Riddle Me #2-How Much Can a Free Token Cost You?

Alone for two weeks, you’re wanting to find gay bars when the hands point to happy hour.  The hotel lounge has some lovers on a short couch tucked in the corner, and you think about how nice it would be if the guy would get a round of drinks or just get lost so that you could slip into his cozy position.  To your surprise, she gets up, walks toward the bar, staring at you while you’re staring at her.  You hold your firm position in anticipation.

“I can’t believe this is soooo going to happen.”

She stops in front of you and smiles. Then, she smirks. 

“It will never work,” your mind and hers seem to meld at this same breaking-off point.

To top off the insult, she gives you a once over, stopping at your shoes that scream and remind her shoes of comfort and make them jealous.  She cocks her head back and disappears around the corner.  You raise your glass to the chump who’s in your cozy position, saluting him with as much respect as you can muster before you slap a ten on the bar for the overpriced lounge liquor.  “I’ve got to find the lesbians and long necks.”

Following your GPS tool, you are downtown and the skyscrapers are blocking the afternoon sun.  It’s tough to see the signs so you decide to get out and walk.  Luckily, you’re wearing comfortable shoes.

“Good thing I didn’t bring her along,” you think of the sassy sexy in high heels.

You stop at the convenience store to get BBQ flavored Fritos and a Dr. Pepper because you want to mix it up with salty and sweet before you throw yourself into the mosh pit of women that are waiting for your loving.  Of course, you toss in five bucks for quick picks because you’re hoping to wake up with double-the-luck by morning, sweep new girl off her feet with a spontaneous flight to the south of France, and then make your way to Monte Carlo where you’ll quadruple your luck at the craps table.

You arrive at what looks like the bar, but it has changed names.  Charlie’s shows in some places but Charlene’s hangs on a crisp new banner above the door.  You look about and count the number of rainbow stickers, “1, 2, 3, 4, and ½.”  Somehow someone tore off more than a third of one of the mandatory 5 rainbows that must be posted on the window of every urban inner-city gay bar.  You step from the musty light that has escaped the looming towers and into the dark cave of a place that has five decades of cigarette resin on the walls.  The six foot five bar tender—Charlene—offers a friendly greeting and a light beer because she knows that will get you started while you look around and figure out what you really want.  Also, she slides a token across the bar and says, “Why don’t you pick a song.” She gestures toward the juke box. 

Your eyes are adjusting to the deeper part of the cave where five entities of unknown origin or gender are watching you approach.  You can feel their eyes—but you can’t use your own—and feel like an unrehearsed stripper on the other side of a one-way mirror.  You want to hide behind the juke box but these new ones are streamlined and mounted to the wall because they don’t need the space for real records like the cool ones your dad hid behind when he courted your mom with cheesy pick up lines.  To add to the juke box betrayal, it beams the only light in the room, and it’s blinding your eyes that have almost adjusted to the dark.

“Hey—play some Straight,” one of them hollers out.

“Oh, it’s lesbians,” you think and are grateful that they weren’t gargoyles, or bats, or aliens with wings that might swoop down and carry you away.  You turn toward the voice that bellows from the dark but can’t communicate in any way other than a “huh?” unless you choose to move toward the unknown chasm.

“I like ‘Ocean Front Property.’”

“Ok,” you mumble.

You push Charlene’s token in the slot and assume that you can or should join the veteran viewers.  Still, you can’t see them because your eyes have readjusted to the beam of the juke box.

“Wanna go to the beach?” a different voice offers from the middle of the booth. 

She has short blonde hair that looks like the boys who threw newspapers during the Depression.  Two of the women get up.  The first one is the thickest and seems to be the blonde’s bouncer who has been released of the duties of collecting cover charge for a non-existent band.  You assume they are standing to let you sit next to this woman who’s picked you out of the non-existent crowd.  But, they are getting up to leave and the blonde one is scooting across the knife-ripped plastic seat covering.

Now, your eyes are adjusting and you can see that the blonde has small shoulders but wide hips.  The idea of a bowling pin comes to mind, but you like bowling because it reminds you of your uncle who wrote letters to you from prison and taught you how to hustle for money with a fast and hard hook shot.

“He was nice,” you say to yourself while you reach for the blonde lady’s hand who has offered to lead you out of the darkness.

There’s just the three of them and you.  The first two drove up in an 80s Bronco.  By default, they have commandeered the front seat.  You climb into the backseat behind the woman who has wavy brown hair like your aunt who always slept in big plastic curlers until your uncle went to prison.  (Now, she owns a curling iron but only does her hair on Saturday nights when she’s headed to the VFW.)  You’ve already noticed that she has tiny hips that support the forty pounds around her belly.  You wondered if all the lesbians in this town are unnaturally proportioned but your mind starts to make everything fit.  The blonde’s bowling pin build fits the brunette’s belly like complimentary pieces of a torn apart valentine heart.

The co-pilot pushes a cassette and Garth Brooks is in the middle of belting out if tomorrow never comes.

“No,” you hear the driver answer a question that you forgot you asked. “They were together before we were.” 

You put together the pieces and realize that everyone in this car has dated the other and this makes you think of cousins who shouldn’t procreate, but that can’t really matter, not really, with lesbians. The blonde throws her arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close.  She whispers something that you can’t understand in a language that sounds like French and Australian and you nod in a way that says, “No.”  She pulls four beers from the cooler in the back and the co-pilot reaches for two of them.

“It gets dark early,” you offer something to say because you want to contribute to the social dynamics.  And, you’re away from the city under the open sky.  The scenery has changed, and you’re far from anything that has ever looked familiar.   Everything suddenly looks flat and deserted.  You wonder if you should say something else, or stop talking, or if they like the ‘80s stereo to blast while they drive to somewhere you don’t know.  You think of that movie you watched with your cousins, Lost Boys, and decide that you’re never watching anymore vampire movies ever again. 

You sink back in your new surroundings and are grateful for new friends.   There’s a cooler in the back, so you help yourself to a second cold beer that will go down slower than the first.

“I wonder what else we’ll do while I’m in town.  Maybe they’ll take me to other gay bars?” 

