#fuck I hope all my fellow trans bitches make out with me in the pit

[ezratheunready]

It seems as if every single prayer I’ve ever made has been answered because Is dunes is doing 5 shows in the Midwest. in the MID FUCKING WEST AND ONE IN the STATE I live in?!?! I’m going to explode! Midwestern/rural Nj-post-hardcore fans finally getting a crumbs.

They are doing a show at the midsize venue I frequented in high school!!! I’m going to sob.

It’s like the Wild West of midsize venues I’m gonna die and be so happy about it.

[saintorr]

“Gentrification Genocide” Three scenes (as to be published in R. Roth’s “And Then” 2018)

I.  Having survived AIDS, a gay-bashing, 9-11, Sandy and an endless stream of trickster, horny-queens posing as no-show clients, I reflect; will this latest wave of too-close-for-comfort gentrification be my own, personal, genocidal Swan Song? Tonight, while riding my bike like a crazed, clowning pterodactyl, I found myself breathily imitating the sound of a very feminized bicycle bell. “Ding-ding” one moment, and the next, screaming like a crazed banshee at a female pedestrian dressed in black as she is mindlessly stepping directly into my on-coming path. My crazed battle-cry makes her stop bunglingly in her tracks; her oral addiction to her mobile device unforgivingly interrupted. Indignantly, she screams “Oh my God!” in a belting, bleating voice tinged with a Valley-girl accent. This happens just off 7th Street and First Avenue. I pedal on gleefully, half ashamed for my acting out, and half empowered and self-congratulatory for my anarchistic, bad-boy tendencies. I’m hoping and praying that maybe, said jay-walker is one of the new billionaire zombies inhabiting the crystal cardboard and colorless tag-team duo of buildings that went on the market last fall. They are located on Avenue A between 6th and 7th Streets; or perhaps she's a new resident of the renovated and reconverted Shul just four doors west of my man cave. Oh, you know, that confusing condo-synagogue; that half place-of-worship, half billionaire-broken-hearted-haunt of the ghost of the big Rabbi; the one survived by his swarmy, conniving, snake-eyed son, also named Sandy.

 II. In the morning, do not fear, I tell myself, for those monstrous explosions are merely the renovation of the deceased artist De Maria’s former studio. Semi-formerly a Con-Ed substation, the building is currently being magically and noisily transformed into a private museum for one Mr. Brant, the new billionaire owner. Ordinary neighborhood citizens will not be allowed access to the beatific garden growing between 421 East 6th Street, and cutting straight through to East 7th, like a slender, cold, fish knife slicing through a newborn babe’s beating heart, nor will they be allowed into the private storage space where priceless, modern (and most-likely insipid) works of art will be hidden away. Here will be housed Brant’s sacred treasures of the inner sanctum; here in this great, tall, glass-walled chapel of a structure, art will dwell. Rich man’s art, available only for private viewing to the coterie of fellow billionaires, stars and their kingly cronies. Cannibalize yourselves, you lowly 99%, suffer the noise! Let the new money frighten away the former spirit guides and the friendly semi-wild gypsy cats that once played, sang and danced along and in between these semi-lit row houses of tenements, filled with the ghosts of beer and dreams and young strains of fading songwriters’ guitars and falling-in-love-with-the-moonbeam-dreams and rainy-days-and-Sundays of East Village hungry-hearts and shadow leather lovers. Monsieur Brant wanted a location and tax-write off that was “creative”, so here we are! Oh you poor 99%, you starving nothings, yes, you may die of noise, entitlement and achingly tight ass-holeism when the chic parties start and the drones and the helicopters and the limousines start arriving with darling, parasitic models and the zombie-hungry, spoiled-cool, hipster billionaires and their cold, cold parents but oh! Just look how your property values are increasing!

 With every chiseled BOOM BOOM of chards detaching and jagged, dusty, broken bricks flinging, the work crew of flying monkeys is tossing all, all into the the BOOMING maw of the dumpster from hell (it must be half a block wide). Then comes the skeletal, fire-cracking, whacking-snapping chorus of never-ending jackhammers (often five at once), for this is a war of money over time, fought, won and played out by short, trollish billionaires with crooked smiles and hawk-like noses. For WE THE PEOPLE are obsolete and irrelevant; WE THE PEOPLE are little better than charming old engines, White slave labor, memories of America’s fragmented, shrunken middle class; now addicted to crack, Walmart, Nikes and digitized Disney dreams of “Searching for Dory”. WE THE PEOPLE are better forgotten, better disposed of, better buried by the Trumps, so the young, rich litters of billionaire spawn can play here anew, can fling themselves into their endless selfie-cesspools of Chai lattes, tropical banana and protein powder smoothies, funny French black bulldogs named Lucy and lovely, decadent, divinely narcissistic empty and burning consumeristic dreams of pretension and nothingness. In short, WE THE PEOPLE are poor, inconsequential, invisible and don’t matter.

