The first blog for the Hippy Revolution – a vlog dedicated to ethical and environmentally friendly home consumption.
The first blog for the Hippy Revolution – a vlog dedicated to ethical and environmentally friendly home consumption.
So, watch this:
Then read John Shore’s take on it, because it’s funny.
Then email the good pastor your thoughts at firstname.lastname@example.org. I did:
I just watched your video, the one where you propose building a kind of Auschwitz for homosexuals (did you know Hitler actually included homosexuals in his genocide? You’re in good company, my man).
1. There is an S in “against”
2. Having compassion for the dignity of all human beings including homosexuals does not make a person homosexual themselves.
3. There is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that gay people are more likely to produce gay children than straight people.
4. You didn’t mention Jesus’ position on homosexuality once in this speech. Why was that? Oh yeah. HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT (neither did he say anything about abortion, for that matter).
5. I suggest you re-read the Gospel of John, then tender your resignation with an apology for your gross misunderstanding of the Gospels, with a confession of having repeatedly committed the sin of taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Everyone On Earth With Half A Brain.
Do you have a no-exceptions, deal-breaking, erase-from-contacts, unfriend-on-Faceboook offence? I don’t, but that’s because I’m a social media addict and, just like I can’t throw out a pair of jeans because “I might wear them again… one day… when the high-waisted stone-wash look comes back in,” (which incidentally, it did) I find it really hard to excommunicate people from the Fellowship of Facebook, let alone from my actual-factual life. It’s in part because social media has become such a part of our lives that hitting the “unfriend” button is kind of like murder, and if you do that and delete a phone-number… no amount of mouth-to-mouth will bring that friendship back. Erm.. You know what I mean.
Well, that’s not strictly speaking true. I’ve had a couple of friendships fall spectacularly apart, numbers deleted after bouts of vicious texting, only to be resurrected some years later and restored to a kind of strength that can only come from being re-built. Re-built with caution, yes, and a lot of triangular steel reinforcement, and that high-tech concrete they re-built Ground Zero with, but re-built nonetheless.
But above all, these friendships were re-built with honesty, because there’s just no other way.
Honesty sucks. Yeah, you heard me. It sucks like Cod Liver Oil, and sacrificing watching The Biggest Loser in favor of actually doing some exercise, and chemotherapy, and Brussel sprouts: It sucks like a lot of things we’d rather not do but are helpful to leading healthy lives.
Being honest with the people around you is crucial, of course. Because telling them they look fantastic in those skinnies when in fact the g-string is both too high and too tight and their legs look like a truss-pig is eventually going to come back to bite you in your smoother-clad bottom. But, of course, there’s a limit: we find diplomatic ways to negotiate the treacherous landscape of night-on-the-town preparation and say something like, “You look better in the boot-cut.” <;- Not a lie, but achieves the same outcome as honesty. The problem arises when "You look better in the boot-cut" is met with, "You kidding? I look HOT in the skinnies!" and then you get your head bitten off for not telling them how hideous they look when they catch sight of their protruding leopard-print-and-diamante G cutting into their hips three inches above their jeans.
The solution? Well, first of all check your own underwear-denim-relationship is in working order, and then broach the issue honestly. OK, maybe not honestly. Maybe, "Your figure has filled out a bit since you bought those and they're not so flattering anymore. You don't look your best. Go for the boot-cut," is a better option than, "For the love of God, get those skinnies off! You look like a mint lamb roast, but less delicious!"
Anyway, you get my drift.
It's not fool proof. Some people just really like their skinnies. And that's fine. And some people will defend their skinnies by ripping strips off you for that orange lipstick. That's fine too. So long as you can admit the orange lipstick was probably a bad idea, and retract the emotional investment in your friend's choice of denim-wear enough to step into a cab with them, you can continue to party together in somewhat dubious style.
If you can't… time to make friends with better taste in pants.
