© Breeze Vincinz
Pornography as described by Merriam-Webster is defined as material that depicts erotic behavior intended to arouse quick intense emotional sexual excitement. I imagine most Freudians claim Merriam-Webster's dictionary to be their bible. Maybe I'm being cynical but it just seems to me that the basis of modern day society is the management of sexuality and perversity. It seems to be the diving board in the construction of everything from baby toys to skyscrapers to governmental policies; the main query being, "will this somehow arouse the most depraved of us to the point where the monkeys will overthrow the monkey house?" Everything has to go through that filter. Let's go back to the baby toy suggestion. I can only imagine the canals a new toy has to go through to make sure that a generation of toddlers aren't slobbering over some thingabob that while smooth, bright and too large to swallow doesn't even remotely resemble parts of the human anatomy that are smooth, bright and too large to swallow.
Now as a confirmed bleeding heart liberal, I have been trained to taunt and ridicule factions that try and make this a more anal retentive country. In the metaphorical Woodstock of existence I have rolled around naked in the mud and shit with my brethren as the acid rock of life is played on the stage. I have smoked a doobie passed to me by someone else with a noun for a name as we smoothed clay and excrement out of our hair. I missed the last presidential election because I was too busy spending the day arranging my Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell cassettes and giving head to my boyfriend and I'm damn proud of it! But alas, as I grow older, I have begun to appreciate, if not the actual presence, then maybe the concept of the keepers trying guard the gate of decency.
While I appreciate an ever growing world and the artistic interpretations of that evolution, there is something to be said for its reciprocal effects, for every angel born there is a demon sired. And while I have shed tears in the presence of some of the most ethereal art I have had the pleasure to experience, there is also a Brittany on the MTV Awards, there is a Hot Ghetto Mess and most recently, there is a 2 Girls, 1 Cup.
For those of you not in the know, and I pray that this means you, 2 Girls and 1 Cup is a video that is making its rounds through the annals of the information highway. It features two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths, eliciting sexual arousal from the acts.
A friend of mine suggested that I take a gander at this little nugget of heaven and for the life of me my anarchist spray painted little hearted just wouldn't let me do it. I will admit that there is a mild curiosity, I have even gone so far as to see the first two seconds of the video where the two girls are embraced in a homoerotic kiss but I couldn't bear to see in actuality what my imagination has already sickened in my mind. But it wasn't your typical right-wing "lemon" fear whereas I was afraid that it would be so tantalizingly awful I would be interested in licking again, this was more of an adult morality calm of, "I don't need this in my world view."
There have been several things that have occurred in this life in which that high road didn't seem necessarily haughty, just simply a good choice. I never saw the leaked pictures of the deceased body of Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopez. I thought that it actually was a breach of Geneva Convention rules on the treatment of prisoners of war when pictures of Saddam Hussein in his underwear shuffling around after his capture were shown in newspapers and I was even more thrown at the pictures littered everywhere showing the torture and abuse of prisoners in Abu Ghraib. When Madonna is photographed with naked men surrounding her, MTV bans her, when Lynndie England is photographed with naked men surrounding her, they preempt Saturday morning cartoons to show that shit.
And all of it, the graphical reproductions of it, I don't need to see. I can honestly say in my heart of hearts, from the pits of my very existence, that I can live a full and meaningful life without ever having seen Iraqi prisoners pile their rectums up on one another in front of two redneck soldiers, Saddam Hussein in his boxers, the corpse of a beloved R&B star, two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths. Not that I want my world view to be filled with kittens, lemonade and dandelions, but the more I am made aware of the depravities of this pin prick of a world, the more I understand the fight to keep the few precious kittens, lemonade stands and dandelions patches we have left around.
And keep in mind; I say all of this while (metaphorically) covered in mud and feces, smoking a joint and listening to acid rock. There's an old saying that a Republican is a Democrat who's been mugged. When I hear about things like 2 Girls, 1 Cup, I begin to feel like that robbed Democrat, getting out of the mud and shit, putting down the bong, taking a shower, cutting my hair, damning those dirty hippies to hell.
I gave my father a copy of my poetry book "Life as a Boy" for Father's Day last year. I never discussed it with him outside of him saying how immensely proud he was of me when he opened the package. After a recent conversation with him, he informed me that he would never show that book to his friends and he deemed the work pornographic, something to wit I took great offense to. But after a talk with my sister I began to see the bigger picture. I began to see that that threshold of civility is different for everybody and I tend to think that no matter how you fight it, it gets lower as you get older. I can call my father a 63 year old stick in mud for being offended by poems about fellatio and enemas but I also can hear the young calling me a 36 year old stick in the mud for being offended by 2 Girls, 1 Cup. Who knows, maybe if we were all 22 we would read my raunchy poetry, watch offensive videos then tape our reactions and post them on You Tube to see if we can get the most hits and wind up on Letterman.
