#its sad this statement applies to so many fucking artists

[redwinesupercvnt]

REMINDER

real. people. can. not. queerbait.

since some of you clearly forgot

[thesinglesjukebox]

BILLIE EILISH - BAD GUY

[6.93]

The Jukebox has thoughts on Billie Eilish? Well, duh.

Andy Hutchins: Nothing clicked for me with Billie Eilish until "Bad Guy." I understood the appeal intellectually, because it has sometimes been my wheelhouse: "Prodigy-cast makes off-kilter pop music from a perspective with more than a little precociousness and possibly a feminine spin that serves to disrupt rather than reify" is my jam for months at a time, sometimes. But some combination of prodigy and precociousness sometimes striking me as preciousness -- something that I've occasionally found issue with in the work of Sky Ferreira and Solange and Lorde and Cher Lloyd and fka twigs and Haim and Kacey Musgraves and Lana Del Rey and so many women who have occupied this same treacherous lane where deviating from delivering what is expected from a young woman making pop music can offend the sensibilities (or engage the biases) of even someone who has strained to stave off the stupidity of dismissing music made by young women and largely intended for young women -- and what I read as a deliberately dark and standoffish aesthetic put me off of Eilish, whose stuff just didn't compel me. Everything clicks for me with Billie Eilish now that I've heard "Bad Guy," which I reckon is pathetic on my part, because so much of the DNA of "Bad Guy" is in other work she's done that the things that differentiate it as The Hit and The Breakthrough come down to tempo and a kooky synth run in the hook that every third YouTube commenter thinks is stolen from Plants vs. Zombies. But "Bad Guy" is also an unassailable pop song and has come along at a time when bulletproof ones are not occupying the charts -- the closest competition in the current top 40 by my sight is, like, a Katy Perry song whose verses let down its magnificent hook, a bunch of drowsy-to-dire Khalid and Halsey tunes, a C- effort from Taylor Swift, and a microwaved Lizzo track that I've known of for a while and don't consider her best stuff -- and so it stands out even more from the pop metagame than the larger Eilish oeuvre does from a host of less realized tunes. And I'm a sucker for an unassailable pop song, especially one with a vocal initially delivered so low that it demands attention to the dial in the car but that is by turns brightly funny ("...duh!") and world-weary and campy to the hilt (the titular phrase being stretched to a titanium crocodile's rasp), a relentless bass line that sounds like a monster's heartbeat echoing in a cave, and lyrics that constitute a semi-sincere embrace of some Lolita tropes and a more powerful sarcastic destruction of them while somehow also being fully ready for Instagram captions and Twitter display names and ... well, no one's on Tumblr anymore. But that's hardly Billie's fault, and I'm not docking points for only barely failing to raise the dead with a virtuosic song that makes me this glad to be alive. [10]

Alfred Soto: There's a reason this song has become the breakout hit besides its insidious keyboard hook: Billie Eilish sings not mumbles the gender bending hook. Otherwise a ditty that the top 40 could use more of; its quietness is a tonic. [8]

Joshua Copperman: Sounds great, looks great (if possibly plagarized), memes great. The deadpan anti-sexuality of "might-seduce-your-dad type" is "Guys My Age" done right. The delivery of "my soul, so cynical" like even that is too earnest of a statement. The only weak part is the ending switch-up. But you knew all that already. Duh. Besides the cries of "industry plant!" there's also the ongoing sense that Eilish is a music writers' idea of what a 17-year-old Tumblr-born pop star would sound like. And sure, she's a young music writers' dream; I have a byline at Billboard because of her. But also, it's genuinely smart music that is mostly set to age well, even if it's hard to tell if it m a t t e r s. Who knows what 17-year-olds of any predilection towards seducing dads are actually listening to; I'm 21 and finding that out is only getting more difficult, if maybe not more necessary. If teens still control popular culture, if anyone does, who knows if this really does reflect them, or if its bottomless angst is mocked like Limp Bizkit? Is "Bad Guy" just "Heathens" for the late-2010s? Does this really represent the next generation? And which next generation; the shit-talking saviors, or the ones just like their parents and the radicalized alt-right kids? There's no easy answer to any of these, no "duh" to shrug them off. But there is Eilish and co. applying the daily grind of apocalyptic dread to smaller-scale topics. Processing death on "Bury a Friend," processing one's own body image on "idontwannabeyouanymore," processing changing gender roles here. Finding your place in 2019 is a lot for anyone. No one is getting it right. What Eilish does instead is turn that uncertainty to playfulness, confidently existing within the mess instead of trying to find her spot. [8]

Leah Isobel: I was on Tumblr in 2011, so "might seduce your dad type" doesn't feel as provocative as she might intend. (Also, Halsey did the exact same thing.) Besides, pop is a space for fantasy and role-playing, and she's not the first 16-year old bad girl to make adults freak out a little. What gets me is that the song itself is a brilliant production piece in search of an equally compelling melody; the biggest hooks here are an audible eye-roll and a Tim Burton rip. I love the idea of Billie as a goth-teen-pop star, and the choice to swerve into a spooky outro instead of a more traditional structure is genuinely a lot of fun, but this all feels like so much posturing -- normal for a teenager, but not that compelling to listen to on its own. [6]

