The Garab Chronicles

Total Eclipse of My What?

While I should have been sleeping, I found this:

Next Time, Gadget...Next Time!!!

Last night, after the California Supreme Court announced its decision to uphold Proposition 8 and ban same sex marriage here, a few thousand of We, the dispossessed, took to the streets of (pick a major U.S. city). You're not to blame for not hearing about it, as coverage of the disenfranchisement of a significant number of the populace was overshadowed by the President's ironically timed announcement of his nominee for a seat on the nation's highest court.

Even if  Sotomayor is confirmed, the last place anyone can expect this, um, piece of legislation that breaches the separation of church and state to be overturned will be the United States Supreme Court - not with Alito, Roberts, Scalia, and Thomas on the bench. But while the next best option and the strongest impulse may be an attempt to repeal Porp 8 via ballot initiative in 2010, the kind of outreach and education neccessary to change the minds of 4% of a philosophically entrenched electorate is daunting on the best of days. And even if we win here, there will still be 44 states across the country fighting the likes of NOM (I'm not about to add a link to increase the web traffic for those bastards) and the kind of bile they've dubbed "storm" while leading the great march backwards. So until DOMA is repealed on the federal level, which requires balls on the part of the representatives we've elected and a will to spend some of the political capital that we entrusted to them in the last election, we're going to be fighting some version of this crap.

All of this will take time, and at the risk of aging myself more than may be prudent for the sake of my sex life, the newest generation of voters who will ultimately decide issues like marriage equality gives me hope. Too young, in most cases, to reference the title of this post, they seem unfettered by the trivial reactionary dogma of the social conservative movement and the dinosaurs firmly embedded at its helm. Prop 8 and its bastard siblings across the land stings like hell today, but it's the last gasp of badly aging bigots bearing a legacy drowning in a sea of insignificance.

But just in case, I'm planning to keep marching until it does.

Not That I Was Itching To Get Married Right This Second...

But I'd just like to have the option - the way Britney Spears did when she stumbled into an all night chapel in Vegas while in a drunken stupor and declared her undying love to whatshisface before god, country, and the guy who kept refilling her flask.

I'd like to have the option of a prenup, lovingly drawn up by an over-paid divorce lawyer in waiting who's just gonna charge me triple to sift through joint bank accounts and antique sex toy inventories down the line.

Most of all,  I just think that we (gay people) have the right to be just as miserable as everyone else. And while I'm the first to admit that fighting to take part in a civil institution with a 53% (and climbing) failure rate is tantamount being blessed with the gift of precognition then standing in line for a ticket on the maiden voyage aboard the Titanic, I'm inclined to keep fighting once told that I'm unworthy of a first class cabin. At the very least, we'd infuse those damn life boats with a modicum of style.

I'd like to be grateful for the bone the California Supreme Court threw 18,000 same sex couple in California today, telling them that the state won't take Kenn Starr's advice and tear their families apart
while exponentially upping the divorce rate here overnight. But in light of the second half of the decision, which upholds Proposition 8's invasive religious bigotry, I'm left with a sentiment best summed up here:

One Day More -

Tomorrow, 10am PST:

Proposition 8, A Few Hundred of the People It Hurts, and Some Rain from Moe El Emam on Vimeo.

Decisions, Decisions

The world's most disgusting "all natural" veggie dog has just passed through my lips, and is currently attempting to make love to my revolted stomach lining. Generous slatherings of multi-colored organic condiments did little to disguise the artificial horror show encased in some chemically manufactured, accidentally discovered ship-building compound now navigating my intestinal tract. I'm sure the thing will be making several unscheduled stops on the way to its exit to oblivion, and while I shudder at the thought of what it may look like at that moment of sweet release, I can at least take comfort in the certain knowledge that it won't resemble anything...natural.

On the heels of this year's Memorial Day Holiday, and the defeaning public silence that answers a policy that demands the bravery and sacrifice of our fellow citizens so long as they don't tell us who they really are and we promise not to ask them, The California Supreme Court will announce it's ruling on Proposition 8. All indications are that the recent voter-approved ballot initiative that explicitely designates hundreds of thousands of people in this state, including me and my indigestion, as second class citizens unworthy of full and equal protection under the law - will stand. I'd like to count myself among the dellusional, or the hopeful, or the oddly optomistic while using The Secret, and pretend that there's some way that the justices will rule the one way, as opposed to the other.

But I also thought that Santa Clause would make a special trip to Cairo and drop down my non-existent chimney with a He-Man action figure til I realized that he avoided the region of my birth to protest its terrible human rights record - and because he'd been branded an infadel and there was a fatwa on his jolly, sled-riding ass. Just who's sweaty lap I sat in that warm childhood Christmas so many years and repressed memories ago while confessing my deepest heart's desires has since been filed with other riddles for the ages.

Anger doesn't seem appropriate yet, not with three whole days of sweet anxiety to marinate in before the big decision. Sure, out-of-state bigots suddenly uncomfortable with the burden of officially being called bigots while invoking their right to practice religious intolerance in the civic arena is infuriating. But the bigots next door aren't nearly as infuriating as the millions of California voters who should have just known better but didn't. Bad, bad California voters. If this thing doesn't go my way on Tuesday, then Santa's jolly, sled-riding ass will be doing a fly-by of the entire state from now on, and I'll never get my goddamn He-Man action figure.

Oh, and fuck you, Kenn Starr.

Maine: #5

We're just waiting on you now, New Hampshire.