But alas, I've come to the conclusion that I think I'm just too much for my Dad. I think that sometimes I force him to experience some of the more verboten aspects of my life and demand him to accept them and me whole heartedly and that maybe I am in the wrong for doing that. I am sure there are certain things that he can live a full and rewarding life without ever having experienced either and maybe my short story, "Enema: A Love Story" is one of them. I often imagine what my reaction would be if my kid came home and showed me his latest work "2 Girls, 1 Cup". It's a startling thought. And I've been reconsidering the idea of pornography, profanity, being cutting edge and turning over the apple cart just for the sake of turning over the apple cart ever since.
I've been trying to come to terms with the artistry of being a cart turner, the rebel rouser, the revolutionary. I don't think I want to leave the mud and shit but I also don't want to get anybody else dirty that doesn't want to get dirty and I most certainly don't want to add anything else even more septic into the shit I've been playing in all this time. And I guess at the end of the day I want my shit to have some higher purpose, some higher goal, some resonance. There has got to be more to life than mindlessly smoking weed and playing in shit, and there has got to be more than watching two women eat it.
After seeing Janet Jackson perform at the Staple Center, I decided to call her hot line to leave a message saying how much I enjoyed the show. In the message I made the comment that I couldn’t believe how anyone could pull off doing such an elaborate show like that, night after night when in fact I was tired from just watching it! Weeks later, Janet cancelled a number of shows due to illness. Subsequentially, this illness became the fodder of many gossip rags and media outlets proclaiming, once again, that she is pregnant. There are even reports that insinuate that Janet is faking her illness in an effort to avoid shows that have “poor ticket sales” when the truth of the matter is that not only has Billboard and Live Nation reported that nearly every show Janet has performed over the past month has nearly sold out (both Los Angles and Vegas were sold out shows) but she has also gotten rave reviews from both the fans and critics alike. No one outside of Janet herself and her medical team can decry with any level of certainty about her health status and frankly, I just don’t think it’s anybody’s business. Janet has been known to be very passionate, very professional and a workaholic who cares very deeply for her fans. I don’t think she would cancel her shows for any frivolous reasons.
There are many other female performers on the scene nowadays but I have yet to see any other female artist bring it the way Janet does. The woman still has “it” and she did not miss a beat! The Rock Witchu Tour is definitely Janet Jackson at her best. She started the show with “The Pleasure Principle” and from there she, her dancers, and her band kept hitting us hyped up with hit after classic hit. The highlight of the show for me was seeing Janet perform her old songs from Control, Rhythm Nation, and The Velvet Rope. I nearly died when I saw that she added the chair routine back to “I Miss You Much”… that was definitely one of the many high lights of the show for me.
When the show ended, I was on cloud nine. On my way out I actually ran into her older brothers Jackie and Tito of Jackson Five fame. I actually had an opportunity to speak with them. Not only are they legends who contributed greatly to the success of both Janet and Michael, but they also are both very kind and down to earth guys. Tito even complimented me on the tee-shirt that I was wearing with Janet’s face airbrushed on the front.
The effects of failed relationships in the Big Boy community. As a promoter of Big Boy parties, it has come to my attention that some of us within the Big Boy community are somewhat scared to make that first approach, albeit in a club or any other social function. The communication that I have received is that there is a strong fear of rejection and shame. So I was pondering how would a Big Boy change the perception in this situation? So here's my suggestion: Walk out on faith and allow yourself the confidence to step up to the plate and make that approach in a club or any other social setting. 
Saw an old friend on the street
We know those haters gonna try to fight
In the story of my life, one of the most absolutely horrendous chapters would most definitely have to be my experiences with working at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip. In retrospect I can see now that "disappointment" was a huge part of my ill feelings towards that experience. To me, the House of Blues was synonymous with everything young, hip, fresh and liberal. It was for me a den of profound hippies making an honest buck on their search for a higher truth and I was ever so honored to be elected to be a part of that trek.
However, one glorious day, the Retail Store stocked little figurines that displayed Jesus Christ on a crucifix with an exaggerated afro. Offended customers complained so much that the Retail Store decided to not stock them; though patrons still bought coffee cups with Ganesh rocking out with a guitar, t-shirts with Shiva holding various cosmetics in each hand, piled themselves into the Ganesh and Buddha rooms, made out, drank alcohol and smoked weed in front of statues that represent God for millions of people… including some of the cleaning staff who used to leave tidings of dried flowers at the feet of the statues every morning after cleaning up the mess left behind the night before.
I ask Caucasian women, would they feel comfortable with the idea of all media outlets claiming dark women with afros and hips to be the epitome of the classic American beauty? Would they begin to curl their hair in thick locks, wear dark brown contacts and eat carbohydrates the same our sisters dye (die) their hair blonde and wear blue contacts?
I see a McCain run America as one big House of Blues; a state where "We're First"… and so many of us are not the "We" he has in mind. A state where our culture, our customs, our ethnicity are not respected, cultivated or appreciated but more or less… commoditized and used to filter money to the upper class. We'll never be on the main stage, but we'll clean the toilets, and sweep the floors and sell the tickets. Our sexuality will be acknowledged if it affects the greater fiscal picture. Our Gods will be nothing more than amusing fixtures in the background.