Katherine St Asaph: If Billie Eilish is the Gen Z Fiona Apple, which I've heard from about three separate people even before the Discourse started, then "Bad Guy" is her "Criminal," down to it being creep flypaper. Everyone quotes that one dad line a bit too eagerly, like they're subconsciously thinking that if they have the pithiest take they just might get to be the dad. (It isn't even the most suggestive line.) There's a strong case for the dad being the bad guy, if only because he's, well, the guy. But "Bad Guy" lives in the world of teenage politics, where the guys just are and the girls get their badness thrust upon them, and their choices are to shrink away or play along. Duh. ("Bad Guy" : "duh" :: "Your Love Is My Drug" : "I like your beard.") But all this is pretty serious analysis for a fundamentally trolly song: half-mumbling the melody to a beat I'm pretty sure I made in a high school to go with a video project; rhyming bad/mad/sad/dad like a Mavis Beacon keyboarding tutorial (or whatever the kids have now; maybe they're just born typing); crooning an exceedingly Lana Del Rey-ish "I'm only good at being bad" then immediately cutting that crap for a bassy, fuck-off breakdown; filling only about 60% of the song with, like, song. [6]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Not the most impressive or cohesive Billie Eilish song, but it is the one most likely to remind you of how fun her music can be (that she included the Invisalign skit in the video helps). The coda is fine, but the best reversal is found elsewhere: the nonchalant cries of duh followed by a cartoonish synth melody, underlining just how playful the song's darker elements are. [6]

Josh Langhoff: Eilish sometimes sounds like the Cardigans if they only did Black Sabbath covers, "evil" squeezed between an extra set of scare quotes, and sometimes she's Nellie McKay on downers, ennui shaped like wit but without the laughs. Sometimes she's good and sometimes she sings ballads. And somehow that combination produced "Bad Guy," the elusive Somehow Perfect Pop Song That Sounds Like Nothing Else On The Radio. I can't say I love it, but all her murmuring and posturing makes Top 40 radio seem, after too many years, like a playground of endless possibility. What'd we do to deserve this and "Old Town Road"? [8]

Jessica Doyle: Yes. Some are red, and some are blue. Some are old, and some are new. Some are sad, and some are glad, and some are very, very bad. Why are they sad and glad and bad? I do not know. Go ask why that menacing bass and Eilish's whisper didn't deserve better lyrics. [4]

Tobi Tella: Billie Eilish's artistic direction and style of music makes it seem almost impossible for her to make a legitimate banger, but this fits in perfectly with the rest of her album tone-wise and also completely slaps. The simplicity of the production, literally created in a bedroom just adds to the perfect low-key vibe. The lyrics do make Billie sound a little like a teenager who will cringe reading them in 10 years, but as an 18 year old, sometimes doing stupid stuff you know is destructive and immature is FUN, and this completely captures that feeling. [8]

Will Adams: I love love love the idea of this shifty, close mic'd oddball dancepop song being as big of a mainstream hit as it is, even if it's one of the more slight offerings from the album. Extra point for the coda, where Billie drops the coy and reminds you how quick she is to put her foot on your neck. [7]

Pedro João Santos: The coda lamentably inverts the light heart of "Bad Guy": the colourful, whispered titillation conjugated with what's left unsaid, a sort of puerile pleasure dutifully translated by the Theremin-esque synths; not the heady, overlong consummation that it unfolds onto by the end. I must say I'm exhilarated that someone knew how to ape "Las de La Intuición" nearly 15 years on, although startled by the fact that it was Billie Eilish the one to do it. [7]

Scott Mildenhall: Done well, it's enjoyable to hear a musician having such fun, but especially so when one unexpected element of a song comes in to underline just how much fun they're having. In this case, it's the gloopy searchlight noise, playing out like the theme tune to a 1970s cop show set in space, in a way that cannot be anything but gleefully goofy. Such bold and playful invention is something pop music would suffer without. Extra points for the consideration to leave a gap before the outro so that radio stations can cut it out. [8]

Iris Xie: I still think this song should've been cut off at the 2:14 mark, because it said everything it needed to say. [5]

Katie Gill: That purposefully obnoxious "duh" sums up what Eilish wants to say more than the rest of the song combined (and is currently in the running for my favorite 2 seconds of 2019 pop music). This image of her as the bad guy isn't serious. It's bratty and playful, more her creating something she can have fun with instead of taking herself seriously. Unfortunately, that something interesting here is buried in a three minute piece that somehow manages to be three completely different songs which never actually coheres to a single whole. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[mygreatestgood]

One Stroll Of Many During COVID-19 (03/22/20)

I went out for a walk this weekend. Because of the virus, the roadways weren’t crowded with its usual hustle & bustle. You could cross every corner with ease, and the whooshing noise of tires against asphalt was strangely minimal and sporadic.  The occasional passerby came near, and quickly diverted to their mandated six-feet-away distance.  Don’t really know how affective the six-foot rule is when applied to a passerby, but the elderly and middle aged are terrified and I feel for them. No one really smiled in my direction, or acknowledged me, with the exception of two people: a some-odd 80 year old with a walker and a middle aged man who was singing a rock tune aloud for the residents on Summit Avenue to hear. 

