-conscious boys in varying shades of brown all with one collective thought . . . bustin' a few before the weekend was over. Yeah. That damn sure comes to mind. But I'm not 21 anymore and my whip doesn't always snap back, so week-ends filled with drunken possibly safe sex are lower priority now. Not that I'm above it all mind you . . . nah, never that . . . I'm a firm believer in man's highly sexual nature, his almost insane urge to conquer new booty. The only crime is repressing it, or pretending to be above it. So, nah, fuck that. I'm not above it. I've just changed a bit. Yeah. I see the handwriting on the wall, and what's scrawled there is a really big four . . . and an annoying little zero. And what's worse, I'm speeding toward it like I'm in freefall and my chute won't open. I'm not afraid of hitting that plateau . . . fear, that was the approach of thirty. But I survived that and come to realize that we're all in life's great freefall, and no one has a chute. I don't waste energy anymore pawing for a rip-cord which isn't there . . . now, as this next level approaches, I'm not flailing about in terror. I just glide and enjoy the ride. It's not that I don't wanna tool down to DC and be blissfully debauched at some BBQ/orgy . . . but we're back to that ol' whip thing again. I just don't bounce back like a use to. When I drink now, I get the sort of hang-overs that refuse to be chased away by aspirin and a cold bowl of Apple Jacks. Therefore, breaking day after a night of partying and Tequila shots has been almost entirely replaced with . . . eating Jell-O in bed watching Countdown with Keith Obermann. What the hell? When did world affairs and whipped-cream-topped desserts become more interesting than thumpin' dance floors and inebriated Wet Boxer-Brief competitions? When the fuck did I grow up? That's what this plateau is about for me. Growing up. I mean, really growing up. Not in chronological years but in life-view years. It's about seeing life through a different lens (not the prescription ones that keep me from holding the paper at arms length), a panoramic lens, one that sees most things coming and keeps me from repeating past mistakes, and it solves the life-long conundrum . . . why does my hand burn when I stick it into fire? This new lens can even see into the future. I see myself on Friday night . . . palming some faceless morsel's ass, blowing money and swilling Cognac like a Rapper whose debut is number two with a bullet, bleary-eyed, waving hands in the air like I just don't care, crudely rolled cigar dangling from my lip. Then I see myself on Saturday morning . . . confused, poorer, wondering why I rented such a bright hotel room, and how had the morsel I'd met at the club last night turned into the questionable giblet laying next to me . . . and finally . . . if I mixed Percocet and the purple pill with a Maalox chaser, would I feel human enough to start all over again? Yeah. I can see for miles now . . . and my body is the better for it. I haven't rearranged my night-life because Obermann is like that annoying friend I keep inviting to parties anyway. Once I embraced life's freefall I saw things differently. I still love to occasionally overdose on all those debauched things . . . boys, booze, sex, and eating to excess. Even though I'm at the age when my annual prostate exam is almost more important than using a condom, I can still engage in the aforementioned deadly debaucheries . . . as long as I tone it down a notch. Like I said before, Memorial Day is about more than just dead heroes. I spent it this year . . . not at Fleet Week pretending to ogle the ships while only caring about meat-packing sailors interested in a little 'don't ask and damn sure not telling' . . . and not surrounded by a writhing throng of sweaty strangers buzzed out of their minds . . . nah, none of that. I spent it surrounded by the coolest people in the world, people I'm proud to call my friends . . . some of whom I've been to hell and back with, and some whom I've only recently accepted as part of my life . . . all of whom at one time or another I've wanted to bludgeon with a rock. But that's true friendship. Liquor still flowed. Steaks still sizzled. Old stories that I've heard a thousand times before made me smile. The strippers and the crowds of horny strangers were pushed aside, just for a time . . . replaced by something which I've come to appreciate as I glide, something more important than carnal titillations: Brotherly love . . . that warm, familial sense of fraternity. As me and my boy were getting ready to go to Saturday's BBQ . . . he looked at me and said, "I don't know if I'm feeling the beard, you kinda got a Capt. Jack Sparrow thing going on." I looked in the mirror. He's was right. Johnny Depp had touched my soul playing that pirate. There was a time though, when I was flailing, I would have immediately changed my look. But I responded, "You're right. Let's go." Yeah. I've just changed a bit. I drink a lot less, eat more green stuff, and know more names of Iraqi cities than porn stars. I still sail the social seas and plunder and debauch young maidens, err, uh . . . mates, but I only do it with my boy at my side. He lets me know when I've ingested enough Grog, and hit my debauchery limit. But even more importantly . . . we do it surrounded by the best crowd there is, OUR Ring of cool-ass friends. I hope everyone enjoyed their weekend, debauched or not, and put it all into a clear-headed perspective. It's about more than dead heroes . . . it's about clasping hands, feeling the wind in our faces, celebrating life, love and freedom. And of course . . . enjoying the ride. *** Photo Credits: Lando ... for making Capt. taylorSiluwé look almost 'purty' ... thanks kid. Go to the GALLERY of Our Ring for A FLASH Banner of the event.***

Noah's Arc: Is America ready for a Black Gay TV Drama?

Hell no. I was gonna try to soften the blow with some hopeful bullshit, but the bottom-line is ... 'hell no' just about says it. Slated to hit this fall on LOGO, Patrik-Ian Polk's steamy new drama is gonna have grandma fanning her church hat and talking to the Lord.

So yeah, hell no.