You remember there was only the one in Google and hope you’ve met the girls who play poker during the week or have bonfires on the weekends.  You try to remember what they were wearing and wonder if you brought the right clothes. 

By the time you make it to the beach and the Bronco rolls up to the public bathrooms, you have a couple of ideas about how to move to this city, buy a house with a short commute, and make a life with the nice blonde who might be a good bowler with some lessons in fast hook shots.  When the brunette with tiny hips gets out to smoke, you smile and she nods.  The phone slid out of your pocket but that's ok because you don't want to drop it in the toilet like you did in St. Louis or the sink like you did in Dallas.

The three of you are like blind mice, falling into the stalls because everyone is toting at least two beers in the lower extremities.  You wash your hands and check your look, wishing you had a baseball cap like the driver—though yours would be pink or some pastel with a flower embroidery and not have diesel oil on the lip.  “I wonder if they have wood for a bonfire,” you wonder while you’re moving past the concrete walls that have four decades of paint peeling from under the current coat.  You take a breath of beach air, but it seems to suffocate you with sand remnants.

You hear a horn and walk toward it, but two teens are waving to a guy behind you.  You hear another horn to the right, but there’s a creepy man slouched in his seat.  It’s dark and you’ve lost your bearings.  You walk passed the first row of cars, tracing your steps. You walk passed the second row of cars and face the open landscape that buffers the public area from the beach.  You:

1. Think about how lucky you are to have found the beach on the first night
2. Roll the dice with the creepy guy and ask for a ride back to town
3. Look down at your comfortable shoes and calculate the miles back
4. Are grateful that Trick-or-Treat only comes once a year— Happy Halloween!

The Vision of the Blind

“Who is your favorite author?”

The first person who comes to mind isn’t my favorite but was the most influential.  I learned a lot from him during undergraduate school.  After college, I had a new favorite author.  He was a great poet who spoke the speak for early Americans.  Finally, I found Toni Morrison.  But, she didn’t write any more about my world than the two hes before her.  And, none of them were out.  (People say the poet was gay, but his writings weren’t, and won’t ever be, sequestered to the “Queer” section of the canon.)  Thinking of these three, I can’t identify a common trait in their style or content that unifies them—except that all three spoke, at some point, to me.

So, who came to mind for you?  Chances are high that both male and female readers thought of a male.  Maybe it’s a guy from antiquity, the Renaissance, or a modern writer whose book just made it onto the shelf known as “keepers.”  Still, despite cultural changes, male authors record our history and create our stories.

The odds are against women authors, but we’re used to that in almost all playing fields.  Guys sometimes dominate industries that should belong to us—like women’s fashion, doctoring female parts, and delivering babies.  We should be the experts. But, I heard my older dentist complain that women are dominating dentistry.  In all honesty, that might be good.  His fingers are clumsy in my mouth.

Some female authors figure out how to tell a uniquely feminine tale or one that is universal to both genders.  “Their stories involve patriarchal males who are toppled by feminine wisdom.  By default they get to involve all readers,” I might say with spite whenever I struggle to develop a male character.  But, I can’t know.  I don’t read enough fiction literature.  Shame on me—the wannabe author.

Let’s agree to disagree that today’s female authors, or actors, or professionals, or etc. have a fairer—a fair enough—shot at manifesting their creative aspirations.  Women aren’t allowed to whine anymore, ever again, unless we bring cheese and a picnic basket.  Forcing the position—that we should be self-reliant—into submission, we can peel the first layer of the onion.

Here, there is a different barrier for lesbians as well as gay, bi, and trans wannabe authors, or actors, or professionals, or etc.  We are sequestered to niches because the way we manifest our common drives is uncommon.  We find means that aren’t a perfect fit, and we don’t have the buying power—which leads to upfront investment—to be competitive.  We settle for less in a world that expects more; therefore, we are appealing to the masses most often as bohemians or eccentric superstars like Andy Warhol and ???.  It's difficult to live in either extreme—even for love.

By having a unique story that happens to be a girl-with-girl story, my bar is higher.  Mediocre mainstream stories have a better chance of making it from the shelf to the cash register than a great lesbian drama.  For this reason—based off of a historical marketing trends—there are fewer stories by gay (not to mention lesbian) dramatists and comedians about gay life styles or comedy.  (Sure, you can say, "What about Will and Grace? What about Magic Moutain...I mean Brokeback?"  But, these tales were directed or acted by straight men.)  There's something about the double-whammy of gay on gay about gay that can't be marketed to the masses.  And, lesbians have fewer examples.

The formula for entering the market is a catch-22. As long as no one is telling the story from our perspective, the majority can’t have a chance to decide whether or not they want to hear a non-formulaic tale.  We remain obscure, unique and oblique.  So—in this lesbian guise—can the conservative heterosexual male identify with my words so much that for a short moment he becomes one with my humanness?  Maybe.  I’ll have to wake up one day and find the muse who can make me a brilliant writer.  This is the coveted magic of all recognized authors.  Still, I'll need a way to tell publishers that my muse is brilliant; therefore, I should be read, appreciated, and published.  That might be more difficult than the writing part, unless my muse knows his muse.

Adding to the odds against lesbian influences in literature, acting, and education, there are fewer (physical) gay bodies. That reality makes things difficult.  Many things happen for people because someone with voting rights recognizes a similar strength or desire.

LGBTs often lose their community.  With it goes much of the personal heritage.  Slowly, community support that is uniquely woven with heterosexual friends, neighbors, clergy, teachers, and family seems foreign to us and we seem foreign to it.  We push our loved ones—protecting them from being uncomfortable with our “choice”—as much as they push from us.  Without the diverse influences of other’s lives as well as support, it’s easy to see why we get lost on our solo-pilot flights into life’s variety of clouds. 

And finally, the LGBT minority splinters further with our innate differences: lesbians are women who seek and live predominantly with women, gays are men, bisexuals live in more than one kind of community, and I only know one transgender.  He moved to Australia to start his new life without her history.  Also, he moved there because Australia is more accepting of our commonalities instead of our differences.

Don’t tune out on what looks like a depressive post.  It’s about to get awe inspiring or more to the point about something better.

