Tuesday, July 18, 2006
For those of you who only know me from this wildly popular online endeavor, not everything I do is always an unqualified, world-dominating, groupie-creating success. No, I mean it. I'm serious. Stop it, it's true.
For instance, it's probably best that my Li'l Tykes Home Hot Wax kit never caught on, I guess. If people want their pre-pubescent kids to walk around with all that disgusting fuzzy hair all over their arms and legs, fine, we don't need each other. Setting aside the obvious health benefits, the immediate improvement of personal aero- and hydro-dynamics would have been well worth the risk of scalding or melted flesh easily. But whatever, keep your skin non-burnt and raise a whole generation of lice-prone wildebeests and laggardly swimmers. I was only trying to help.
In that case my stumbling block had to do with a backward-ass anti-hygiene marketplace and some old guard dinosaurs at the Consumer Products Safety Commission. All that fancy talk is just another name for The Man.
The Man has been my enemy for a good long time. Always getting in my way, always one step ahead, swinging the full weight of both government and society to keep a brother down. And me too. I'm living proof that you don't have to be born African-American to feel The Man's foot in your ass.
The Man comes at me from all directions, usually with one hand in my pocket. The Man wants his property taxes, his home owner's association dues, his private school tuition for my kids, his country club greens fees... how much more can I give? You can only oppress me so much before I push back.
The Man isn't always government, though, no. The Man can be anyone with enough influence to squash your dreams and keep you from getting ahead.
In fact, "The Man" doesn't even have to be a man. The Man can be a chick. That raises some complicated gender and sexuality issues, but that's OK because it's all in-line with the point I'm about to make.
Sometimes The Man can be Oprah Winfrey. Not just any Oprah; I mean Big Not Gay Oprah.
Yesterday Oprah came out (so to speak) and publicly stated that she and her best pal Gayle are not regularly slamming clams.
So Oprah doesn't eat at the Y. Big deal, right? This is the same kind of celebrity non-news news that once led baseball player Mike Piazza to call a press conference in order to announce he was NOT gay or the one time (and this is true) that Entertainment Tonight's lead story (the lead story) was that Madonna was not pregnant.
But what does all this have to do with me and my troubles with The Man?
Well, isn't it all coincidental that Oprah goes public announcing she's not gay right when I've finally got my first manuscript prepped and out to literary agents of Oprah/Gayle femslash.
All those years back in the pre-internet days of writing Oprah/Gayle stories in pink ink on spiral notebooks, devising scenarios, making up the details of what lesbian sex might look like (my discovery, several years later, of the existence of the strap-on solved some, if not all, of the logistical questions I had... before this, I usually had to fall back on the timely and propitious arrival of a unicorn on the scene just as things were heating up), eyes watering, hands cramping... but it was all worth it.
Or at least I thought. I finished my first in a proposed series of Oprah/Gayle getting it on at or near famous Chicago landmarks. My limited knowledge of Chicagoland, I admit, was something of an obstacle (so far all I've got is Oprah/Gayle: The Turf at Wrigley Field and Oprah/Gayle Ignore the Sears Tower), but that was my only difficulty.
Until now. Now Oprah has tried to pre-emptively squash my life's dream with her public expression of non-gayness.
Fine. Destroy me. Throw your weight around at the expense of the little guy. Keep all the money for yourself. But know this, Oprah: you may have overplayed your hand. You have now definitively handed the Gay Daytime Talk Show crown to Ellen DeGeneres, unopposed.
Wait, no, I guess that's not quite true. It's down to Ellen and Maury Povich. Married to Connie Chung? Please. Adopted kids are a dead give-away.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 7.8