Mr. Sulu is gay.

I should like to say that I knew it from the first day I saw the show, way back in those tender pre-teen years, when Reagan was still president, and I took the bus to school, and the biggest problems on my horizon were, sadly, whether or not I could wear a sweater tied around my waist without being sent to detention.

I won’t say that I knew it all the time, but I will use this opportunity to expound upon one of my favorite pet theories of gay relationships:

Namely, that gay men _in particular_ either date themselves, or they date “the other” — which is to say, they date a representative of that category of persons with whom “they” are engaged in some kind of exploitative dynamic.*

In other words, I date a guy even WASP-ier than me (my family names their kids after dead relatives. My partner? His family names their kids after members of the British royal family).

George Takei, on the other hand, dates a man named (I wish I were making this up) Brad Altman. Not just “some white guy who happens to be a rice queen” but literally Brad “Old-Man.” I have no idea if Mr. Altman is older than Mr. Takei, but it would be so goddamned typical if it were true that it would make me _scream_.

Here in Texas we don’t have rice queens (not having many Asian-Americans, but more importantly not having a historical legacy of exploitation and exocitization of the Asian other) — rather we have white guys who date younger black men (hm, want to guess at the dynamics of _that_ relationship? Yeah, I’d rather not too). Less often (interestingly) we have guys that date younger hispanic men.

What you don’t get, honestly like _ever_, is black and hispanic men together. Sometimes you get Hispanic couples. And, rarely, you get black couples. But other+other? Nah. Not part of the whole fetishistic gaze dynamic.

Just a few observations. Otherwise, good for George for biting taking one for the team and coming out. Now he can join Ellen in the has-been celebrity better-known for the orientation than for their, you know, actual acting ability, club.

*Having just attended my college reunion, I suspect that this is a phenomenon endemic to the upper-middle class more generally. But it’s more _obvious_ with gay men.

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Seeing as Rex has done very nice pieces for some of the stars in his own academic firmament, I figured it would be only just to say a few things about my grand-advisor, Barrington Moore, who passed away, at the age of 92, this weekend.

Professor Moore wrote with a magisterial command of history. He wrote with an attention to detail, but always with an eye toward explicating “big structures, large processes, and huge comparisons” (the phrase being Tilly’s, of course). He took Marxian theory and made it readable. But perhaps most importantly, he wrote of class conflict in contingent terms. And by doing so rescued the hope of historical agency from the grim teleology of dialectial materialism.

The Times obit was less revealing than I had expected. Hopefully Footnotes will do better by such a great writer.

P.S., would that we all should be so lucky as to have someone named Wolfgang Saxon write our obit.

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I think my favorite part of the leaked memo (full version here) is the passage where they say:

“Wal-Mart’s critics can also easily exploit some aspects of our benefits offering to make their case; in other words, our critics are correct in some of their observations. Specifically, our coverage is expensive for low-income families, and Wal-Mart has a significant percentage of Associates and their children on public assistance.”

Shorter version: yes, yes, we screw the poor and bill the taxpayers for the pleasure of it. Whatev.

Though I should say it is good to hear that they’re doing something. Took some time and some struggle, but at least they’re moving…

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A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Tom Delay

I want to see that man in an orange jumpsuit and ankle chains.

And yes, I am fully cognizant of the fact that I am not being very Christian at this precise moment.

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Forehead pounding, and thick of tongue,
I woke to a tremendous thunderclap,
As rain and hail crashed down upon our gutters

I stood up and turned my weary eyes to the horizon
Heavy-hearted at the thought of yet another day
Wading through the hateful atmosphere of Texas.

In truth I found myself upon a ‘motional brink
The melancholy valley of my street
Echoed through with keening wail of the UP train.

The sidewalks, still some dark as ‘fore the dawn
Were beaten heavy with the rain, and I saw ‘nary a soul
Trudging up the ave.

“Time to be up,” I said to D
Who was e’en more pale with the effects of drink.
“I’ll shower first and then you follow me.”

But seeing a change in his complexion
I said, “wake up, for me must be about our work,
There’s a workshop to attend, and we must be there by nine.”

And he to me, “go on ahead, I must yet sleep.
I cannot face another dull and deadly day of
Speaking to some boozhwah cracker-ass

Whose what-is-called-compassion flows entirely from fear.”
And with that cynic’s note ringing in my ear,
I set out to face a day of “framing.”

After driving yet again to Hurst (that baneful town)
I ‘rrived unto the Auto-Workers Hall
Packed up to the rafters with Democrats.

The gab and gossip rose from fattened folk
Supping Krispy Kreme and crappy coffee.
I looked around for a face I knew.

And turning to the organizer – a kindly man
If an Arlingtonian – I said “who all is here?
Is this just Demos, or were the 527s also to attend?”

And he to me: most Dems are here, plus DFA and TBT
But as you’ll note, there are few Hispans,
And but one Af-Am, despite all our work.

All are here to learn the art of “framing”
Since that’s the gospel from on high,
‘Bout how to win in Twen-ought-Six.