I was watching “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.”  It’s a documentary about an 85-year old man who was born outside of Tokyo.  At age 9, he is forced into the world and to care for himself, only knowing that he didn’t want to be a beggar.  So, he goes to work.  He works even when the bosses beat him.  He says, parents tell their children that if it doesn’t work out—come home.  And then, when the child is a failure, they don’t understand why.  Jiro wouldn't have listened to my list of reasons why women, lesbians, gays, bi, and transgenders can't succeed in pursuit of their creative aspirations.  

Jiro dishes out tough love.  Coming from a guy who has less than a dozen stools in his restaurant but won three stars from the Michelin committee, I guess he gets to say, “Suck it up.”  And, it’s clear from the story that his sons have grown to appreciate discipline and minimalism.  Maybe he knows something that I have forgotten.

Near the end of the story, Jiro confesses.  He talks about the people who seek him—a child who was orphaned by his parents.  Now, strangers follow his teachings.  He praises them for their contributions, starting with the kitchen help, including the apprentices, and then thanking his sons for owning, in their own way, his dream.  “By the time the sushi gets into my hands, it’s 95% done.”  He admits.  Jiro benefits from them, and they benefit from his tutelage and undying devotion to this art form.

Jiro was one man, without a community, who built a world-renown team.  He created a reciprocating system that benefits all for different reasons.  It takes a team.  But, there's more to the feat than this simple phrase explains. Mates must share a vision while blind to differences.

So, ponder this today and maybe for a bit later in life, “What person, or collective, will provide the unifying vision that is blind to our differences?"  If you know, share with me, share with us.  Send examples of famous, infamous and never-before-known examples of gays and gay-friendlies who made you go “hmmm.”  The answer to this question is the answer to the other conundrum—LGBT unity.  And, it can be found in Jiro's example who seems to have nothing to do with James, Whitman or Morrison. 

The Magical Lesbian Bus has Departed

I did it.  Finally.  Shrinkables, who you've not met yet, (but is a really good writer who promised to tell us a story before and then, again, after she met a new girl but has not yet put pen to paper) told me about a particular on-line dating service that she uses.  I've given it some thought, back and forth, for nine months.  This inorganic measure isn't my thing even more than talking to someone in a bar isn't my thing.

In fact, I was at the bar tonight—Free Willy and MacTiger were there.  We had a few drinks while my green chili chicken chili didn't win the contest.  I didn't know that there would be a contest but that doesn't matter because I couldn't have created anymore magic in the 12 ingredient soup that brewed  while I was mowing the backyard.

"No one has signed up for the chili cook-off.  It's charity for the Food Bank,"  MacTiger said with a certain sadness during the middle of this past week.

I thought about my vegan chili, drew a lopsided smirk with my lips, and then said, "I can make a pot of white chicken chili." But I thought about all the stuff I have to do this weekend to get ready for our second open house (because the original buyer balked) and wondered why I said that I'd do anything that didn't have to do with mowing, weeding, or painting.

I said that I would do it because me and MacTiger have more than a few things in common.  We were born almost on the same day, neither of us are from Louisiana, and we like to help people.  He had a panic; therefore, I needed to make chili, and so I did.

At 4:30, I roll up in my toaster-on-wheels Honda.  MacTiger is outside of the bar, helping a damsel in distress with her chili gear.  He takes half of my chili gear, too.  When I arrive with my crockpot someone says, "That'll be $10 for your entry." I'm thinking, "It cost me $20 to make this chili.  I'll get that MacTiger." But, to my surprise, I handed over a crisp bill because I was staring at 5 brand new lesbians.  Needless to say, I was breathless.  "Where did they come from?" I wondered. "Did someone go out of town and drag them here, promising free beer and lesbian chili?"

While paying my 2-beer tab at 7:15 pm, I noticed that the 5 unidentifiable lesbians had multiplied and now were 7.  Where are they coming from? Are they here to torture me or do they actually live here, and then I can not talk to them in the future?  I reached for my tab and then noticed that a set of nice eyes was looking my way.

"Maybe she's just glancing around?"
"But, she's pretty."
"It's probably just a coincidence," I assured myself just long enough to get half-way home.

"Why didn't I stare back?"  I wondered the second half of the way home, and while I was duct taping my socks to Sweet Georgia Brown's feet (because her pads are hot red from grass allergies because she's locked outside while the house is on the market); and I asked myself while caulking the baseboard to the master bed room wall (because I need to do the smart stuff before the Open House tomorrow); and I asked myself while taking the rest of the chicken chili next door to Mic-Monk's (because her house is still under construction from when the tree fell through her roof and she can't cook for her starving teenagers).

"That's it. We've given you enough time," Self rolled up its sleeves and showed its muscle while it spoke sternly to my scared'y-cat self.  "You're not going to do anything to help, and we're lonely."
"You're right," I conceded when I thought about how nice the lady might have been if I'd just stared for long enough to know if it was a coincidence.

I'm home now and she's already boarding the bus to return to whatever magical lesbian land she came from.  After a quick viewing of offerings from the on-line dating service for the age 40 to 50 bracket, I have a few questions:

1. Should anyone who looks like a sibling or cousin be eliminated from consideration or automatically accepted?
2. Should women in the lesbian category be clicking "never married"?
     2b. Should women in the lesbian category be clicking "divorced?" At this point, isn't the heterosexual 'til death we do part' null and void?  These girls get a clean slate.
3. If there are a series of women who start with, "Hey guys..." should I wonder if the online dating service has put me in the right category?
4.  If a series of women clicked "seeking marriage," should I assume these lesbians want to move to: Connecticut  Iowa, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New York, or Vermont, or should I pick a new online dating service?
5. Is it wrong to flirt with women only in cities where I've always wanted to live?
6. If they say in the introductory clause "sometimes I can be a little too complicated" are they being too self-conscious, or should I ask them to use "too complicated" in a past scenario example?
7. Is there a way to get references from 3 previous girlfriends?
8. If she is fifty years old and says she's planning to get her first tattoo—is it assumptive to submit my name for consideration in the first email exchange?
9. Is a picture worth a thousand words?
10. Should I click on "send email" even after my mind says "she looks crazy" because that's a hell of a lot better situation than sitting home alone on a Saturday night!