But there were parts of certain episodes that I found truly endearing. However, I think in 2008, there is a second coming out that happens; when you tell your friends and family that you are HIV+. It’s a tremendous task, I would think even more so than telling people that you’re gay. As socially elevated and intellectual that we as a society would like to think that we are, we still hold on to that judgment of people who are HIV+. We still believe that they are less than, or less worthy or as a friend once told me, “damaged.”
Those misjudgments are still out there, strong and proud. I remember when the brief rumor got out that Madonna had contracted AIDS, she went on the warpath defending herself saying in effect, “If I had AIDS, I would be more terrified at the judgments people would have against me than the disease itself.” It’s totally understandable. God forbid but if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract breast cancer, I imagine this country would rally around their efforts for recovery despite their highly sexual histories. But if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract HIV, I imagine this country would denigrate them as morality tales about the evils of sexual promiscuity to spite their highly sexual histories… as if they deserved the disease. No one deserves HIV more so than anybody deserves cancer, or lupus or sickle cell anemia (or Latoya Jackson’s eleventh album whose release date has been thankfully pushed back again).
Honestly speaking there was a time where a part of me believed that I was ahead of the game because I am HIV- but the truth of the matter is… it’s really fucking irrelevant in the big scheme of things. When I think about my husband, his diagnosis, his life and his death… I don’t feel… privileged. I feel sad, and angry and really pissed… because he’s not here… and my own existence is only a small consolation to help ease that pain. Sometimes, usually I after stop crying, I don’t see that line that separates the HIV+ from the HIV-… it’s all the same; we’re all in this together, and if some of us are in pain then all of us are in pain. I realized while holding my friend when they disclosed their status to me and the both of us were blubbering like two kids being sent to an orphanage that neither one of us was going to leave this moment unscathed; this… was going to hurt.
When I was younger I concocted a future for myself where I would wear some sort of all purpose uniform in my daily life that would deflect the possibility of scorn or comment from an otherwise overly fashion-obsessed public. I imagined myself to be this ghetto version of Jem and the Holograms whereas at any given moment I could touch my nipple ring and a hologram would appear over my body resembling whatever high end fashion garment just happened to be en vogue at that particular time. I never really wanted to own clothing that was particularly luxurious or trendy but I have always, even as a kid, had this insatiable need to get people to… shut the fuck up about what I happened to be wearing at the time. Holograms always seemed to be the best strategy; throw some light beams at people, have them think I have on Bugle Boy or Karl Kani, move past that immaculately-plastic-first-impression bullshit and get straight to an actual conversation while I remain the true person that I am underneath.
I don’t know how it happened, I even mused about it with my mom, but somehow I grew up to be this sort of anti-capitalistic anarchist of sorts. Like most African Americans I had pretty humble beginnings (as if the middle right now is any better). I grew up in the Ida B.Wells Projects in Chicago and though we were never particularly destitute… we were pretty broke most of the time. I never remember going without, but I did always have this feeling of “the rest of the world ain’t like this.” Even still, somehow the whole capitalism isotope that usually infects preteens like public hair and menstrual cycles just never happened with me. While my comrades looked at television shows like Dynasty and Dallas and maybe saw the drug dealers on the block with flashy clothes and cars and slowly began to convolute their dreams and agendas to include such extravagancies, it just never clicked with me. I was never jealous of the bourgeoisie and I never really found it to be a more amiable way of life; which in all honesty is a pretty odd way to think of things. The majority of people who have nothing… usually want everything. It was no surprise to me when Eazy-E and 50 Cent came out to be Republicans, or in the very least, Republican sympathizers. One of the major tenets of the Republican Party has always been “fiscal first” whereas everything in this country should be built around protecting the sanctity of money and all of the accoutrements that it affords… or… “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”.
But alas, I will concede to the idea that one of my closest friends summated that I “think way too much about this stuff.” I understand that there is a good chance that the majority of people don’t do the mental gymnastics that I do when looking at someone’s clothing but I still don’t think I’m too off the mark here. Just the other day a colleague told me that when he first meets a guy the things he pays most attention to are his shoes, his watch and his car. And as much as I would like to thing of this colleague as a typical shallow, image-obsessed Hollywood starfucker, the truth of the matter is… I do the same thing; my judgment is just on the opposite end. While he might find someone wearing a smart pair of Stacy Adams and a Rolex who drives an Aston Martin the most prodigious man to have a romantic relationship with, I am similarly looking at the same man with such extravagant trappings and think that he has never been south of Wilshire Boulevard in his life and outside of us both being carbon based life forms we have nothing in common. And the truth of the matter is… my colleague and I would both be in the wrong for judging this guy solely based on his physical appearance and acquired paraphernalia.
So for me, there’s an effort being put forth where my outside does in certain ways reflect my own personal struggles, feelings and concepts and that effort in and of itself… makes it my fashion. And as I get older I am “loosening up” a bit, which in my case would mean dressing up just a little bit more. I’m wearing a lot more shirts with collars and I totally stopped ripping the arms off of my t-shirts and that has to count for something.