Cheri Pierson Yecke: Dominatrix of Education

They call you many things. Your official moniker is state education commissioner. You'd like that to become permanent, wouldn't you. Ooh yeah. I bet you would. I bet.

But other words have been used to describe you. Education Czar. Bitch. Agent of Change. Educrat. Dominatrix. Wipe the spittle of contempt from your lapel, Cheri. Lots of people here despise you. Right now provocateurs scheme your downfall. In teachers' lounges across the state, they sit on nagahyde, surreptitious Basics smoldering, and plant push-pins into their Yecke dolls. Back in the classroom, they turn their students against you gently, subtly. Your portrait pops up during "Good Touch, Bad Touch" units. If scary people like this try to make you do things, run! Tell a parent! Scream 'no!' A gold star for every dirty Yecke limerick.

Oooh, and you had to go and fuck with the quarter. What the fuck were you thinking with that giant snowflake? The U.S. Mint delivered you a temporary blow. But their rebuff and snickers only steel your resolve to control the destiny of our two bits. Such hubris can be dangerous. Your enemies are training an army, Cheri. And whoever controls the army, controls the State. Watch your back.

Yecke. Yecke. Yecke. Oh. Excuse me. Where's a bathroom. Yecke.

Pawlenty may be Governor of the state, but you are Dominatrix of education. You smell of oiled leather and Estée Lauder. That's not a laserpointer in your hand, but a coiled crop. You purse your lips at the lectern, and I am a kid again, quivering in anticipation of the delicious contact your firm hand will make with my flabby liberal ass-cheek.

What is the atmosphere like, in the Governor's chambers, on all those late nights you and he spend pouring over education standards after everyone else has gone home? Your breath smells of stale coffee. Pawlenty is a clean-cut boyscout, a scrappy little brat who'd rather play hockey than learn his multiplication tables. Do you take him over your knee?

Of course you don't. You are impervious to his advances. You have transcended sex. S & M is God's work. You are morally righteous. You float above the people you touch, like a dragon floats above the fields it scorches.

I wonder who your children are. Do you run your household like a re-education camp? Do your children fear the decadence of 'play'? Do you make them their lunches everyday or do you force them to butter their own goddamn bread? How do you sleep at night? How do you? Law & Order: Criminal Intent. A glass of Franzia. Your hair is down. You comb with a wide-backed brush, imagining its many implications.

Since coming to us from Virginia, you've stiffened up. Discarded those lascivious blousy clothes that made you feel like a hippy. Stiffened up in T.J. Maxx powersuits with shoulder pads higher than your heels. You cut your hair, too. Shortened your bob, petrified it into the perfect coif we see you in today, swirling in two giant spirals around your head like the antlers of a bighorn sheep. You project an air that says, Fuck with my education standards, and I will head-butt you so fucking hard!

Cheri Pierson Yecke. Cheri Pierson Yecke. It's a name straight out of Dickens. How would he have told your story?...

"Time now, my young calves, for today's Pledge of Allegiance," the homely teacher called out to the assembled miscreants with a voice tired and slow, occasioned by the previous evening's inebriation at the hands of a young gentleman caller.

"Yes, missus," the bright and obedient lambs responded, all each in the same key. All except one ... tiny little Smike refused to stand with the others, and sat silently at his desk without airs.

"Smike?" the kindly Missus Dalby called out, as though coaxing a cat from the larder. "Why in the devil do you sit?"

"if it pleases the Missus," Smike responded, with a voice quieted by a history of welts unbecoming to his young years, "I prefer not to say the pledge," repeating for good measure,

"If it pleases the Missus."

"It doth not please the Missus," hissed a voice that belonged to a formidable shadow that had been eavesdropping from the hall.

"Yecke!" called Missus Dalby, a gloved hand to her lavender throat.

"Indeed!" Cackled the headmistress as she burst onto the scene. "What have we hear, Missus Dalby?" she said to the the fearful Missus Dalby, who it must be said was quivering like a flower before the gale.

"Oh, why, Mrs. Yecke, nothing, quite. Smike here just feels ill, that's all. Yes, ill. And he'd rather sit for the Pledge of Allegiance."

"Sick, eh? Sick in the head, more's like it," she said, turning to bring the wideness of her forbearance full-force onto the tiny Smike, who it must be said was quivering much more noticeably than the Missus Dalby. "Boy, why won't you say the Pledge?"

"If it pleases the Mrs., I love my country and all, but think that such a display of patriotism, when legislated in this way, is diminished by the very duress of its necessity."

"DRIVEL!" Screamed Mrs. Yecke. "This is exactly the nomenclature that a liberal education system allows its students to get away with. This ... this ... relativism. This ... this ... snooty elitism that allows a mere puke of a boy like you, Smike, to simply decide this is not for you. Do you think this country is here for you to spit upon?"