If you have a successful (or better an unsuccessful) on-line dating short or long story, share with us!

Linking Lesbians Between Lands- 1600

I wish a great Saturday to all and hope you are enjoying wonderful Autumn weather!

Since the last Linking Lesbians post, we've had a few more international visitors.  Russia and Germany are sharing the site, and then Ukraine, India, and China poked in for a view or two.  I understand from my friend in China that Blogs are censored. So, consider us a new kind of rebel rogues for passing through the blockade.   Here's to the pursuit of (LGBT) happiness, ").

Entry	Pageviews
United States	1412
Russia	82
Germany	17
United Kingdom	15
Canada	4
Australia	2
China	2
India	2
South Korea	2
Japan	1

Graphic Illustrator Wanted

I have created a graphic novel series about three characters who met on a battlefield during the first crusade.  Over the next thousand years, each character is responsible for perpetuating negative karma as Christians and Muslims, blacks and whites, men and women.  In one volume the villain might be the parent or boss and in the next he or she might be the child or employee.  During historical battles and major events, any two of the three are lovers, relatives, neighbors or business partners and are often they rivals.  The three are tied together until they rise above the desire for revenge.    

If you want to draw these characters to life with me, write to : LMAstuff@gmail.com. 

         Update: if you'd like to start with a smaller project, we can create a short animation with 
                     the story of the Pusters or I can help you write a story for characters that you want
                    to bring to life. 

Sometimes a Girl Needs a Guy to Show Her the Way

The last time we sat in this auditorium, Love Heroine was drooling over a girl’s naked back.

“It’s a really pretty back,” I patronized.  “Has she turned around?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Love Heroine said.

Later that month, our small group joined the big group on a deserted back road and went on a five mile bike ride, took a ferry, and then went to this cool Hispanic guy’s house who served us Mojitos and Coronas while we ate a 150lbs. of crawfish.  The girl with a naked back had a tee shirt on and didn't seem as interesting to Love Heroine.  Still, that was an awesome day, considering I was in a walking coma from my unexpected breakup. At the cool Hispanic guys’ house, there was a band and the female lead singer, an intern for our group, was staring at me.  Too bad I was old enough to pay her tuition. Still, she had a great voice and I thought we should move to Austin and live together forever and ever until she met someone her age or a shady, wrinkled agent with cigarette vocals who would promise to make her famous, and then my sweet innocent desert flower would leave me for Vegas.  But, heck, I’d be back in Austin—right? 

Once a quarter, our small group has to join the bigger group of employees at State headquarters to listen to the fiscal report.  YAWWWNN!  I would like to propose that all B.A. graduates be offered a non-fiscal powerpoint presentation with symbols, graphics and music…or be given the morning off to sleep-in or write in a blog or get coffee so that something that matters actually happens.  The only thing I get out of these meetings is a text-by-text view of the Love Heroines’ world where every girl has the potential to be naked.  Ok, that’s not such a horrible way to spend the morning.

“When the Secretary starts, let’s have a Texas Hold ‘Em, competition,” I suggest.  I enlisted the new I.T. guy.  “Whoever loses, buys lunch.”

Love Heroine chuckles his little chuckle that is appropriate in every situation.

“I don’t know how to play,” new guys says.

I reach out and extend my shaking hand.  “Great!” I’m glad I invited you. He doesn’t know how to play either.”  I point to Love Heroine (because he was a sheltered child—but is making up for lost time—and was never taught cards.  Seriously, I had to feed him casino Coronas and set him in front of a .25 electronic poker game to teach him about the suits. After thirty minutes, he had exactly as much money as he started with and could only identify the difference between the red and black cards).  “I’d like Sushi for my winnings, please.”

In the meantime, the two human herders have successfully corralled everyone to the center section so that we are nestled in close together, inhaling too many perfume chemicals for our organic filters to filter.  Love Heroine is not-dating someone in the group; she just joined us.  This means that he’ll be not playing Texas Hold’ ‘Em or keeping me entertained with observations.  And that means, I’m on my own in a room full of straight women.  I’m not a switch-hitter, so this game is boring without testosterone to text semi-suggestive things about co-workers who we don’t know because they belong to the big group.  It would be different if we knew them because then we wouldn't text such things.  Well, I can say that I  wouldn’t text such things.

While upping my ante with imaginary money brought to me by the government paid Blackberry, I’m hearing words like “Top 10 ranking,” “Ante-poverty programs,” and “Business climate.”  I did not know that the words in and migration make their own word but my brain flips them around and cha-ching; it accepts a meaning.  And here it is, “People are coming.”

“If all of these people are moving into Louisiana, then .05-5% of them should be lesbians!” I realize. 

This is good news. I’m glad I came to this meeting.  Still, I haven’t spotted one lesbian in the audience collective.  How will the inmigrants know where to find us without a lesbian mascot? Maybe, at the next Quarterly meeting, I can hand out twogirlsarebetterthanone cards.   After we find each other and disrobe of our professional props, we can form a book club (or softball team), have movie nights, and go to distant lands for gay bar outings. We'll be a tight group that will seduce the inmigrants.  Government lesbians could bring along their non-government lesbian friends.  Some of these social settings could eventually lead to rich relationships.  Wait a minute. I’m talking about lesbians. We don’t date!

I snap out of my silly thoughts of lesbians performing prolonged heterosexual mating dances about the time the Secretary stops talking.  He opens for questions.  First guy up asks, “Any update on a new building?”  Our group is crammed together so tight that the graphic illustrators have been told to design bleacher cubicles in the unused space by the ceiling tiles. 

“If they build a bigger building we’ll all be together.  My connection to Baton Rouge lesbians gets tighter-faster.”  I like this thought but can’t wait for the construction crews to get the concrete poured.  I need lesbians now!

Between Texas Hold ‘Em hands, I spot a few artsy guys from the big group that I’ve deemed ‘gay’ or ‘gay-friendly.’  “They’ll know lesbians,” I assure myself. “I can give them twogirlsarebetterthanone cards.”