The point of this stretched-til-the-elastic-snapped metaphor (stretched like a pair of stretch-jeans you loaned to your friend who looks bad in skinnies… OK, I'll stop) is that honesty might be hard, but lying never ends well. If someone said to me, "Yeah, you look great in those!" and I came to realise they'd actually told a lil' fib there, resulting in me looking like the biggest fashion douche in a club of already appallingly low douchy standards, and them looking even more killer by comparison, I'd probably have the shits. Moreover, I'd never be able to go clothes shopping with them again, because I'd never quite know if I actually looked good.
And that's why my delete-from-life clause is "Don't lie about the skinnies."
Except not… because ill-fitting skinnies might come back one day.
I sent out a question on my Facebook the other day, asking “What’s that film where the woman is committed to a mental asylum, but she’s actually completely sane and lucid, and the implication is that she’s the victim of a cover up, but by the end you don’t know what the reality is?” Most responses thought the film was Gothika, and upon reading up on it on IMBD, that made sense.
But I’ve never seen Gothika, which leads me to believe this is some kind of manifestation of the collective unconscious, one of the innate fears of humanity: that the reality you experience is not the reality everyone else is living in, and that you are the insane one.
It’s that time you swear blind someone said “Want to have dinner some time?” and they swear blind they said, “I can’t stand the sight of you and hope you die.”
It’s that time he kind of rested his hand on your bottom for five minutes and then turned around and said, “Oh! I’m so sorry you misinterpreted that! You thought I was coming on to you?” Um.. Yeah, dude, she did.
It’s that time she said, “Yeah, buy it! It looks great on you. What? No, it’s not my style,” and then bitched to everyone that you thieved it off the rack from under her nose.
We’ve all had it happen. We’re dead certain one thing was said, they’re dead certain another thing was said, and so you’re left with two choices: They’re LYING or you’re CRAZY.
Statistically, it’s much more likely a lie has been told than that you are so far gone down the delusional episodes path that you’re actually hallucinating the bit where you outright caught him snogging your best friend (it was exactly what it looked like, guys – don’t swallow that shit), or the fifteen separate individuals who told you she said your makeup made you look like a two-dollar hooker.
Here’s my advice: UNLESS YOU ARE CERTIFIABLE, DO NOT TAKE THAT SHIT LYING DOWN.
The “Crazy Bitch” blow-off is another bullshit sexist construct designed to indemnify men against accusations of being assholes, and women have adopted it as a defence against being just plain nasty. And in using it against each other, ladies, we pander to the same misogynistic, fear-driven, male-centric construct of femininity we’ve been labouring under for millennia. It’s a get-out-of-gaol-free card that people use to avoid actually owning their behaviour.
I know – I’ve used it myself.
And guys, it doesn’t do you any favors either. By falling back on the “Crazy Bitch” excuse, you compound a masculinity that is predicated on emotional insensitivity, arrogance, and self-righteousness (well, that’s the fed-up feminine perspective on what the masculine subject would probably call “emotional fortification, confidence, and self-assuredness”).
Sure, occasionally the problem is actually just that s/he’s a crazy bitch/jerk (because women are not the only people capable of delusion and neuroses, guys – time drag yourselves out of the sixteenth century). But 99.99% of the time, the real issue is that s/he’s different to you, and that’s fine.
So next time you don’t understand someone, don’t fly to the conclusion that s/he’s lost their reason, and is thus unreasonable and can’t be reasoned with: consider for a moment what reason for feeling this way they might have, and give them an opportunity to explain their reasoning. Because it’s exactly when you’re so convinced of your own reason that you should question it: Crazy people rarely know they are… crazy.
When you get to a certain age, people start asking questions like, ‘when are you going to get married and have kids?’ which is startlingly intrusive and presumptuous enough without considering I’m single.