"No, no, no," implored the pale boy. "Not in the least, with all due respect Mrs. Yecke. I love my country. My father is an amputee currently serving in the Senate--"

But Mrs. Yecke cut off the boy's words with a swift box to the ears. "Enough of this blasphemy," she cried. Mrs. Yecke had deemd it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the assembled class. In any other place, the appearance of the wretched Smike would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It had some effect, for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats at the monstrous bellow; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of pity and fear. These were lost on Mrs. Yecke, however, whose gaze was fastened on the luckless Smike. Without further hesitation, she grasped the stalk of the boy between her fists.

"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, sneaking dog" explaimed Mrs. Yecke, taking poor Smike's head under her arm and administering a cuff at every epithet.

Mrs. Yecke, when excited, was accustomed to use strong language, and, moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word dog, and furthermore the allusion to Smike as like a pig, which was not intended to be taken in its literal sense, meaning that Smike possessed the head of a pig, but rather to bear a similitude of likeness to man's porcine subordinates.

At this moment, might I apprise the reader to say that Mrs. Yecke, in her five-and-fiftieth year, had exhausted the store of grace and womanly beauty God had bestowed upon her. Through years of toil among the lawless and feckless little heathens of humanity she had thickened like an ox in the yard, and underneath her tatty blouses one could only imagine gristle and sinew. She was neither short nor tall, but rather like a stout stone that refuses to give up the field for plowing.

Finally, out of breath with her violent contortions, she asked between gasps, "Have you anything to say, dog?"

Like all the great Dickens villains, the time for your judgment is at hand, Cheri Pierson Yecke. You have scaled the face of the state capitol, and have tried to take your place among the golden charioteers of the quadriga. You dangle in the spotlights from a thousand hovering helicopters. Below, the legislators gather; they weigh your crimes, they listen to your pleas. The vote is neigh. Will they give the Yorkshire schoolmistress what she deserves, or will they bend over for more of your cane...?

Conversations on gay.com

[him] u busy?
[me] no
[him] cool what u into?
[me] I'm looking for a guy to drug me until I pass out and then fuck the shit out of my ass while I'm unconscious.

long pause...

[him] stats?

...

[him2] so, is this your cell phone number?
[me] no, I don't have a cell phone.
[him2] why not?????
[me] because they're really annoying!
[him2] I find you refreshingly eccentric ...

Doggie Dancing

The Minneapolis Star Tribune's Variety Section isn't necessarily known for being hip, or prescient, when it comes to culture. "Culture" on these pages means going to see Mamma Mia! when it comes to town instead of watching Gophers hockey on Fox and "variety" is planting Nasturtiums next to the Foxgloves. So I was quite surprised last week to see the Variety section wade front page first into the culture wars with an excellent article on the latest fad undermining traditional marriage: Doggie Dancing.

Staff writer Robyn Dochterman sets the mood:

Patie Ventre is ready. The sequins edging her costume and the rhinestones in her earrings scatter light from the overhead fluorescents. A crowd rings the dance floor, curious to see this new craze.

This is what the religious fundamentalists are really afraid of when it comes to marriage, laid out in a beautiful broadsheet checkerboard. Patie Ventre and her border collie prance seductively across the stage. She straddles him, he lunges, pirouettes gracefully. She shakes her booty, and he answers her provocative come hither with a bit of a shake himself. It's a dance of love, as sexy as a tango—a couple, completely in tune to one another's bodies, speaking a language that transcends species. The dance ends with paws on hips as the two, intwined, prance offstage.

Robyn, please! Tell us what's going on!

Musical canine freestyle, also known as dancing with your dog, is the latest trend in the pet world, and it's picking up speed faster than a retriever bounding after a tennis ball. Like pairs figure skating, freestyle involves partners performing a choreographed program to music. Imagine Olympic ice dancers Torville and Dean, only Torville has four legs and a tail.
The "steps" can include obedience exercises, movements inspired by equine dressage, even standard dog tricks. In competition, tandems are judged on creativity, athleticism and how well the human-canine team works together.

It's all the rage in the South (of course), but is just beginning to catch on up here. Ventre and her border collie demonstrate their skill all over the place—from nursing homes to obedience schools. You can buy videos of the performances on the Internet. A colleague at work was absolutely ecstatic when this article appeared, and he currently has it pinned to the outside of his cubicle. Recently he recounted a party he had been to that weekend. And yes, he added sheepishly, there was some doggie dancing.

But what does all this mean?

Although the premise of dancing with a dog might make some people snicker, it's an exciting idea to dog owners looking for new ways to enjoy the company of their animals. And in a society that may be shifting toward seeing dogs more as family members than pets, the reward of learning a routine together offers a satisfying bond.

Yes, that's right. Dogs aren't just pets. They're more like family members. Almost our equals (a new law proposed in Santa Fe this week would require motorists to buckle up the pooch). And that's exactly what the fundaMENTALS are scared of.