The season is transitioning into spring, and the smell in the air washed over a feeling of nostalgia. As it does with every change, as the last days of a season slowly dissipate, you can feel the impending linger of the one to follow approaching; the familiar smells of emerging plants, a light breeze floating throughout the air, the sight of new blooming and budding florals and the warmth from sunlight.  These things, they tend to cause me to recollect the times I’ve experienced this environment before. It’s been quite a few springtimes since I thought about my previous years during this season as a child. I think it was the emptiness of the roads that led me to remember.  And as soon as my memory began its regaling, just as abruptly, I could feel a trace of sadness etching itself throughout my body, magically slaloming its way. I felt like I was remembering something I loved, and deeply realizing that I would never be able to relive that love again. And yeah--no shit. I never will, in the sense that I’m no longer a child and can't time travel back a couple decades. But I wasn’t exactly wishing I could be a child again, or have my youth suddenly reappear.

In the 90′s, and early 2000′s, quality of life was different. My parents moved to the suburbs of New Jersey as it was what they could afford that was in relatively close distance to New York. They were musicians; my dad, a pianist and composer, and my mom, an opera singer. They wanted to do the family thing too, so they also acquired full-time jobs that granted them a steady earning. At the time, New Jersey made sense. It was a reprieve from city life. Life was of a slower pace in this region. We lived in a two-family on one of our town’s main roads that had a large backyard with a small gathering of woods. Stray cats were always making their way through the holes in our fence. We had a patio, complete with a barbecue grill and yellow metal furniture, which sounds heinous, but was surprisingly adorable. There was ample room all along the sides of the yard for my mom to pursue one of her hobbies--gardening--and still, there was leftover space for a swing-set and for my neighbors and I to run around and play a game of kickball.

As a kid, I did things. I rode my scooter to the park to play basketball, and we’d wait for the ice cream truck to sound it’s irritating yet welcoming melody. We’d go to the concession stand near the baseball diamond and get slushies and cheese fries. I would try to learn how to skateboard. The park was always crowded. Everyone from athletic kids to swarms of third and fourth grade girls obsessing over nail polishes and Lip Smackers chapsticks would rally around this place. I could see everyone from babies learning the concept of sand castles, to kids my age from school that I undoubtedly had no desire to run into. I loved walking into the neighboring town and going to the comic book store, or the game zone, where I’d collect pogs and crazy bones and pokemon cards and beanie babies--whatever I happened to be into hoarding at the moment. I’d go to book stores and pick up random young adult novels. I’d go to the movies. I’d go rent movies. There was a roller rink ten minutes away, and every weekend it was the cool place to go and whiz around (or in my instance, hold onto the railing and wall while everyone sped by me) while the edited version of Mase’s current single blasted from the DJ’s speakers. I’d go bowling. I’d visit arcades that weren’t Dave & Buster’s. I loved just being outside, meeting up with friends, walking to go get pizza. Flipping through magazines at the local convenient store. Having slumber parties and shutting the lights off while everyone took a turn at singing karaoke. Everything was an adventure and an all-senses-engaged experience. Even if it was just standing in a store parking lot and talking. Even if it was stealing someone’s aunt’s cigarettes and sneakily trying them behind a building in a schoolyard. Not just because I was young and new to the world, but because everyone was presently living, truly experiencing and sharing one another’s company. Communicating. Discovering commonalities. Making jokes about ideas or things happening in that very moment. Even when I was alone as a kid, I MADE things. I wrote stories, I would film movies on our camcorder and write scripts. I would try to do arts and crafts like things, like make tye-dye shirts or fiddle around with play-dough. I would be immersed in one thing at a time. If my friends and I were stuck hanging out indoors, we would prank call people. We would make up dumb card games or come up with something creative to unpack and figure out together as a team.

Everything has just always felt more loose in the past. Even during high school and college years. House parties were incredible. Yes, nowadays, I do get invited to a house for a “party” but its not the same. It feels more like we’re elitists corresponding over dinner and bottles of wine. There’s no more house parties where you’re meeting a bunch of strangers. There’s no more hosting house parties where you’re wondering, “who the fuck is that in my house playing beer pong?” (I held a couple of those in the mid 2000′s.) The best parties are ones that were an extended invite where you barely know anyone that’s there. I remember how my parents held parties in their 40′s and 50′s and it was so much more lively and energetic. The need to take a photo to put on Facebook has altered that.

 Block parties were a thing. Not only throughout my town for children, but in other towns for teenagers and adults. I remember going to one in Mahwah where an entire town house community threw a block party and everyone was running in and out of everyone’s houses. People were dancing in the streets. Liquor and pot were flowing and stinking up everything. And everyone was friendly and receiving--you didn’t have to live in that community to be invited to that event. Where are block parties like that now? We would go play billiards--there was such a thing as a pool hall then. We would go on walks just to get away from our homes and have in-depth conversations about life. We’d find dead-ended roads to smoke pot on. I used to love driving around when the weather would start to make its way towards a warmer climate, and play an upbeat song from my stereo, with the windows rolled down. I didn’t need a place to go. I could just enjoy being, and driving, with the wind knotting my stringy hair and the sun smoldering my legs. 