I’m like a dog with a bone. Since I wrote: “Any Next Any One Can Jump Start An Evolution,” I’m taking my own advice and walking up to women who look gay (well, one woman) and handing them (her) cards.  (Hello my little senorita- are you still out there?)  I’ve got to expand my circle or I’ll be mad before the next quarterly meeting when I’ll hand-out twogirlsarebetterthanone cards and then be escorted of the premises. 

Maybe I can get on the international team and look for lesbians around the globe?  I could go visit the twogirls communities in Germany or Russia.  I’ll put my belongings and dogs in storage because I’ll want to come back to Louisiana.  Thousands of lesbians will be here any day now—so says the Secretary.

There’s a guy—already deemed gay or gay friendly—with groovy thick-rimmed glasses.  He is staring at me. He’s probably trying to figure out how a lesbian survives in this hetero-vacuous existence.  “I don’t know,” I mouth the words and offer a shrug before I wave with my fingers.  He immediately stands and looks alarmed.  We both realize the Secretary has called his name. 

It turns out, he doesn’t work in the bigger group.  He’s our guest speaker.  Darn.  How will he introduce me to the secret underground Baton Rouge gays if he gets to escape the government hetero-vacuous existence immediately after the show? 

Anyone want to write a happy ending to this story?

Support For Our Troops?

After I wrote the US Senators, I was trying to think of more ways to be a better patriot and perpetuate this timely evolution.  A few nights ago, while drifting off to spend quality time with my dream girl, I thought about how these stories could support our troops.  However, I don't know any women in the military; I don't even know anyone on active duty.  That's sad.  It's just that my family doesn't have a militant gene amongst the tribe.  My youngest brother, the philosopher, joined the Navy but somehow managed an honorable discharge as soon as was humanly possible.  Maybe, the officers felt sorry for him.  The poor guy was recruited onto a ship and is 6 foot 5 inches tall. I always imagine him sleeping in a bunk with his size 14 feet dangling out about a foot and then the stewardess' cart comes by and bangs his ankles like on The Wedding Singer.  Anyhoo, now he's a nuclear engineer and in the private sector enjoying life.  Plus, he's not a girl or a lesbian.

If you know of anyone on active duty who is far from home and would like semi-daily reminders of her community at home and what she's fighting for—FREEDOM for ALL!—, send the link to her (& the "G," "B," and "T," too).  I would love to offer support through my ramblings in whatever way I can.  I want to believe it will be more valuable than the 1 lb bag of ground coffee that had my Sharpie love note on it during the Starbucks for Soldiers drive in '09. 

I hope that a soldier with a flare for writing will feel the freedom, since the repeal of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' to share her/his story. And, I hope it is as big a catharsis for her & him as it has been for me.  Here's the link: http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/  Also, you can look for the mini-icon at the bottom of any entry.  There is a "M" that stands for mail.  That will get it to them too. 

Cheers!

")

The Kind of Control that Chickens Should Have

You gotta love the control you get with a DVR.  You can pause at the sound of nonsense, speed through it, and get to the good stuff when you return with a coke and snacks. Judging from the age of the commercial actors, I don’t need Cymbalta.  I don’t have that many wrinkles.  But, if their aged similarities are my litmus, I need Allstate Insurance and Phillips stool softener.

I’ll just breeze over to the HLN coverage of the Sandusky case.  Yuck.  Is it possible that homosexual acts are so taboo that paid custodians and guardians can’t say “That ain’t right” and then protect their wards?  Yep.   But in America where people are too respectful to confront a peer for pedophilia, the They-Them twins speak openly against the US Constitution and protest rights of adults, effectively denying taxation with representation.  Yep.  That’s our world of disharmony and incongruities.  What am I going to do about it?  I’ll get back to you.

In the meantime, let’s talk about the higher intelligence, Seth, who said it would be better if we weren’t homo or heterosexual. See: “When There’s No Way, Find a Way,” : http://www.twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/10/when-theres-no-way-find-it-some-way.html    

If we forget about never having sex or the impracticality of sex with two organs (for the common person), Seth has a point.  (If you have already figured out the configuration of sex with two organs at one time and would like to provide a hand-sketched graphic, please send it to Love Heroine.) Maybe Seth meant that humans need to be free in their sexual expression.  I can’t remember.  It’s been so long, and the book is back on the shelf.  I do remember It's position about acceptance.  The They-Them twins need a greater awareness about other human's natural desires (sex drives).  This would reduce frustration that is often alleviated by the “other” option—homosexuality.  And no where in here does this higher intelligence call for Cymbalta, Phillips, or Allstate. The solution is organic, provided by our creator.  Wasn't she thoughtful, ").

(Most) People don't need drugs to talk to girls on barstools. And, Seth has assured us that we don't need permission.  We have to remember that when the They-Them twins harness pressure and it so difficult to do what should come natural.  Sandusky, Aiport-bathroom Senators and others who are seeking sex that They-Them wouldn't approve could have had honest lives if only they themselves (not to be confused with They-Them) could get honest. So much angst could have been avoided across the globe and throughout human history with a little, maybe a lot of, honesty.

There are legions of consenting adults, out there and out of the closet, who want to have reciprocal (loving) relationships. But, as a collective we retreat in our minds to before the Renaissance (a species wide awakening but mostly in parts of Europe with great artists) when humans were suppose to use their sex organs only for procreation.  Listen. Here's a truth—the They-Them twins didn't restrict their own sexual expressions then and they aren't doing it now.

Does it strike you as odd that all of society is steered toward heterosexual mating, as if it is natural to customize civilizations around one primary theme—procreation?  In a dark cave where a male is blind, stranded, and bound by a three-headed sea monster that is wrapped around his pelvis like a chastity belt, he is going to figure how to escape and mate.  It’s lesbians who need help with swapping love energy.  Where are prompts for my—I mean, our—needs?

The truth is, in my case and so many other open and honest homosexual states of existences, life isn’t so hard that a person becomes a sexual deviant.  It’s a matter of acknowledging an innate desire that begins to announce itself around the time that Santa stops bringing really great gifts.  We get a therapist and/or get honest. Puberty happens.  In honest communities and families, non-They-Them thunkers acknowledge the different sexual drive in my minority.   