 III.  As a matter of fact, Medicaid was specifically created to hasten us to an early grave. Those of us that weren’t exterminated by the first or second waves of gentrification genocide will surely spill into the trenches or be forced to emigrate now with this new third and greatest wave. Someone once said “We don’t know how good we have it.” “We don’t’ know how good we have it” I repeat as I am having a nervous breakdown trying to make an appointment, trying to get a referral from my (formerly organized, now Trans-dystopian) community healthcare clinic where only Trans people now matter; for, besides the billionaires, they are also the new co-masters-of-the-race, everyone else is irrelevant. I’m trying to make an appointment, for this back pain’s made every other step excruciating for three months now, all through the holidays (the wine helped, sometimes the sex). “No, Goddammit I don’t NEED ESTROGEN! FUCK YOUR ESTROGEN AND YOUR PHONE MENU AND YOUR INSTRUCTIONS TO CALL 9-1-1 IF THIS IS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY!” One of the patient associates who handles referrals, Martino, a vicious, little queen with bitchy glee is quoting too-fast and meaningless policies at me like cream pies. The next confusing day (nervous breakdown number two due to my inane, continuing efforts to make an appointment hoping for an end to my seemingly endless saga of back pain) I am connected with a manager named Stephanie. Is cisgen, transgen genderqueer, genderfluid, or something else? Dare I ask and be reported for inappropriate behavior? Stephanie pulls no punches and begins to attack and berate me for my wholly unfriendly, hostile, and homophobic language, for I made the mistake of referring to the "vicious queen? of yesterday’s quoting policies-to-me-episode.  “This is Callen Lorde” she proclaims, like a punitive, fixed, female, pit-bull cop, “You should know better!” Her raw, neuter, Bougie-Bitch delivery strips me bare, exposing me for all the bisexual silliness and tendencies toward anarchistic prostitution and polymorphously, pleasure-seeking perversity that I am; that I inhabit and display, for this is the magical stuff that makes me me. Imagine her, lambasting my essence! I have an allergy to anyone that coldly ignores and debases men only for being men. Why do some females act like raging amazon warriors slicing through the air, waving their clitorises like sharpened bayonets; so ready with a threat or an admonishment over any microscopic drop of incorrect language or innuendo that happens to ejaculate, albeit casually, from any MAN’S mouth merely for the sake of jest? For we all know men are not innocent; especially older white ones who protest the the stinging swipe of the feminist’s cattle prod. Still, I refuse to go gently into that “older-white-male-former-slaveowner’s-guilty-place night”.

[saintorr]

“Gentrification Genocide” Four scenes

c. 2017 by Steven Orr

 I.  Having survived AIDS, a gay-bashing, 9-11, Sandy and an endless stream of trickster, horny-queens posing as no-show clients, I reflect; will this latest wave of too-close-for-comfort gentrification be my own, personal, genocidal Swan Song? Tonight, while riding my bike like a crazed, clowning pterodactyl, I found myself breathily imitating the sound of a very feminized bicycle bell. “Ding-ding” one moment, and the next, screaming like a crazed banshee at a female pedestrian dressed in black as she is mindlessly stepping directly into my on-coming path. My crazed battle-cry makes her stop bunglingly in her tracks; her oral addiction to her mobile device unforgivingly interrupted. Indignantly, she screams “Oh my God!” in a belting, bleating voice tinged with a Valley-girl accent. This happens just off 7th Street and First Avenue. I pedal on gleefully, half ashamed for my acting out, and half empowered and self-congratulatory for my anarchistic, bad-boy tendencies. I’m hoping and praying that maybe, said jay-walker is one of the new billionaire zombies inhabiting the crystal cardboard and colorless tag-team duo of buildings that went on the market last fall. They are located on Avenue A between 6th and 7th Streets; or perhaps she's a new resident of the renovated and reconverted Shul just four doors west of my man cave. Oh, you know, that confusing condo-synagogue; that half place-of-worship, half billionaire-broken-hearted-haunt of the ghost of the big Rabbi who is survived by his swarmy, conniving, snake-eyed son, also named Sandy.