It trickles down to this inescapable feeling that over the last few years, we were not, and are not, really living. Everything is all about social media posting, taking selfies, being a celebrity and voice of the generation in some capacity, or any capacity that any individual can grab ahold of. Physical appearance and beauty has taken things to an insane measure with eyelash extensions, wigs, botox, heavy makeup and more things I’m probably unaware of becoming the norm. None of these statements are new streams of consciousness. I don’t deserve a high five for stating the obvious. I just can’t shake this feeling that as the human race, we are failing to enjoy being alive, in a tremendous amount of aspects. Besides lacking basic communication and abilities to live and experience each other wholly, we also do not experience anything else singularly and in entirety. 

There was a time you had to work for things. You made mixed CDs or mixed tapes for people you cared about. Discovering new music and performers was an art form. You’d have to catch a song on the radio, or a music video on television, or scope out and take a chance on an artist by purchasing an album at a record store. The thrill of the hunt is gone with resources like Spotify and Apple music, and with so much accessibility to so many artists, it in someways makes it more daunting to find the diamonds in the rough or those with innovative sounds. People watched movies or television shows without simultaneously being on their phone. (Most people couldn’t wait for their favorite show to air!) People went on vacation and stared at a sunset without feeling the need to snap a photo for an immediate publication. People went out on actual dates instead of meeting their date with all their friends at a club or only getting coffee for 45 minutes. People used to walk around a mall instead of ordering everything online. Shopping was an actual activity that involved your whole body as oppose to just your finger clicking a mouse, or your thumb hitting your phone. People would physically hold books, and turn pages, and smell that “book smell” instead of staring at a screen. People used to go over a friend’s house and not be on their phone. People used to go anywhere and not be on their phone. What the fuck is going to happen to our retinas in the coming years?

Now, in the town I was raised in, the roadways are crowded. 

I remember as a kid, staring out the window and watching local residents hop off the bus and walk down our road. Men carrying briefcases and sauntering off as if they were on a mission. There was a guy we called “army man” as he always was fully suited in a camouflage uniform, and marched back and forth daily on our block.  Cars would drive by, but it wouldn’t be an endless supply of them. Now, it’s endless.  There can be bumper-to bumper traffic on the road in that one-square mile town during certain hours. It’s rare to see people gallivanting the sidewalk today, unless it’s 3 am and they’re a townie staggering home annihilated from the local bar. Or they’re walking their dog, I suppose.

What I’m trying to say is this: I miss the simplicity of being in the moment. I don’t think we all need to mediate and take on yoga to understand how to do that. We just need to hold respect for all the incredible activities, people, experiences and memories we are gifted in this lifetime, and when you respect something, you pay attention to it. We need to pay attention to each other, and ourselves. The need to be alone and completely still became so abundantly clear on this stroll. I walked for an hour and a half. I looked at the houses. I noticed the trees that now had flowers sprouting with undeniable joy. I didn’t let anything cloud my mind except what wanted to swim to the surface. It was the best moment of my day, and given the absurd craziness we’re engulfed with now, quite possibly the best time of my week.

This virus outbreak--it’s terrifying. It’s plaguing not just our country, but the entire world. I cannot speak for how other countries live their day to day, but I can speak from my perspective, and it seems to me that we have run this world tired. It’s depleted, and can no longer rise from it’s crippling plunge. We take our offerings from Earth for granted. We take our gifts from God for granted. We take each other for granted. We now deem everything as urgent, and need everything to be so nonsensically fast. The deaths of those we love come across as a consequence of our actions. It is a wakeup call, and a call to action at that. And by action, I don’t mean make a post to create awareness--take action by literally changing and reverting ourselves back to a more minimalistic and simple way of life. Happiness shouldn’t stem from items, the ego or entrepreneurship--happiness derives from that indescribable satisfaction of doing nothing.  Of being. Of taking risks and reveling in the company of those whom you wish to keep.

I can’t visit my parents or my family dog, and I miss them. We are waiting to hear if a family friend has passed away from this virus. It is scary and sad to think it hit him so rapidly, and that he arrived at the hospital alone, and potentially died alone with no visitors and no one surrounding him.  This is a horrible catastrophe and I can’t understand the reasoning behind it. But I so want to believe that something beautiful will be built from this gloomy and discouraging time. I so want to believe that as people we have the power to take these ruins and make life more graceful and resplendent than it was before. 

Despite my wanting, it’s evident that we all need to.

Please stay safe. Prayers up. xo

[philaprint]

Threshold of Revelation: A Disabled Queer Killjoy on National Themes

By Bani Amor

"Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art." - Toni Morrison

I lay in a fetal-ish position on the floor of my little sister’s room, reaching beyond the tethers of immobilization for a pillow to slowly slide between my thighs. It feels like I’m stuffed in some invisible box or bound by powers only I can’t see and all I can really do is cradle my phone in my hands, so I open Twitter and see that the Senate has taken its first step in gutting the Affordable Care Act. I exhale - carefully, to avoid triggering the piercing pain radiating from the root of my spine - and think to myself, “That’s America. It’s just no country for the infirm,” a line from one of my all-time favorite plays, Angels In America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, before dropping my phone, the rough coils of the hideous pink carpet the only sight staring back at me now.