For this alone they came today.
To live in present hope of gaining ‘gainst the day
When moral men may live again in DC and in Austin

Sorrow passed my brow on hearing him
Though truly I did try to hide it.
For I had seen some crazy mo-fo’s ‘mong the crowd.

“Tell me, man, for you I trust,” I said
For I wanted surely to be certain
Of that belief that vanquisheth all error.

“Has any passed by merit alone
From this place toward blessedness?”
Now this, this was covert speech indeed.

And he, cocking brow in query my direction
Said, “now listen close. I have in this very hall
beheld our former Prez make speech.

He sounded like a second Jefferson (Billy Clint, I mean)
(oh what a name, I thought, fraught with peril; ever
redolent of constitution and sedition both)

A steadfast yeoman true, and bonded yet
With a Midwestern firebrand (did he mean Hillary, I wondered?)
And ‘posed by our own demog Dean

Them and more have stopped here too,
All to speechify for the roaring crowd
And take their blessings on the road to Wash.”

And so, wand’ring over to where donuts lay
Where thronged the blue-haired spirits
Packed in pantsuits of color varied

We stepped a pace or two into the hall
And looked out across the crowd
To see if there was friendly face or two.

Arrayed before us were befringed tables
In regimented rows, and seated there
Were honorable Democrats

Turning to my friend, I said, “So tell me,
You who are both Donkified and Texan
What is it that has kept you and these, in such a state?

And he to me, “They honor still that cause:
Diversity and Work, and Public Good
And doing so advance themselves and country too.

Meanwhile a voice boomed out across the PA
“Pay honor to our esteemed guest:
All the way from New York City, ‘tis the Frameshop Man!”

And the crowd leapt up in loud applause
I saw the Prof to cross the stage and take the mic
While in the wings three dignitaries stood.

My kindly friend continued then by saying:
“Look well at him who stands before us,
Laser in his hand, and setting up his Powerpoint.”

Our speaker ‘day is Jeffrey Feldman, an applied Lakoff
While standing by the stage is County Chair,
TBT Prez, and last is our Mid-Cities Fruitloop.

Because each of these fair folk shares with me
The name of “Democrat”
They welcome you and I – and doing that, do well.

And then I sat awhile, and partook of “framing,”
Class-like tasks re: values, and how to speak on them
And ‘for I knew it, lunch had ‘rrived.

At which time the dignitaries walked over
To my table, and saluting me, we chatted
And having witnessed this, the organizer smiled

For he had set the whole thing up
For them to invite Stonewall join their ranks
We would be six at table in the after-session with the prof.

So did we move along, and toward our fight
Talking of things about which silence here
Is as necessitate as our speech on that day was there.

But later on that evening we adjourned
To a private party in a house with seven gables (‘shit you not)
Fronted fair with seven oaks and tiki torches, even.

Crossing under tree and past the flames
D and I went up the walk, where
On the porch were overflowing potted plants

Through the picture windows we could see
A crowd of cool kids, coiffed with duds
And speaking small-group like, with genteel tones.

And entering straight into the party
We were welcomed by the hosts
Into a place with ceiling high and filled with light.

On our right was fireplace bright and tiled green
But our hosts took our hands and led us ‘round
To meet the guests whose company still thrills

I saw our state rep, with his wife
And standing with him a non-profit head
Along with partner and a staffer

I saw a lesbian couple we knew
Along with Stonewall State Prez
Who had brought along his daughter.

I saw our other Democratic state rep,
Sitting lonely in the corner, oddly
As if he didn’t want to be there.

But looking back into the dining room
I saw the chair of our campaign board
Seated among a circle of activists

And taking us straight to him
Our hosts introduced us to this former rep
As well as two paid aides of his, in town for training.

Other guests filed in, too numerous to name:
A good-hearted former candidate
With husband gamely at the tow

An agent for the local real-estate
(in business with our host, apparent)
And rival to the local gay firm.

And there a local pressman
An impresario, too, not to mention
Cousin to me (sixth, or thereabouts)

I cannot here describe them all in full
My tale must press onward, for
What’s told is often less than the event

But after about two hours or so
My partner and I went another way
Beyond the quiet pretty-hill precincts
To a far less glittering affair.

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Warning: heavy blasphemy ahead. Prepare to take cover from the thunderclap:

It’s hard not to read this article and think of Faust.

Think of it: late one night, looking out over a glittering city from 35 floors up, our hero thinks to herself “and what would it take to possess all that I see before me? What would it take to have all this and more?”

The answer is simple, of course. One’s eternal soul.

And so she calls her good friend (lover?) and says “yes. Bring me the contract. I am prepared to fall down and worship.”

And in return her rise to glory, laud, and highest office was steady and assured. The only price was total, utter loyalty.

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Posting will be erratic for, well, a while yet. What between the election, and mid-terms, and certain curricular but confidential activities, I’m a bit overwhelmed.

Apologies to all.

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