 II. In the morning, do not fear, I tell myself, for those monstrous explosions are merely the renovation of the deceased artist De Maria’s former studio. Formerly a Con-Ed substation, the building is currently being magically and noisily transformed into a private museum for one Mr. Brant, the new billionaire owner. Ordinary neighborhood citizens will not be allowed access to the beatific garden growing between 421 East 6th Street, and cutting straight through to East 7th, like a slender, cold, fish knife slicing through a newborn babe’s beating heart, nor will they be allowed into the private storage space where priceless, modern (and most-likely insipid) works of art will be hidden away. Here will be housed Brant’s sacred treasures of the inner sanctum; here in this great, tall, glass-walled chapel of a structure, art will dwell. Rich man’s art, available only for private viewing to the coterie of fellow billionaires, stars and their kingly cronies. Cannibalize yourselves, you lowly 99%, suffer the noise! Let the new money frighten away the former spirit guides and the friendly semi-wild gypsy cats that once played, sang and danced along and in between these semi-lit row houses of tenements, filled with the ghosts of beer and dreams and young strains of fading songwriters’ guitars and falling-in-love-with-the-moonbeam-dreams and rainy-days-and-Sundays of East Village hungry-hearts and shadow leather lovers. Monsieur Brant wanted a location and tax-write off that was “creative”, so here we are! Oh you poor 99%, you starving nothings, yes, you may die of noise, entitlement and achingly tight assholeism when the chic parties start and the drones and the helicopters and the limousines start arriving with darling, parasitic models and the zombie-hungry, spoiled-cool, hipster billionaires and their cold, cold parents but oh! Just look how your property values are increasing! With every chiseled BOOM BOOM of chards detaching and jagged, dusty, broken bricks flinging, the work crew of flying monkeys is tossing all, all into the the BOOMING maw of the dumpster from hell (it must be half a block wide). Then comes the skeletal, fire-cracking, whacking-snapping chorus of never-ending jackhammers (often five at once), for this is a war of money over time, fought, won and played out by short, trollish billionaires with crooked smiles and hawk-like noses. For WE THE PEOPLE are obsolete and irrelevant; WE THE PEOPLE are little better than charming old engines, White slave labor, memories of America’s fragmented, shrunken middle class; now addicted to crack, Walmart, Nikes and digitized Disney dreams of “Searching for Dory”. WE THE PEOPLE, better forgotten, better disposed of, better buried by the Trumps, so the young, rich litters of billionaire spawn can play here anew, can fling themselves into their endless selfie-cesspools of Chai lattes, tropical banana and protein powder smoothies, funny French black bulldogs named Lucy and lovely, decadent, divinely narcissistic empty and burning consumeristic dreams of pretension and nothingness. In short, WE THE PEOPLE are poor, inconsequential, invisible and don’t matter anymore.

 III.  As a matter of fact, Medicaid was specifically created to hasten us to an early grave. Those of us that weren’t exterminated by the first or second waves of gentrification genocide will surely spill into the trenches or be forced to emigrate now with this new third and biggest wave. Someone once said “We don’t know how good we have it.” “We don’t’ know how good we have it” I repeat as I am having a nervous breakdown trying to make an appointment, trying to get a referral from my (formerly organized, now Trans-dystopian) community healthcare clinic where only Trans people matter now; for, besides the billionaires, they are the new co-masters-of-the-race, everyone else is irrelevant. I’m trying to make an appointment,  

for this back pain’s made every other step excruciating for three months now, all through the holidays (the wine helped, sometimes the sex). “No, Goddammit I don’t NEED ESTROGEN! FUCK YOUR ESTROGEN AND YOUR PHONE MENU AND YOUR INSTRUCTIONS TO CALL 9-1-1 IF THIS IS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY!” One of the patient associates who handles referrals, Martino, a vicious, little queen with bitchy glee is quoting too-fast and meaningless policies at me like cream pies. The next confusing day (nervous breakdown number two due to my inane, continuing efforts to make an appointment for treatment of this seemingly endless back pain) I am connected with a manager named Stephanie. What sex is she I wonder? Dare I ask and be reported for inappropriate behavior? Stephanie pulls no punches and begins to attack and berate me for my wholly unfriendly, hostile and homophobic language, for I made the mistake of referring to the “mean queen” of yesterday’s quoting policies-to-me-episode.  “This is Callen Lorde” she proclaims, like a punitive, spayed, female, pit-bull cop, “You should know better!” Her rawhided, neuter, Bougie-Bitch delivery strips me bare, exposing me for all the bisexual silliness and tendencies toward anarchistic prostitution and polymorphously, pleasure-seeking perversity that I am; that I inhabit and display, for this is the magical stuff that makes me me. Imagine her, lambasting my essence! I have an allergy to anyone that coldly ignores and debases men only for being men. Why do some females act like raging amazon warriors slicing through the air, waving their clitorises like sharpened bayonets; so ready with a threat or an admonishment over any microscopic drop of incorrect language or innuendo that happens to ejaculate, albeit casually, from any MAN’S mouth merely for the sake of jest? For we all know men are not innocent; especially older white ones who protest the the stinging swipe of the feminist’s cattle prod. Still, I refuse to go gently into that “older-white-male-former-slave-owner’s-guilt-place night.”

 IV.  Once upon a time, there was a neighbor non-friend of mine, a sexless tomboy with frigid, uptight boundaries who had a talent for making me feel as warm and welcomed as a serial killer rapist. “Don’t nag me” she asserted testily at the coop board meeting, and with a jolt of movement from her dry, tendinous and over-vascularized body, SLAM CRASH! The mirror behind her slides off the wall, and onto the floor. Everyone jumps “There, you see” I intone, smiling like Joan Crawford as Crystal in “The Women”, “That’s what you get for attacking me.”