The problem is with post-pubescents (adults) who aren’t honest and then manifest drives in unwelcomed and unlawful ways.  That settles that.  Case closed. Gays can marry for the perpetuation of evolution of the one-human constitution!

Now that we’ve solved that 10,000 year old conundrum—the history books can begin to record the solution.  Here it is:  “Studies have found that people are whack'd.  Particular ones need to be identified, restrained, and counseled.  Leave the rest alone, or invite them over for tea and bisquits.”   That’s for the history books to record. 

This scene, after only 7 minutes of mainstream television, is too much for my recently bruised and abused psyche. I FF to Man-Versus-Things-that-Used-to-Have-Faces.  That child actor is cooking whole chickens in a deep fryer pressure cooker.  He’ll pull the skin off and suck in the escaping hot oils, and then he'll inhale a few slices of pie before he travels somewhere to eat twenty-four burritos because someone before him holds the record at twenty-three burritos.

After twenty+ years in this adult reality, I don’t know how to find the road back to basics.  How do I get to the fantastical, magical Straight Land path?  I need to find gumdrop alley where the bonus prizes won’t give me diabetes or a false sense of security.

I’m not going to use this blog as my soap box.  That would be wrong.  I’m going to rise above and say, “When I live in a land of decadence and over-indulgence, maybe loving someone isn’t so horrible that I should be embarrassed, not make friends with straight strangers, and not feel good about saying to mom at holiday, ‘I’m sleeping with my lover in my old bed.  So, Suck it.’” And then, “Sorry.  Did you take down my poster of Kelly McGillis, yet?” 

Gotta love the power of contributing to your own oh-so-necessary sense of reality.  You can pause nonsense, speed through it, and get to the good stuff when you return with good stuff to offer to your friends.  (I like jalapenos on my tv snack nachos.)  This sitting around and asking permission to be whole is for the birds—obviously, this cliché doesn’t have the same sense of empowerment for the chickens who were mercilessly placed in the deep-fry pressure cooker.

Here ye, Hear me—I don’t need someone else’s life, while I sit on my hands and create wrinkles.  Someday, some producer may come, grab me by the neck, and start plucking my feathers for a pressure cooker called hell. (But, it’s not likely. I’m a good hen).  In the meantime, save the Cymbalta and Phillips stool softener. I’ve got just enough time to not miss my life.

To Develop 'One'

It was refreshing to hear the guest yoga instructor remind me that all around the planet humans strive for similar pursuits.  After schlepping luggage and two laptops—because I can’t write for twogirlsarebetterthanone on government equipment—through the double sliding doors of too many Hampton Inns, eating meals in Mexican restaurants where mariachi bands stop at tables with families but not for singles, and solo piloting through the cold sweats and terrors that come with driving east to west to east on I-10, I forget to remember that I’m not one—we’re all one.

Say it with me, “I belong.”

Whether you are female or male and need to be surrounded by women for the sake of sanity calibration, go find a yoga studio.  I’m pretty sure my religious-release began with the uniting of female voices for Ohhhhhhhhmmm.  Mornings like this bring renewal.  Even though I didn’t bathe or shave my legs (since last Saturday when I missed), the class caused the molting of a layer of dead mind cells.  Ahhh, the symbol of snakes—maybe that’s why I felt a first kundalini rising.  It left a yellow sun burst before escaping through my crown. 

Light shows never occur during excruciating stretches and garanimal poses.  But an hour into the 2 hour workshop, my equilibrium gets whack and I am a bit disoriented, lagging two steps behind the class.  I begin to see purple, blue and yellow swirls.  It’s like my own personal aurora borealis.  (I’ve never seen the aurora borealis, or the Marfa lights in West Texas, or the weird clouds that fall from the sky in the Middle East; but, you might have so you know what it’s like when weird stuff drops in).  I welcome these shows—unless my equilibrium gets whack (and I look drunk and lost in what was already a poor exhibition of mimicry)—; they are colorful silent movies. 

Sometimes there’s form to the energies like lotus flowers, and counterclockwise infinity swooshes, and phantom-like faces that push against a white floating veil.  Sometimes I follow a pinhole light down a black tunnel, hoping to jump into a magical portal and time trip.  But my Diksha teacher said to stop doing that.  In fact, he said to stop doing anything when you’re sitting still.  Maybe that’s how my monkey mind shows up and then introduces a qualitatively different kind of adventure.

After class, I had to sit on the stoop, get my bearings, and wait for the yoga instructor to come out.  (I’m practicing the discipline—‘the following of heart interests’ discipline, remember?  You’re still my silent support, aren’t you?)  To no avail, the instructor was surrounded by students, and my gadar was busted or needed fresh batteries…or something.  Still, I get one point for not running away from the opportunity.

I got home and made wild rice with diced spinach and portabellas, fresh green beans with yellow & red bell peppers, and that beautiful drum filet that I picked up from the hippie market yesterday.  Of course, I crammed two slices of seduction bread in my mouth because I kept thinking about that yoga (instructor’s) workout. 

The phone lit a few times, but I kept cooking—not wanting to unplug from my peace.  I took my perfect meal to the back patio, looked across the yard and noted the many falling leaves. “I’ve been in this house for almost a year, alone.  It’s time.  I feel change coming," I thought.  Also, I am eager to move because I don’t want to rake this enormous yard one more winter.

I thanked the fish for giving its life, and then I eased back into reality, starting with the Saturday Changing-of-the-Sheets.  This perfect afternoon happened because I got my butt out of bed and sought some new way to start the weekend.  And the perfect meal happened because you can’t say for too many days in a row, “I’ll cook the fish tomorrow.”

By the time I took the load from the dryer to the oh-so-very-lonely master bed, I thought about my next girlfriend.  (I don’t have anyone in mind, but the yoga teacher’s body nearly prompted a couple of audible “Hmmms”).  I turned from the bed until I cleared my mind.  I thought about how grateful I’ve been to have this year to release Ex#3 without feeling like I needed to make a new relationship work.  Like the couch and all of its desperation vapors, I dont want to move left-over muck into my next relationship. 