When I was nineteen, I fell in love. I’d just finished school with a great final mark, was in the middle of a gap year studying acting part time, and had, for wont of a less cliche expression, the world at my fingertips. I was getting praise for my performing, my singing voice had finally started to flourish after seven years of struggling to get a note out of it for lack of confidence, and I had secured a place in a BA Media and Communications for the following year, which I intended to take my time with as I pursued acting.
I stood on a precipice, violent winds of too many choices thrashing at me.
This boy was older than me. Old enough for society to call him a man, and he certainly thought of himself as such. I, personally, wasn’t quite so convinced. I don’t mean that disparagingly, though: I liked his boyishness, the fact that at the age of twenty-seven he didn’t own a bookshelf, and slept on an up-market version of a blow-up mattress, and lived in a slightly dilapidated duplex in a student suburb. And I liked that he came from my home town, and we knew some of the same people, and he sailed boats. Even though he towered over me, and his physique was, well, intimidating (by which I mean he was muscle bound in a way that would make Adonis jealous and Narcissus turn his head from the pool) I didn’t feel threatened by him: I felt safe.
I wanted to marry him. In that nineteen-years-old way, I wanted to marry the boy from my town.
He wanted to get married, too.
Just not to me.
He explained to me that even though he thought I was beautiful, and liked me very very much, he was looking for a more adult relationship than he could expect me to give (note: he chose to broach this subject moments after I had slipped into his bed and we’d shared our first kiss. No tongue). He wanted to have a family. Quick smart.
I did point out that there was something of a flaw in the logic of planning kiddiewinks before you’ve found a willing womb and passing up something tangible and present in favour of something, well, hypothetical. As most men tend to when I assault their flawed world view, he acknowledged that I was completely correct, dug his heels in, and refused to budge on the matter.
He was twenty-seven at the time, which is, incidentally, how old I am as I write this blog. And I still don’t understand his logic, but it seems to have worked for him: he was married within six months, and has, like, twelve kids now or something. I occasionally Facebook stalk him, and they’re all very cute, but Dear Lord thank you so much for shoving me out of the way of that bullet!
Not that I don’t want kids. Not that I don’t think Sailor Boy isn’t an absolutely charming and lovely man (and he is, he’s an absolute darling of a human being), but sweet Jesus, I have so much to do before doing that.
When people talk about this idea of ‘spending the rest of our lives together’ I always feel a little uneasy. It’s not commitment phobia or anything, on the contrary: I love the idea of partnership. But this life these people describe, with a tongue-in-cheek white dress, a mortgage, a Labrador, and two kids, looks more like a death together to me.
Again, I want those things. But all in good time, people, all in good time. Weddings, mortgages, Labradors and children are not the hallmarks of commitment. Sure, you probably shouldn’t do them without commitment, but they are not commitment itself.
I want to live nocturnally, breathing the vibrancy of a thousand cities and their music and their art and their theatre, and know that none if it would be so moving, so profound, so disturbing, so enlivening, if it weren’t for having shared it with that guy. I want to hire a cabin in the Scottish Alps and have the whiskey hit us too hard because we’re not used to the altitude and wake up not sure what we did but sure it was transcendent. I want to wander villages in southern France and invite an accordion-playing busker to drink red wine with us and tell us stories that may or may not be true, but agree that it doesn’t matter, because life may or may not be real, so let there be wine and cheese and accordions because we can see and smell and hear and feel those. I want to wonder the next day if it happened or if the little busker were a wine-dream, and scratch our heads trying to remember the wisdom we’re sure he imparted. And when there’s no wine, and no whiskey, I want to feel the bass tones of life’s concerto rip through my guts and his guts simultaneously, and feel the lurch and the head-spin and the rising and the falling and the major and the minor, and stand transfixed, unable to breathe, as one movement comes to a close and another swells and takes off.
I don’t want a man to give me his heart. He needs that to keep breathing. No. I want to know the beat of it so intimately that I can live in step with it.
I want to live.
When I tell my children stories at night, I want them to be my stories, not shadows of an idea stamped on pulp paper and regurgitated into my children’s mouths so I can fool them into thinking I know something about life because I bought them a box-set.