Seeing as surreal was the most-searched word of 2016, it’s clear that the collective experience of chaos demands a deeper inquiry into the nature of reality, one that lies at the center of one of the best scenes from Mike Nichols’ 2003 TV adaptation of Tony Kushner’s 1993 play about a group of people struggling with faith during the AIDS epidemic in Reagan-era New York, and it takes place in our protagonist’s dream. In it, Prior Walter applies stolen makeup to his face before a vanity to distract himself from the Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions forming on his flesh. But the reality of his condition tears into his dreamscape (“You know you’ve hit rock bottom when even drag is a drag,”) and with it, enters Harper, a Valium-addicted housewife in the middle of a hallucination, and together they discuss the insight that comes with being pushed to the margins of reality, but only after lamenting the limits of the imagination. See, a scene like this shouldn’t even exist. Aren’t killjoys cardinally opposed to the acts of dreaming and dissociation? (Asking for a friend.)

I binge the entire six-hour HBO special whenever the flare-ups of chronic illness keep me floor-ridden and there’s nothing to do but just cry and feel sorry for myself over the sad state of my corporeality and the hurdles to healing our ableist society props up, one after another, until they blur in the distance. Each time, I wonder why the blunt force of the horrors that Angels portrays comforts me, like the moment Prior semi-consoles a crying Harper, saying “I usually say ‘fuck the truth,’ but usually, the truth fucks you.” Maybe I’ve lost the ability to dream, because, as Harper says, “Imagination can’t create anything new.” There is no world in which I don’t feel the tingly choke of nerve damage in my hand and arm, the dull, non-stop ache in the entirety of my upper-right body, the constant stab in my lower back, cold and clear like a depressing winter sky; no world in which I’m not bipolar and dependent upon Medicaid for treatment. None in which HIV/AIDS doesn’t exist. Even in the dream realm. “The world - finite. Terribly, terribly,” Harper concludes.

Yet then again, the scene itself is a testament that reality and unreality aren’t binary domains. Prior apologizes to Harper for hosting such a depressing hallucination, to which she responds, “I can’t expect someone who’s really sick to entertain me.” He’s taken aback, wondering how she saw through his facade. “Oh, that happens. This is the very threshold of revelation sometimes; you can see things.” It reminded me of Junot Díaz’s essay on apocalypse just after Haiti was hit with that devastating earthquake in 2010, in which he quotes Roethke: “In a dark time, the eye begins to see,” before concluding on his own that “apocalypse is a darkness that gives us light.” It also reminded me of Toni Morrison’s essay on chaos published in The Nation just after George W. Bush won a second term as president, called No Place For Self-Pity, No Room For Fear, in which she writes, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work.” This has been re-circulating in light of Donald Trump’s election win, and it’s no wonder why. I don’t know what it’s like to be white and completely flabbergasted right now. I don’t know what it’s like to be my moms and feel continually betrayed by the country she immigrated to, don’t know what it’s like to be Black or Native American with Trump or without Trump. I just know that I went to work.

The racialization of light vs. darkness as metaphor is being subverted right at this political moment, when white people have gotten themselves into such deep shit that they turn to Black saviors to fix it all, when they’re terrified of being plunged into a darkness so total that they can’t conceive of living through it, because they are ill-equipped to live lives without the concept of Hope™. It takes from ten minutes to several hours for a human’s eyes to adjust to the dark but for some, it’s been centuries. This couldn’t be more evident in Angels in America, whose only non-white and most femme character, Belize, seems to hold all the answers to the problems of the fledgling white gay men orbiting him. At the funeral for a Black drag legend, Prior is morose as hell, dressed in all-black, while Belize is outfitted in sparkly, colorful fabrics, singing along with the choir. Throughout the mini-series, the white characters are scattering to contend with the apocalypse while Belize just lives his life, his back turned to Central Park’s Angel of Bethesda water fountain while rain pours over him in a pivotal scene, declaring with a dead stare, “I hate America.”

In another central scene, Prior’s ex Louis is whitesplaining American racial politics in a breakneck rant to Belize as he shifts uncomfortably across from him in the corner booth of a Manhattan diner. A depressing winter sky hangs above them. The actors portraying these characters are straight men - a junior Ben Shenkman facing off against the seasoned prowess of Jeffrey Knight. “Ultimately, race here is a political question. Racists just try to use race here as a tool in a political struggle - it’s not really about race,” Louis says. “There are no angels in America, no spiritual past, no racial past, there’s only the political.” Belize then calls Louis’s little speech “racist bullshit” and his response is immediate: “I. Am. Not. A. Racist. So maybe I am a racist.” He barely breathes between the two statements. He is white liberal guilt personified and performed. I wonder what has changed and the answer comes to me once Angels ends.

In the play, the TV adaptation and in the United States at large, the face of HIV/AIDS is a white middle-class gay man. Watching it, I - a low-income disabled queer gender-nonconforming person of color - have so many questions, like how Prior can afford his endless stream of meds, how he can afford not to work and live alone in the West Village; how he avoids being discriminated against within the medical complex. While we collectively watch the dismembering of the Affordable Care Act, a piece of legislation that was insufficient in a healthcare system that’s world-renowned for its lack of humanity, in 2017, the face of disability is white. The face of “the LGBT community” is white. But how can the face of HIV/AIDS possibly remain white, over three decades after its outbreak in the US, despite all evidence to the contrary? To quote Shernell “Toni” Sells of the South Carolina HIV/AIDS Council, “You know back in the day, they used to say this is a white gay disease?” she asked a Black female patient in the 2015 documentary Wilhemina’s War, shaking her head. “Guess who the face of HIV is now? Me and you.” I wonder if the white disabled and “LGBT” communities see Black southerners, women and queer people in particular, as the face, or even a part, of their movements; of their work to save ACA.