Thinking about the variety of women in the yoga class, I wonder if heterosexuals feel like they can reinvent themselves.  I’m sure they say, “I’m  going to try harder; listen more; yield a bit.” But how much can one break out of social conditioning?  The original state of selfness hearkens from before sexual identity. Confounding the multiplistic dynamics, social conditioning is invisible.  It imprints itself without written authorization. So, I ask you this, "When a heterosexual female finds an attractive male, can she not fall into a nurture, post-adolescent, conditioning?"

Hear me out, if you will, while I type out loud. For girls who date girls, we might move into an awareness of “other” when we become intimate.  (I say might because it speaks to the theme of this blog.  Lesbians so often trust other lesbians that they don’t see differences until they’ve lived together for a year, have collected 2.5 animals and completely enmeshed and ensnared their credit scores.) A self-aware lesbian might awaken a different facet of who she is while with a partner, but she is still a she among another she(s).  When I’m in a room full of women, I don’t shift so much that I take on a secondary persona.  I’m who I am. With two girls, there is no testosterone—or any of its bi-products—that introduce difference.  So, compare our state of “otherness” to a heterosexual’s state of “other” plus “different.”  

Maybe this is why heterosexual females so easily address adult lesbians with statements like, “Hey, you girls.”  Maybe they don’t believe we’ve taken the step into womanhood. Can I know who I am without a comparison to who I'm not?  Yes; I need a mirror not an anti-mirror.  Better yet, I need 24/7 live stream video like on EdTv where I fall in love with Matthew McConaughey.  No, I'm a lesbian.  I fall in love with Jenna Elfman...wait!  Ellen was in that movie.  Who I am? I'm completely lost.  I think I was talking about how heterosexual women are pulling double-duty, developing an additional psyche that compliments the male one.  Oh god- is that what I have to do to be whole?  There’s only so much you can ask of a lesbian in life. 

Clearly, I’m trying to define a metaphysical state that the feminine literature—to the best of my knowledge—hasn’t printed.  I am not underdeveloped if I concentrate on developing my female psyche to its fullest potential.  I won't split my energies.  Dedication and devotion lead to expertise.  I will be the most optimum female I can be when I die—like Demi Morre; I mean G.I. Jane…but different.

Despite my perfect morning that led to a perfect meal, I’ve found myself in a conundrum.  All humans are not striving for similar pursuits.  Lesbians keep to their sector.  They don’t split and develop a complimentary persona that is based on best guesses about a hormone that flows through a different kind of body.  Lesbians add to—enrich—a particular niche of her mind, and thus her soul. 

Still—getting back to the yoga instructor (point)—, we are one.  It’s just that some of us are on different paths, with similar but different pursuits, for a common evolution.  I can say what I said, just above, this way, "Lesbians enrich a particular niche of the one-human mind, and thus the collective soul."  In the end, the one-human composition will be much better if each of us develops our own peculiar sector.  Therefore, I will do my part and stick to my discipline—‘the following of my heart interests'—because two girls are better than one.

INSERT ‘MY THING’ HERE.

Tonight I went and did my thing, and I liked it.  I didn’t kiss a girl, but I liked it.  I had been thinking about this thing for a  long time but haven’t done it. Tonight, I did it. It wouldn’t have hurt anyone before if I had chosen to do it. Ex#3 would have condoned but thought it a waste of time.  Whatever.

I don’t want to tell you what it is because I don’t want to bias you.  Think about your thing that doesn’t include your besty or better half.  Put it in motion.  If you don’t have a pending thing that you want to do—sit down and decide that you need one.  Don’t get up until you know the general category. (If you’re a successfully dated lesbian, unlike yours truly, and have forgotten how to think about your thing, like yours truly, THINK.)  Doing this will add breath to your reality and relationship(s).

If you already have a pending thing—that you can do in your immediate community—write it down on the closest Wendy’s receipt or in your mind’s eye.  Make a plan.  Make it happen before Monday.  After that, you’ll want to think of broadening your scope.  Think of something that you can do within a weekend trip.  Budget &/or plan.  Make it happen before this time next year.  Broaden your horizons.  Think about going abroad and visiting those weird distant relatives or not mentioning to your immediate weird relatives that you’re going abroad.  This vacay is for you.  Think about how you can do three life changing things by taking a flight to a foreign country, and maybe travelling by train or boat to two additional countries.  Budget &/or plan.  Make it happen. 

I once had a dream, back when I didn’t drink, that I was a hamster in a bar in Europe or an American truck stop.  There were all kinds of vermin and rodents of various families around me, ordering and drinking pints.  Something cataclysmic happened that jarred the bar, and so I put my college knitted sweater with the big one-letter logo on the front and climbed up the hairy leg of a male human to secure my safety. 

          The man was startled and said, “How did you do that?!” 

          “I put my sweater on and made it happen.” 

Life is short. Make it happen. 

NOTE: Add '1' to LGBT Before They Print Our BB Jerseys

The idea that these two grown men—who so desperately want something so desperately bad—were not held behind a podium was an oversight.  At one point, they were swaying in semi-circles toward each other.  You know the producer was screaming, "Why didn’t that damn intern tape boundaries [and low voltage wires] onto the carpet?

The sides of my mind separated and started wagering bets—who will swing first?  I was surprised that my right hemisphere, The Artist, was wagering on Romney. 

“Traitor,” the left side snared. 

Statesmen need helms. They need things to grip.  These people aren't holding baseball bats, footballs or racquets that might become extensions for their frenzied electrical currents.  If we don’t give statesmen things to grip, they will wear smiles that stretch abnormally from ear to ear, repressing primal drives to pulverize the competitor, and dance dangerously near a Tyson ear-chewing.  Maybe candidates should go three rounds in the ring, wearing tightly knotted gloves?

Maybe in 2016 we should do this thing outdoors.  People are always more at peace in nature.  NBC could present the first ever decathalon-debate combo.  When the moderator says, “I don’t care if you’re the Governor or the President, [you’re not the boss of me] your time is up,”  the contender could toss a shot-put or javelin, release his energy and maybe pick up a blue ribbon.  Ten questions and Ten Events, is all it would cost for everyone to know who should be the president.  More telling, if one of the candidates spears the other one before he answers the question, that guy loses.  Who wants to vote for a chief who can’t hold his javelin while taking punches at the other’s it-will-never-get-past-Congress promises?   

