This powerful ad from the Breast Cancer Fund was banned. Rejected by advertising spaces run by Viacom “over fears that its depiction of mastectomy scars would prove to be too shocking to the public”.

Reminds me of when my painting of a breast cancer survivor was banned from a group art show, deemed “not-family friendly”. The painting was also censored on television coverage, due to FCC regulations. And when I blogged about it last year, my image hosting service Photobucket removed the image because it “violated their terms of service”.

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There was this skinny boy in my high school whom some people might not have remembered. He was tucked into himself and quick-shuffling through the halls, trying to be invisible so that he wouldn’t be a target for cruelty. He was not one of the fortunate ones. Not one of the pretty ones. Not one of those mean ones who seem taller standing on someone else’s face. No, this boy had shabby clothes, and the kind of thick, bushy, flaming red hair that kids pick on you for, and lovers later are amazed by. The reason he was a target was because he was so deeply, naturally effeminate. With me, he was free to be delighted. I can picture his way-too-white bony wrists cocked against his little bird chest, and a girlish ankle twisted “just so” behind him. He never had the chance to grow into his infectious, buck-toothed grin or his queenie cackle. He never grew up to find his pride, as we all have. This kid suffered so much queer-bashing for being differently-gendered, in the 10th grade he finally ended the abuse with a noose around his neck. He had never even kissed a boy.

I have thought of you for 27 years, Howie.

*You were such a joy*.

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I’m trying to stay positive, but I have been really feelin the blooze this week with the Bash coming up. This year, I somehow managed to get through the dissolution of my marriage and all the friendship fallout and credit ruin that goes along with a divorce, suffered misguided scorn from dramamongers, gritted through giving my home away, and did my best as a single parent… but I don’t know if the grief over Butch-Femme.com will ever leave me. Truly, my community  really was the biggest part of my heart.  I just don’t see how being at the Bash but being on the outside could be anything but painful for me, like missing home and finding it gone once you venture back from where you came. Created that space so I wouldn’t feel so alone in this world, yanno? Now I got this this love swelled in my chest and no place to put it.   I am grateful for those few true friends who stayed by my side, but I miss *all of my family* more profoundly than I could ever express. I do hope everyone has a good time at the Bash, though.

Listening to gospel tonight… Aretha singing “Precious Lord” and Mahalia stirring the angels… and that bawdy sinner Bessie Smith just cuz I love her sweet voice more than anythang ever recorded. Kin I get an amen somebody? I try to expose Meesha to the great singers, and hear her in the shower sometimes doing Etta or Nina Simone.

Gotta say that kid busted her ass today, helping fat Daddy get this house in order. We had fun, too, goofin’ on each other while we worked. She rode her skateboard all over the laundromat. I’m gonna have to post some pics of the punk outfits this child comes up with. Wore suspenders, white gloves and a tophat and tie she stole from me while we ate square fish and green jello with bumps in it at Luby’s Motherfucking Cafeteria. The old folks stirred their tea and smiled.

PS… I do not like this desk. Its a beautiful executive desk and an “important” piece of furniture, the most expensive thing I have ever owned. This desk and I just never shook hands. I miss the 25 year old worn oak rolltop that lived in my studio. I sold my old friend for less than the rolls of quarters I put in washing machines tonight. This week, I plan to clear this office space and claim it. Do some sort of ritual to bless this biggo chunk of tree and make it mine. Aint no way I am getting this fucking desk down the stairs anyways. It weighs 70000 squillion tons!

The rest of the new apartment feels like home, though, more and more every day. I still need some help with hanging curtains and stained glass and some chandeliers I got for peanuts. Affirmations for a biggo fat Daddy leather club chair with some nailhead trim to suddenly appear on Craigslist for next to nothing. Looking kinda cute up in here, good people! Soon I will post some pics and share.

Puttin’ on an old record for ya’ll. Sweet dreams.

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I sat there all those months while the house was for sale, wondering how in the world when the time came to leave I would ever manage to fit my life in my pocket. But it is DONE. Every nail in every wall, every box, every scrap of trash… DONE. It took until midnight working in the dark with the electricity off.

I said I wouldn’t look back, but you know I walked through the dark, empty rooms of my beloved house and felt all the energy of all of the Love that lived there, all the friends who laughed there. Literally, from all over the world. As I locked the gate for the last time, I reached through and touched the old brass knob one more time and said a blessing for the new owners. Oh. The Love Shack was such a lovely, lovely dream of a house. Every brick and every wall, I loved, spackled, smoothed, and shined. I am grateful I got to live in such beauty. Tomorrow at closing, I will take with me a box of Christine’s childhood pics I found. The last thing.

You know I am a sentimental old fool who finds magic in the simplest things. My most treasured memory of that house is the Scorpio birthday party Chris and I had years ago when a bazillion Butch-Femme.com people from all over flew in. It was a ridiculously huge slumber party, except no one slept. We talked until dawn. Thinker and Sonia gave me windchimes as tall as I am, and I had my yard guy hang them high high high in the tree over the hot tub. One by one over the years, the enormous chimes loosened and fell. It was a joke that I would sit in my hot tub trying to relax and look up at those chimes, just knowing one was gonna break away and stab me like a javelin from Gawd. For the longest time, there were three chimes remaining, twinkling together as a delicate symphony and sometimes a banging cacophony with our prairie breezes. Me, Chris, and Meesha. Then I noticed when Chris left, there were only two. And as I was moving and selling my memories and feeling so fucking alone these past weeks, only one lone chime. Aint it like that in the end? The same note over and over as I dismantled my life. Today, a man buying some leftover furniture from me said “Dang, what’s that sound? Church bells?” I said “No, its my windchimes.” But when we looked out the window, there were none. Just frayed strings hanging high in the tree. The sound we heard was the last chime clanging on cobblestones.