It did not take a Trump presidency for me to realize that my enemy sees me more than my purported ally ever will. I was just a tween when my moms begged a white man in a Florida Medicaid office for coverage for her three children. The eldest in a wheelchair, having grown up in hood hospitals, the middle one institutionalized for a suicide attempt, the baby suffering epileptic seizures that would leave her with irreversible brain damage. He robotically denied her as she openly cried.

That’s America. It’s just no country for the infirm.

https://www.philadelphiaprintworks.com/blogs/news/threshold-of-revelation-a-disabled-queer-killjoy-on-national-themes

[lifeonashelf]

CINDERELLA

It is one a.m. A massive explosion has just ignited mere yards from my apartment. Thunderous, powerful, disturbing. The sonic shockwave of the blast pierces my ears, rattles my windows, makes my balcony physically shudder beneath my feet. Off in the distance, I hear a cannonade, seemingly endless sonorous reports at various sites on the horizon. Mingling with these, there is also an inharmonious descant of smaller discharges, sustained staccato pops that ring out in the night like the deadly buzzing of machine guns. The sky is full of shrapnel that has been launched into the air, and my rudimentary understanding of physics tells me that what goes up must surely come down somewhere. I am not a praying man, but I nevertheless conjure a silent thought in my head and do my best to beam it into the universe, hoping that none of this fiery flak touches down on my roof to trigger a conflagration. Long moments pass and the discordant, jarring cacophony does not abate—more explosions, more gunfire salvos. Another hugely loud boom rings out, this one the closest yet, so close that I can see the light of its discharge dancing on the side of the building across from mine. It sounds as if I am sitting in the epicenter of a warzone. It sounds like a nightmare. It sounds like the end of the fucking world.

It’s not the end of the world, though. It is the 4th Of July. Which naturally means that all throughout my neighborhood, packs of heavily-intoxicated alpha males are “celebrating” how awesome our country is, in the most traditionally American way possible: by detonating a shitload of cheap and dangerous explosives made in Mexico.

And that’s not even the ironic part. The really ironic part is that these discourteous douchebags are commemorating the day our ancestors declared independence from a tyrannical king and the imposition of Christian doctrine, in 2018—a year in which we are presently ruled by a tyrant who is actively striving to expunge every safeguard that will prohibit him from occupying his dominion for life, and a cadre of puritanical legislators who are actively rewriting our laws in accordance with their selective interpretations of Christian doctrine.

Of course, like our forefathers, we are taking bold and decisive action against despotism. We’re posting memes on Facebook like crazy, for one, a strategy which I imagine will eventually get a whole lot of stuff accomplished. We’re also rising up and marching, showing solidarity, letting our fascist-in-chief know we won’t stand idle while women and people of color are being treated as marginal citizens and children who come to this country seeking asylum are being detained in concentration camps. And since July 4 is the linchpin of our freedom, the one day which all of us have agreed upon as an occasion to unite as a nation and show the world, and each other, what America really stands for… Well, it stands to reason that in this critical annum of 2018, while our noble democratic experiment is enmeshed in the most dire jeopardy it has ever faced, we are presented with a golden opportunity to make our grandest statement yet, to stand in defiance of the current status quo and announce to those who seek to subjugate us that we are not credulous automatons who will simply lay down and allow ourselves to be crushed under the wheels of the machine. This year, truly—as Bill Pullman said in that movie where Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum beat up a bunch of aliens—we celebrate our Independence Day…

Nah, not so much. We were too busy attending barbecues and having parades and drinking beer and blowing shit up today. But in our defense—from the sound of things outside my apartment—we bought waaaaaaaaay more Mexican-made explosives than ever this year.  

This is ‘Murica. And right now, America sucks.

Given the statements I made in my introductory paragraphs, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of fireworks. And given the statement that comprised the last paragraph, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of America these days, either. (I do love that the principles of this land still allow me the freedom to type the words “America sucks”—although, if the bridge-troll in charge at the moment has anything to say about it, that probably won’t be the case for long). There are those who will read my proclamation and issue some sort of gut-check response like, “if you don’t love America, then git the hell out.” To which I say: 1) fuck you, because that brand of idiotic nationalistic rhetoric is precisely why we’re in this mess to begin with, and 2) if you honestly can’t comprehend how someone who has lived in this country for the past forty years could find so much to loathe about its contemporary state of affairs that they would profess to loathe the nation’s prevailing identity as a whole, then I would strongly recommend opening your eyes to what’s crashing down around you because your willful ignorance of just how fucked this place is right now is a far bigger concern than anything I could possibly write.

Then I would ask you a question: Why are you still so stoked about America? Okay, two questions: Is your ardor based on any measured assessment of what this country stands for now, or are you simply rah-rah-ing the home-team? Most of my educated acquaintances would likely answer with some variation of the standard “it may not be perfect, but it’s still the best nation in the world” reply. Which is a perfectly acceptable response… Except it’s simply not fucking true. Because America is not the best at anything anymore. We lead the globe in mass shootings and shitty hip-hop artists with face tattoos, and that’s about it.