And unless I’m comfortable lying to my children, I have to live the stories first.
P.s. Sailor Boy, if you ever read this, no hard feelings. 🙂
*What I’m saying is, gender might be something insubstantial that we made up, but it still manages to throw shit around and break things.
I received a detailed and thought-provoking comment on my post Bending Gender – Until it Snaps, which made me realise I may not have been expressing myself clearly in that post.
So, some clarification:
When I use the term ‘sex’ in this piece, I’m not talking about sexual intercourse, I’m talking about anatomical gender, as in does someone have a penis or a vagina?
Also, I’m not at all trivialising gender or claiming it is ‘fluid’. Quite the opposite – gender is a huge (and, IMHO, VERY problematic) part of our constructed performative cultural system. It is EXTREMELY rigid, but that doesn’t make it REAL or innate. Gender identity (as opposed to the sexed body) is a socially constructed idea, and we are all to some extent bound by its expectations. Even if we choose to subvert it, we feel its ramifications, as Lacey Roop did when she was asked if she were a ‘dude or a dyke’. A man cannot simply chose to wear a dress casually in our culture without attracting stares. A woman can’t step out without makeup without being accused of lacking in pride in her appearance, as though a woman’s worth is only in her aesthetic.
What I’m saying is that gender as a set of behaviours and cultural expectations is actually made up – it has no real basis, no relationship to ‘nature’. In simplistic terms, there is absolutely NOTHING about my body, with its breasts and womb, that insists it must be clothed in soft lines and flowing fabric and framed by long hair and enhanced by make-up. But this is certainly what the dominant culture expects of me. And I, personally, actually conform to that. It doesn’t bother me in my own life, but there was a time when as a ten year old child I cut my hair off like a boy and wore overalls because I was a rough-and-tumble kinda kid and dresses and long hair just weren’t practical, and at the age of TEN I was teased as a lesbian. Apart from being confused about why being a lesbian should be something to tease someone about (we were a very liberal family, and whilst I am straight, I copped the ‘lesbo’ teasing throughout my schooling because I am a little bit different) it shocked me even then, as a child, to realise that people would draw such huge conclusions from the way I cut my hair and dress. Our culture is profoundly gendered, and it is a problem because gender – the behaviours and dress styles and demanours we culturally associate with anatomical sex – is actually arbitrary, i.e. made up.
To further complicate the matter, when we look into the science of it and realise that anatomical sex is not even a fixed thing in nature, that this division between the male body and female body is, like gender identity, an arbitrary binary that we have imposed on nature and not innate to biology, then gender and all the cultural implications of it is revealed as a farce.
Sexuality is one such cultural implication. Seeing that gender is a farce illuminates sexuality as a similarly flawed concept, because it is dependent on gender. How many children suffer brutal teasing at school on the grounds of sexual orientation (in my case an orientation I didn’t even identify with!)? And when we understand that sexuality is just nomenclature, a collection of categories that respond to the presumption of the REALITY and INNATENESS of gender and anatomical sex, we see that homophobia (or, indeed, heterophobia, which I have seen in full flight! Or bisexual individuals copping it from the gay community for ‘not picking a side’ or from the hetero community for being supposedly promiscuous) is not only ridiculous on humanitarian grounds, but competely divorced from reality.
I would go so far as to say that gender is a construct designed over the milennia to control people, much like class systems.
I agree that in the short term, helping people ‘reassign gender’ (in this case gender meaning anatomical sex) seems like the best solution, but the culture needs to shift in the long run, and I’m not convinced that gender reassignment doesnt actually hinder this shift by giving the culture a get-out-of-gaol-free card.
In summation, what angers me so much about this phenomenon is realising how much pain people suffer, believing that they are somehow wrong, when the standard by which they are measuring their ‘correctness’ is in fact a milennia old cultural LIE.