The White Peril 白禍

If there are any managers of housewares departments reading, may I ask you a favor? When hiring men, please make sure they're queens.

Straight men are great--my very own father is a straight man, and I just love and respect him to pieces--and there are plenty of roles they can fulfill in society that constitute a real contribution. Just not when they're supposed to be selling you vases, endtables, or curtains.

I thought I was going to end up making this guy cry yesterday by asking whether he could measure the depth of a vase for me. You know, I wanted to buy flowers for it on the way home, and I needed to know how long the stems had to be without unpacking it right there at the flower shop. (You can eyeball these things sometimes, but it can be tough to gauge how thick the bottom of something is.) If the flowers are too short, they have to be entirely defoliated and end up looking as if they were being garroted, which isn't a pleasing decorative effect unless you happen to live in a dungeon, and maybe not even then. The more I tried to explain this, the more traumatized he looked. By the time the ordeal was over (the first vase got marred when they tried to scrape off the brand label for me, so they had to bring a second one out of the stockroom--yet more agitated activity for one of these foreigners with their strange requests), I was feeling traumatized myself.

*******

Luckily, one of my friends was back from a week home in Australia, so we went out for a restorative drink and catch-up. Less luckily, just as the vase encounter had blissfully slipped from the memory, I was beset by two guys who had been talking and flirting with my buddy.

It was the usual round of questions: How long have you been here? Where are you from? Oh, and where did you grow up? Oh, where on the East Coast? Pennsylvania? Where in Pennsylvania? Oh. Well, then, where on the Philadelphia end of the state?

At this point, I know I'm in for it. Long draught of vodka. Sigh. "From just outside Allentown."

One beat. Two beats.

Oh! You mean like the Billy Joel song?

Now, that everyone I will ever meet in my entire life will respond to the mention of Allentown with that exact sentence is a harsh reality to which I have long been inured. That everyone seems to think he's the first to think of it also doesn't bother me--we're all less original than we like to imagine we are.

But rarely do two people utter it at the same time.

And then start singing the song at me in stereo.

My buddy, who's seen this conversation and my wearied reaction many times before, stifled an uncharitable chuckle and excused himself to go to the toilet. (Bitch. I'll remember that.) Fortunately for me, another friend, one who actually understands the meaning of loyalty, was on my other side. At the first opportunity, he commandeered my empty glass and waved one of the bar guys over. "Oh, darling--not just the Allentown comment, but impromptu karaoke as well? I saw your fist clenching and unclenching--just be glad it's over now and relax and drink this."

*******

And while I'm mewling, why do delivery services find it necessary to play head games with you? Tokyu Hands originally told me my latest acquisitions could be delivered between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m., but that I'd be called with a more exact time this morning. Fine. I get a call at 8:30: "I'll be arriving at your place between 11:00 and 13:00." Okay. At least that's a reasonably narrow range.

At 10:30 I'm getting ready to get in the shower so I can be out, dressed, and maquillage-èd by the time the guy comes. (Just because I want to be able to leave for work right after receiving my delivery, not for the other reason that may occur to the image-conscious gay mind. Japan must be the only country on Earth without hot delivery men and construction workers.) My keitai rings. "Hi! It's XX from Tokyu Hands. I'm at your building in less than five minutes." Granted that being early is better than making you wait around endlessly, I was just lucky I hadn't decided to go out and run some errands under the assumption that it would be okay to be back at my apartment by 10:55 or so. (I've done so before with unpleasant results.)

On the bright side, the apartment is nearing completion.

Wendy Kaminer has a column in Opinion Journal about the ACLU's increasing political slant, visible more through omission than through commission. The shift is bad enough simply because it's a corruption of the organization's supposed mission, but it has the nasty side-effect of playing into the sort of condescending gays-are-emotionally-frail-and-need-to-be-shielded-from-hostility malarkey that's a real impediment to progress:

[I]n 2004, when Tyler Chase Harper was disciplined for wearing a T-shirt declaring his religious objections to homosexuality, civil libertarians might have expected the ACLU to protest loudly. Mr. Harper was barred from attending classes when he wore the antigay T-shirt to school on an official "Day of Silence," when gay students taped their mouths to symbolize the silencing effect of intolerance. Represented by the Alliance Defense Fund, he sued the school district. That same year, the ACLU initiated the first of two actions against a Missouri school that punished students for wearing "gay supportive T-shirts," eventually securing a promise from the school to "stop censoring," the ACLU Web site boasts. Mr. Harper, however, was unsuccessful in his quest to stop school censorship. In a patronizing, antilibertarian decision in which Judge Stephen Reinhardt stressed the imagined feelings of gay students, the Ninth Circuit rejected Mr. Harper's First Amendment claims. (There was a sharp dissent from Judge Alex Kozinski.)

Perhaps the ACLU was observing its own prolonged Day of Silence, because, while it pays close attention to federal appellate court decisions on civil liberties, it effectively ignored this terrible precedent, even when Mr. Harper appealed to the Supreme Court. The Court dismissed the case as moot because Mr. Harper had graduated but took the unusual step of vacating the decision so that it no longer exists as precedent (no thanks to the ACLU).

Yeah, I'm focusing on the gay thing because it's a pet peeve of mine, but Kaminer has more on the Muhammed cartoons and counseling related to abortion. None of it's really news, but it's disturbing to see it all laid out together and coherently.

In better news, Kaminer is one of the bloggers at thefreeforall.net. Good reading if you were won over by the likes of I'm Dysfunctional, You're Dysfunctional.

While we're on the subject of blame-shifting losers, I may as well point out that James Kirchick at IGF has a very good piece on why James McGreevey should be excommunicated from gay community life. Yes, the point has been made already, but gay leaders keep feting the guy, so it bears repeating:

There are millions of gay people in this country. Most of us are not as politically powerful and connected as Jim McGreevey once was. We work hard, pay our taxes, put up with discrimination, and, I'd like to think, if we ever get caught doing something wrong, do not rashly blame our fate on an inability to deal with sexual orientation. But Jim McGreevey was too much of a coward to admit that what he did was just plain wrong and that he was entirely to blame for his misfortune.

The world is unfair to gay people and the higher rates of suicide, depression and personally destructive behavior amongst gays, especially gay men, has a great deal to do with external homophobia. But let there be no mistake: McGreevey was forced to resign because he was a corrupt politician who shared more in common with the men in his administration now serving time in jail than he would care to believe.

Rather than own up to his abuse of office, McGreevey conflated his political corruption with his own struggles as a gay man. In so doing, he lent credence to the ignorant meme peddled by conservatives that gays are emotionally unstable and shifty people who cannot be trusted as individuals, never mind as public servants.

America loves a redemption story; ace image manipulators like McGreevey and Stephen Glass know that. Unfortunately for them, there's a fly in the ointment: To pitch yourself as shriven and reborn, you have to be able to admit to wrongdoing. For some people, that's an unbearable prospect. So they end up twisting themselves into moral-ethical pretzels along the lines of, "Oh, my, yes...I totally betrayed the trust of people close to me, people who counted on me to fulfill my responsibilities. I'm just sick with guilt. But, you see, I wasn't quite myself at the time...it was all the pressure...the pressure...so, uh, you do love me again, right?"