I’ve been living in ashes all year. I am so grateful that part of the transition is over. And no way can I say I was alone! I’m grateful to all my sweet friends, lovers, and neighbors who helped me and Meesha move. Our new place is much, much simpler, but still full of Love. I have so much to be thankful for.

(The pic is of my adopted emo Meesha, looking out at the yard today as we were packing away leftovers from the estate sale from hell. The Love Shack was the nicest place she ever lived, too.)

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I did as I promised
And faithfully put out warm milk for her.
Oh, starved kitten how she scratched me
With tiny claws and huge eyes
When she finally ventured inside,
Curled into me trembling with fear and need
And then languid like a tiny queen
When I touched her there,
As I promised.

We both felt cheated until desire was literal,
To singe our tongues with flames,
To gorge on that brave dark cherry.
Her miracle innocence somehow salvaged
Was the only gift she truly had,
The only promise she could keep.
I polished her gift golden and whole
And gave it back to her as I said I would,
Ravaged and reborn.
More sacred than we could have known.
Poetry’s own promise.

She tried love on like a thrift store dress
And twirled around for me,
Wanting me to find her beautiful,
Not broken.
The hunter laid down her sword for a moment
And told me her truth,
That she did not yet feel rich enough.
My truth, I found her most exquisite that very moment.
She pressed the tiny silk rose
Ripped from her slip into my open hand.

I came to her with two plump grapes,
Handed her the prettiest one and said,
“Here is your heart, as promised.”
Poetry says she should have slipped her heart
Into the lips of her lover.
Instead she plucked the other grape
With her sweet tiny fingers
And crushed us both
In a lovely, greedy mouth
That only played with promises.

So deliberately careless,
Doll hands playing with knives.
It would take a bloody blunt chop
To finally sever this bond,
Damning all purity recovered.

Poetry says you never know what sunny day
A feral cat will saunter away
In search of a fistful of grapes
And juice on her chin.
Leaving you with your hands
Aching for softness
And your habit of warm milk wasted.
I kept my final promise and closed the door,
Thinking surely, surely with those eyes,
Poetry promises shelter for a kitten
In the heart of some other loving stranger.

————

rhon drinkwater © 2008

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I was invited by the author Lee Lynch to contribute to The Butch Cookbook. I am glad someone finally put it to print an idea that’s been kicking around the web for years. I gave ‘em my downhome southern recipes for chicken n’ dumplins and for cornbread. I will post an update when The Butch Cookbook is available.

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My sweet friend Mo said this today and it so resonated with me:

“Forgiveness. Is angelic. Is enlightened. Is necessary for life. Is attainable. Is practical. I do not need that cage of bitterness to protect me, because it doesn’t.”

I feel good. When I feel good, I box and I make the Johnny Cash face.

Good to hope! Good to be alive! Good to be reminded there are sweet, fine women in this world, new friends, and brave people who follow their dreams. Good to begin again with love!

It’s spring and I am still here, fukkas.

Everyday Élan Vital | 10 Comments »

I swear Kid Rock looks like every greasy biker trash boy I ever knew back home. His mugshots remind me fondly of parties in dirt yards with the smell of lighter fluid and barbecuing chicken and cheap beer from a foamy keg, already floating.

This month, Kid Rock got arrested for getting into a fight in an all night Waffle House.

Of course he did. And prior to that, there was an altercation in a strip club, which was probably next to an all night Waffle House.

A friend turned me on to Kid Rock’s newest song Hott with such romantic lyrics: “I wanna fuck you like I’m never gonna see you again…”

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I make up this stuff I call FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögen. You have to wear a Viking hat and say “FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögen” with some Ikea-Swedish-Meatballs-like accent, such as the one Rose on the Golden Girls used when she talked about St. Olef. I named this dish “FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögen” because my wife Chris is very suspicious of white people food. I told her this was an old world dish from my ancestors. Really, its just white trash macaroni noodles with Velveeta and ham and onions baked in.

Now that I am looking at the spelling, I think I will change the name to “FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögenp”. The “p” is silent.

Here’s a recipe.

FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögenp

Boil up 8 oz. of macaroni noodles according the directions on the package, drain and dump them in a greased crockpot. Stir in a 12 oz can of evaporated milk and fill the 12 oz can with regular milk and splash that in also. Add two beaten eggs, generous salt and pepper, a buttload of garlic powder, two good handfuls of red onion chopped fine, and a biggo 16 oz block of Velveeta processed CHEEEZ food, cubed. Throw in a goodly amount of slice smoked sausages (Eckrich is great) or cubed or shaved smoked ham. Stir that nastiness around. Cook it on low for a coupla hours. And don’t be stirrin’ it all the time or your noodles with get mashy.

For added drama, serve with biggo quilted oven mitts that go up to your elbows.

I think I am gonna eat my FrÄnkenfrokkenfrögenp alongside fried squash and some cabbage that has been boiled down to a nice grey color. That’s how we do vegetables in the south. It takes longer to prepare, but truly, a prolonged scalding is the only way to get rid of all those pesky vitamins!

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