So under what criteria is America “the best”? I’m not posing that question in the spirit of communism, I’m posing it in the spirit of pragmatism. Because, lord knows, I DON’T WANT TO FEEL THIS WAY. But it’s goddamn difficult not to when every single day I see more and more increasingly abhorrent events unfolding on the news, I see a vile cackling shithead mocking all of us from his ivory throne while he assaults every trace of common decency we had left just like he has assaulted women his entire life, and I don’t see a single ray of light on the horizon. My heart isn’t broken, it hasn’t stopped beating, it has simply filled to the brim with disgust—viscous, black, oozing, poisonous disgust. And I am drowning in it. I am disgusted by Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single person who voted for Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single corrupt sycophant in his party who facilitates his evil machinations. I am disgusted by every single person I see wearing t-shirts with images of AR-15’s emblazoned on them. I am disgusted by every single asshole who is still exploding M-100’s in my neighborhood even though it is now 3 a.m. And while there is plenty of overlap in each of those categories, if you added up all of those people, they comprise about half the voting population of The United States. We’ve already discussed how much I despise math, but even with my limited grasp of arithmetic, this seems to suggest that roughly 50% of Americans are abominable, racist, ignorant, and/or fundamentally stupid. So, I return to an expanded version of the question at the top of this paragraph: How can any country where this is the case possibly be “the best”?

Make no mistake, Donald Trump did not create our present debacle. Sure, he’s the pus-dribbling herpe at the tip of this diseased penis, so it’s easy to erroneously label him the culprit. But no matter what medicine you apply to that sore, the virus remains. People voted for him. LOTS of people. Lots of Americans. If any evidence was required to demonstrate that our democratic structure has massive systemic problems, there you have it. I understand that we as a nation aren’t necessarily defined by our President, who merely serves as a temporary figurehead—even if this particular figurehead embodies the most horrific symbol imaginable of our national paradigm: an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody; Donald Trump represents the espoused virtues of America about as well as Jaws represents the gentleness of marine life. However, let me repeat: he is the President because millions of Americans voted for him. And they did so despite the fact that his being an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody was not only common knowledge but something he openly boasted about. So, not to belabor a point, but this alleged “greatest country in the world” is comprised of millions and millions of individuals who think these are desirable qualities for the person who controls the largest stockpile of nuclear weapons on the planet to have. This alleged “greatest country in world” is also home to multitudes of people who have indicated they would vote for Kanye West if that megalomaniacal psychopath ran for President. Clearly, the masses who ultimately chart the course of this nation are not intelligent enough to make any decision with such weighty consequences. And this is why we can’t have nice things.

Yet so many among us still cling to time-honored fallacies about our superiority. To them, America is like The Beatles—unassailable, immune to criticism. To them, it’s just blindly accepted that America is the world’s zenith. So pass the fireworks and don’t tread on me, motherfucker.

And maybe that’s a big part of the problem. Maybe too many of us have been impetuously clinging to this tarnished ideal, clutching our flags to our proud red-white-and-blue bleeding hearts, oblivious to the feces smeared all over the fabric. We still think we’re Let It Be, even though the music we’re making these days sounds a lot more like Ringo Starr’s solo albums. So maybe, just maybe, it’s time to accept the sad reality that our magic moment has passed, that Yoko has sapped the soul of our foundation and torn us apart from within. Then maybe we’ll start caring enough to actually fucking do something about it.

Hey, the dudes up the street are. Two more roaring explosions just resounded across the blue-black firmament. It is 4:14 a.m. It’s never too late to celebrate America, apparently.

But this isn’t what you want to read about right now, is it? I suppose you saw the header of this piece and assumed I was going to write some eloquent, reflective treatise about the band Cinderella. Well, I cannot. And it’s not just because despite my overly generous appreciation for the hairspray hard-rock of my youth, Cinderella’s limited charms place them in the bottom tier of those outfits. Even their very best song, “Nobody’s Fool”, exists squarely in the middle of the road—it’s neither great nor awful, it’s just sort of… there. Tom Keifer does a decent impression of AC/DC’s Brian Johnson, and the Night Songs disc I’m listening to right now is enjoyable enough for me to accede that Cinderella was probably a better band than Bang Tango, but those merits are woefully inadequate to justify my writing anything of substance about them.

And even worse: I can’t write anything of substance about our country’s dismal state of affairs, either.  I have no solutions to offer, no wisdom to impart. I am merely a broken man sitting at his laptop trying to make sense of the madness suffusing the world around him. And here’s the worst part of the even worse part: all of it, every insane and malevolent thing that is happening to us right now, makes absolute sense to me. I told everyone close to me that Donald Trump was going to win this past election as soon as he announced his candidacy, a prediction which was roundly scoffed at by the smartest people I know. Being right doesn’t make me a soothsayer or a political genius, it simply makes me an overanxious pessimist who has been gauging the very worst in humanity long enough to assume that the very worst thing which can happen in any situation where humanity is involved is more likely than not the thing that is going to happen. Therefore, it was only natural for me to assume that Trump was going to happen.