In this country . . . where people are so desperate to find meaning in their lives that they flock by the thousands to worship a curious water-stain beneath a bridge because it kinda sorta looked like somebody . . . can we expect reason to prevail? In a country . . . where over half its population believes that two boys fuckin' each other in the ass is scarier than four more years of Bush bullshit . . . can we expect compassion? In a country . . . where a nauseatingly high number of its slave descendents believe that two boys fuckin' each other in the ass is so repugnant that it actually alters the definitions of 'oppression' and 'equality' in their brains . . . do we even have a prayer? Yeah. Our own people lynched us on that one. But lesson learned. So what. So what if the Theocratic States of America isn't ready to see the lives of Black Gay Men played out on TV screens across the nation.

Fuck 'em . . . we're coming anyway.

We're coming because we're proud, and have rich cultural traditions that even we are just beginning to understand . . . we're coming because it's about fucking time we assumed our rightful position at the same table as everyone else . . . and we're also coming because we pay too goddamn much for cable to not have a TV show about us. Would white folks in Nebraska pay, if all cable offered was The Jeffersons? Why should we be the only group who has to cuddle in the shadows? Why should so many of our brethren feel pressured into being someone they're not, 'living in sin' in its truest sense? When I put my arm around my boy at the Laundromat, or at the movies . . . why do I get annoyed stares and accused of 'flaunting' my sexuality?

Fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck all that. We can't ask for shit anymore. We can't just expect people to do the right thing anymore. We have to be proud and in their face with it. Simply put . . . we just have to be.

So ... yeah ...

Noah's Arc is big. Huge. It's going to make an enormous splash in the public's face, but like even the worst of storms ... it'll blow over. Once it does the sky will be brighter, the path clearer, and the rainbow landscape of television will sport a warm, cinnamony, earth-tone. Check your local cable provider . . .

On Corey Clarke: Is this the face of a Pussy?

I just gotta say a word about Corey Clarke and (what's been described as) his bitch-ass powerplay at Paula Abdul's expense. Men don't do that, some say . . . men don't kiss and tell, yada yada. Fuck that. Women do it, and have done it for centuries, making names for themselves at the expense of famous reputations. I'm glad to see someone finally turn the tables. And after all, Paula knew she was creeping and putting her lucrative position on American Idol in jeopardy. Still she couldn't resist a pretty face. Can't say that I blame her. However, when you play you gotta pay. Paula just got the bill today. I ain’t madd at Corey for doing this. Hell, this is a once and a lifetime opportunity for him. He may not get another one.I say GO Corey, with ya sexy ass! Paula wasn’t stupid for fuckin him … she was stupid because she STOPPED fucking him. I never would've made that mistake.Not because I'd eat an ice-cream sundae off various parts of his anatomy ... but when you promise to 'take care' of someone, you should do just that. There's no honor in a hit and run type of deal. Plus ... he's too damn fine for that. Even if I got tired of hitting it, I'd still keep him close by ... just in case. He better be talented after publicly pulling that bitch move, even though I still can’t hate him for going for his. Must be that face.Now you've gotta go out and get some masculinity points. Go get into a bar fight and kick the living shit outta somebody. And make sure the bar is extremely straight ... like Hooter's. I'm sure there would be at least one drunken white-boy you could over-power. Don't bullshit around about it either, just come right out and kick him in the nuts. Yeah, I know, cheap shot ... but since you're famous for the bitch move anyway, just embrace it. And as for Paula? Fuck her ... she shouldn't have waited two years to call. taylorSiluwé When Romeo Wakes, in LAW of DESIRE, Alyson Publications A Taste for Cherries, in TOUGH GUYS, Black Books cheesyporn . . . & other fairytales ~~ Winter '05 http://www.OurRing.com

The New Pope: What Would Jesus Think?

I’m not surprised about the new Pope. Once upon a time . . . and I’m not even talking about back in the day when Jesus (the original Christian), preached about love and compassion and looking out for the weak, the sick, and the poor. But I am talking about a time, more recently, when ‘The Church’ actually followed his evangelical credo. Now there are still examples of this, but for the most part, it’s gone. The religious right is in power now, and they don’t give a damn about the weak, the sick or the poor . . . or for that matter, Jesus’ message of compassion. An evangelical coalition, with Bible ensconced in armpit and tongue firmly in cheek, lobbies for tax cuts for the wealthy . . . and in the very same breath, against programs for the poor, affirmative action, and anything that even remotely assists the disenfranchised. But they love children though, I’ll give them that. Well, they lobby against abortion that is . . . but check out the Christian Coalition’s record on programs for actual living breathing children, especially little brown ones. It seems to me that if you’re still a zygote, they’ve got your back, but once you pop that coochie you’re on your own. And once upon a time . . . the world looked to America as an example of democracy and religious freedom. So is it any wonder . . . after the United States has dropped to its knees for these self-serving new-age evangelicals (the ones who really understand the business of the Lord), that in spite of a loud cry from Catholics from around the globe for a progressive, more liberal-minded, and non-European candidate to ascend the Papal throne (in an effort to stem the tidal-wave of young Catholics turning their backs on the church in droves) . . . that the Cardinals would choose someone even more hard-line than his predecessor. Of course . . . I stopped expecting the ‘right thing’ to happen a long time ago. Sorry to all those who prayed a new Pope would be a champion for the Third World’s poor and forward-thinking enough to blow centuries of dust off the Church’s position on abortion and gay marriage and bring them into the new millennium. Not that I really cared though. Whoever emerged at the top of the Catholic Church’s pot of gold was really of little consequence to me. My life won’t change one iota. I’m just thrilled it’s over. But you gotta wonder . . . when the Church doesn’t give a damn about the sick and the poor and the disenfranchised of the world, who does? What would Jesus think about tax cuts for the rich while abolishing after-school lunch programs? Or a society and Church which gets nervous-bowel-syndrome at the thought of a brown Pope? Actually . . . what would Jesus think of the Papacy period? Hmmm ……………. taylorSiluwé