Because there is so much at stake for these men—and 350M Americans as well as other earth inhabitants that are impacted by US’s decisions—I have to condone the blaring and blatant urges.  It's a wonder that one of them didn't cry out, “It’s my precious.”  That would have been something. Again, I have to have empathy for these multimillionaires who are using all of their might to constrict and restrain in hopes that they might secure a job where the juice doesn’t appear to be worth the squeeze.  I shan’t throw rocks.  I can’t do much better. I’m too shy to talk to a girl on a bar stool. 

Speaking of the common (wo)man, I have to wonder what it would be like if real people (or paid actors) could debate real issues for real solutions. We could list the nations’ unresolved stuff on a basketball breakout diagram.  Conservative and liberal Americans could step up to a fixed podium and debate until the answer was obvious.  It would be like that scene in Troy where Achilles (played by Brad Pitt who premiered his skinny boy guns) launches a javelin into the neck of that Goliath.  No—I’m fixed on the javelin for some reason.  It wouldn’t be like that at all, but the issue would be deemed “RESOLVED” by the end of the hour—'less viewers click over to ESPN to watch something get decided as a result of brute force under the supervision of paid referees and umpires.  Clearly, (after a good tail-gate party) this is how everything that matters happens.  We just aren't staging things right.

We could have a conservative and liberal feed into the National bracket from “farm teams.”  Upon victory from the minor leagues, each would be deemed the chosen expert to debate about various issues.  I imagine the first subject would be about something like P.E.T.A. laws for circus animals.  Next, they might debate about funds for civil servants. (I would like a raise, please.)  The incoming experts could debate about increases in the various education programs.  Eventually, experts could debate about building or blowing up bridges, whether to make counties/parishes fix potholes and asphalt nineteenth century cattle paths, and whether all industries would be better off if they shut down so that everyone could work at one of the many casinos in non-gambling states.  (In Louisiana, gambling is illegal but you can participate in gaming.  I don’t understand the distinction whenever I lose the $40 that I allocate once a fiscal quarter to the roulette wheel.  However, I usually make out with two free Coronas and a pack of second-hand smoke.)

Each night at 9:00 CST, people could tune in and listen to the debate.  I can hear the announcer, “Thank you for joining us on ‘America’s problems from A to Z.’  Tonight, we showcase the letter ‘C.’ We begin with ‘Ca.’ California seems to be the best place to start…”   3, 5,7, or 9 non-judiciary people, drawn by lottery or during a game of football-field-size spin the bottle, would moderate the debate and vote.  Of course, Americans would be invited to call in and cast a tax-deductible vote.  (However, master debaters would not be able to wear oversized football jerseys with the last two digits of their zip code.  History has shown that this hypnotizes voters, causes tone deafness, and skews lucidity.)

After, America’s problems from A to Z becomes a top-rated prime time show, random good-natured college graduates will be able to identify the vice-president in a line-up.  Well, maybe.  It’s safe to say, they’d be able to identify the moderator and debators…who could then run for office.  Eventually, Jay Leno’s reporter-on-the-street would have to stop making fun of drunk people who want to have a good time on their vacation and not worry about whether the statesmen are holding javelins.

These guys are still talking which jars me out of my tangent.  I listen to Romney’s concern for anxious business owners who are eager to hire women, “583,000 women have lost their jobs.” Obama agrees. There; hell froze over.  No matter who gets voted in, the economy will come back and men will release their pent anxieties by hiring women.  So, I encourage all females to be strong during initial negotiations and ask for more $$$ in 2013.

I have to say, it’s interesting to hear multi-millionaire men emphatically address the rights of women.  “That’s what I’m fighting for,” President O. says.  I would like to call him out on this, but I have to confess—"I gave him a free ticket in '08." When people say he’s dumb (I won't say who), I raise my silent hand in protest.  The guy inherited more crap that anyone deserves, even though he took a year and a half out of his life to tour the country and beg for the gig.  My silent hand says, “As long as major financial institutions aren’t crumbling when I wake up in the morning and we aren’t starting another war, the new guy gets a free pass [for 1 term].”  But, I should warn you; if he isn’t the antichrist like so many billboards between Georgia and Louisiana warn—my silent hand will learn to murmur.

It’s because of these apathetic allowances that I’m not into politics. I’m just grateful that neither of the two guys want to change the United States of America’s Constitution—which is the planet’s symbol for freedom (in most countries).  This means that I don’t have to worry about store housing my increased salary to move to a country where my genetic disposition isn’t illegal. So near were the dark ages!

“I believe in a fundamentally different way of running this country,” one of them says. It doesn’t matter which one said it because the other is diametrically opposed too. Thus, they are in agreement. There; hell froze over, again.

I say, “You guys in Washington keeping spinning the same old tale and let the rest of us get on with a new narrative.”  All we need are poster boards and Sharpies.  We’ll make a basketball diagram for each and every issue in America.  Meet me back here when we get to the letter “L.”  LGBT civil rights will be first up that night.  And, I’ll be the one selling bleacher-seat tickets, drive-thru daiquiris, and Cajun quarters, “).  

Lesbians Linking Lands -1100

I filled out a form on the website of every Democratic U.S. senator, so that I could send the tale of  planet Puster with this message:

      As a U.S. Senator, you might have wrestled with how to represent your constituents.  A generation
       has  not yet found a means to make my minority relevant to the majority.  The story of the purple
       problem on Planet Puster might help you appreciate and relay our unique struggle.  What an 
       incredible day for an evolution! 
     http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/09/planet-puster-and-its-purple-problem.html

There have been approximately 6 recent hits for this entry that was posted in Sept.  Maybe your senator was one of them?

But, they're only a small contribution to our growing community.  We clicked over into 1100+ views this week. Here's the countries that have poked a head in:

Pageviews by Countries

Entry	Pageviews
United States	1030
Russia	24
Germany	12
United Kingdom	6
Canada	4
Australia	2
South Korea	2
Japan	1

Anyone know anyone in Scotland, ") !?!