Whether we like it or not—and this is the thing we’re going to have to accept about the modern American identity if we ever want to make the situation any better—the ethos of Donald Trump’s reality-show sensationalism epitomizes more Americans than the ethos of an arrogant professional shrew in a pant-suit does. The reasons I voted for Hillary Clinton had nothing to do with her dogma speaking to me and touching my soul and igniting a spark of patriotism in my heart—no, those were the reasons I voted for Barack Obama twice. I actively revile Hillary Clinton; I just revile her a whole lot less than I revile Donald Trump. I wasn’t With Her, I was merely Against Him. And I was not alone in this perspective. And I think this is rather emblematic of the broad-spectrum mediocrity and complacency which is inherent in present-day America: legions of the best among us were willing to embrace a patently unexceptional figurehead simply because she wasn’t as bad as the alternative. We didn’t demand the best possible representative of our values, we were prepared to settle for someone who obfuscated her shadiest tenets instead of flaunting them as selling points like her opponent did. “Good enough” was good enough for us. But being a better candidate than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives did not make Hillary Clinton the best candidate. Any more than being a better republic than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives makes America the best country.

No, I am not especially proud to be an American. Especially not at the moment. Why should I be? My nationality is not a product of any extraordinary accomplishment on my part, it is a product of my being lucky enough to be sired by parents whose ancestors managed to slip across the border before ICE existed. I’m certainly not saying I hate America—it’s where I live, it’s where my friends and family live, and it’s where my record collection lives; it has some appealing qualities. Yet espousing our nation’s superiority while disregarding its numerous and glaring failings is a lot like rooting for the New England Patriots despite their legacy of cheating and dishonor because they win more games than they lose. Donald Trump didn’t invent corruption and atrocity; America has a long history of both, one which we conveniently discount while championing its greatness. But here’s the thing there: we treat those unpleasant facets of our bygone chronicle as if they are challenges we have overcome, as if we have somehow evolved past them. Yet, if there’s any salient wisdom to be gleaned from the events of the past two years, it is that we as a society have not actually progressed as much as we claim. How dare we assert our enlightenment when we still live in a land where a man can rape an unconscious woman with a foreign object in an alleyway and be virtually immune to punishment because his white scholar-athlete eminence is hoisted as an exemplar of the American ideal. How dare we claim to be the best at anything when first-world nations around the globe continue eclipsing our finest accomplishments while we’re busy playing Democrats vs. Republicans, battling each other like boorish Neanderthal contestants on the same sort of trash television programs which launched our current President to notoriety.

Trump’s ascendency has legitimized his most repugnant traits and demonstrated that there is a vast and ravenous fan-base for cruelty among our populace. It has proven this country is laden with people devoid of empathy, callous budding sociopaths who were just waiting for someone to come along and tell them that their deep-seeded bigotries and intolerances are venerable assets. Which is why simply removing one fiend from office will not be enough to pull us out of our extant quagmire. That resolution will be like remedying our slit throats with kisses from our mamas—it may feel good for a moment, but it will not suture our wounds. Because America has been hemorrhaging for a very long time and we have chosen to ignore that. Donald Trump merely rubbed that blood over all of our faces for the world to see.  

If you’re proud to be an American, that’s just fine. But what are you so proud of right now? It seems to me that anyone who truly loves this country should want it to be the very best it can be. And it seems to me that the first step toward achieving that is acknowledging that the American essence needed drastic and sweeping improvements well before Der Fuhrer took office. It’s time for us to admit that we are not the greatest country in the world; such a contention only rings as superciliousness at this juncture, in light of the all the evidence to the contrary. Because as long as a maestro with absolutely zero redeeming qualities is orchestrating our symphony, we need to account for the pandemic narrowness among the citizenry who handed him the baton. The time has come to concede that a body riddled with cancerous cells cannot possibly be the healthiest. And to ask ourselves what redeeming qualities we have left—what can we possibly stand for��when enough of us decided that an unprincipled monster represented our nation’s spirit to put one at the helm. Then, and only then, can we begin to cure our sickness.

Okay, here’s how we fix everything…

Nope. I told you, I have no answers for you. Because a large and terrified part of me suspects we may have already cued the band to play our funeral march the moment that diminutive orange hand touched a Bible and sealed the oath that made him the global symbol of what America represents in 2018. And this absolutely fucking devastates me. I may not adore this country at present, but of course I want to it to survive. Because if it does, maybe there’s a chance we can eventually make it the greatest country in the world for real.

For now, everyone I know is resolving to hold on tightly to the masts until the storm passes and the great vessel stops listing. Regrettably, I think there’s a very strong chance our ship will sink before that happens. Regrettably, perhaps it already has. I’m not sure there’s any coming back from the path we’re on now, if this much damage can ever be undone. I’d love to say I’m hopeful, but most of my “Hope” went away when the singularly kind and inspiring man who delivered that slogan did.

That’s why I wasn’t out watching others wave sulphuric pom-poms in the sky to rejoice in the majesty of America tonight. I was huddled inside my apartment, seeking shelter from the onslaught, listening to the terrible sounds of the world exploding around me and knowing I was utterly powerless to stop it, desperately wishing the trauma would end and hoping that when the new dawn finally came my home would not lie in ruins.

After all, it’s 2018. That was the most appropriate American experience I could think of.  

 July 4, 2018