As Richard Goldstein points out in a recent Village Voice article, religious fundaMENTALS are obsessed with guys fucking dogs.

Why can't we have marriages between people and pets?" the bishop of Brooklyn recently remarked. "I mean, pets really love their masters"—and, let's face it, the feeling is usually mutual. Was the bishop being fanciful or does he really think America will go to the dogs if gays are allowed to wed? Only his confessor knows, but for what it's worth, this is a major clerical fixation, and not just among Catholic prelates. Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson have warned that gay rights will lead to bestiality. I hadn't realized that so many men of God are worried about folks helping sheep through the fence.

Surely this is just a bit of drama? A little bit of fire-branding to scare the flock into towing the party line?

But when a fantasy repeats itself again and again, you have to consider what it means. To borrow a timeless insight from Titanic , a right-winger's heart is an ocean that holds many secrets. Just ask Strom Thurmond's black paramour. So it's fair to wonder: What lust lurks behind the fear of gay marriage? A specter might-could be haunting America. It is the specter of petaphilia.

What could this mean? Goldstein insinuates that with the notion of gay marriage, an image might immediately spring to mind in the individual—two dudes goin' at it, doggy-style. Ewww! (or, ooooh!) As gays become more upwardly-mobile in our culture, so too does sodomy take on an air of respectability, and with that, the borders of civilized behavior are redrawn. Shit, my straight friends get more butt-action than me these days.

While I'm sure every time 'gay marriage' is uttered around Pat Robertson he can't help but picture two guys fucking (or maybe him fucking Elijah Wood), there may be more to this. As Goldstein continues,

Maybe this panic isn't merely symbolic; maybe it's the subconscious demanding to be heard. When dudes talk about doing it doggy-style, are they alluding to the real thing? When they call Hillary Clinton a bitch, are they paying her a compliment? If all men are dogs, what does that say about their predilections?

Simply put, it would suggest that we've got a lot of fucked-up emotions when it comes to our pets. From J.R. Ackerley's 1947 languishing ode to the love of his life, My Dog Tulip, to last year's classic King of the Hill episode, "Dances with Dogs", there's something at work here. I'm sure it isn't as simple as reducing the whole issue to some guys wanna fuck dogs. But a loving, uncomplicated, relationship with a loyal pet, where a master assumes complete reign over a subject, juxtaposed next to the messiness of relationships ... perhaps it speaks of a residual nostalgia for dynamics long since out of fashion. In any case, these currents often lie submerged, but sometimes they bring flotsam to the surface we'd rather not have to sift through. Gay marriage is that issue right now—perhaps it's bad timing, or perhaps it's long overdue. Some topics become cultural thorns in our sides, and some don't. These thorns work themselves up through the skin, they emerge in remarkable ways. Reasonable, rational public discourse doesn't seem to have any effect on fundMENTALS, for they've mined the Bible to find quotes that fit with their paranoia, and the Bible is neither a reasonable nor rational tool for constructing a civil society. Psychoanalysis might be useful as a way of illuminating why some Biblical topics like homosexuality and abortion attract the fire-and-brimstone, apocalyptic pulpit-thumping that they do—though psychoanalysis, as Goldstein's essay demonstrates, is never very sure of itself, and can only speak haltingly about what can so easily be rendered silent. I think Goldstein is right though—the unconscious often wants to speak—and if you've got a problem with what it has to say, it will find other ways, other languages, for getting out its message. Hysteria—localized or mass—is one way that happens. It's a type of body-language that can infect a culture. If there's a desire inside you—to fuck someone of the same sex—and the notion of confronting that thought makes you feel so incredibly uncomfortable, well, sometimes it's easier to look away, outwardly. To place the stain you've recognized in yourself on another person or group of people and then to vehemently attack them for that stain. In doing so, you take the heat of yourself. You set yourself in opposition to that stain, proving to the culture at large that you are certainly not that, and hoping that in your attacks against this stain in others will some how scour it from your own body. In the end though, your obsession gives you away entirely.

GLBT Capitol Rally

Today was a great day. A great number of Minnesotans -- gay men, lesbian women, lesbians with children, old mammas, highschool students, my old sixth grade teacher -- stood on the steps of the state capitol, over 3,000 of us, condemning a vitriolic piece of constitutional amendment bullshit and demanding that gay and lesbian families be treated with the same respect and dignity accorded to straight couples.

Aaron and I arrived at around eleven am, and wandered about the interior of the capitol. I hadn't been there for awhile--not since I was a kid and certainly not since moving down here to go to university.

It's always great to see families at these kinds of events. Makes me think of my mom. I called her yesterday; asked her to call our rep up there in Duluth, Tom Bakk, and ask him to vote against this amendment. "Oh, I don't follow politics that much, I don't always know what's going on..." she said. But she took down his number and promised to call. Bless.

Aaron and I were wandering through the crowd before the rally and someone called my name--my sixth grade teacher Mrs. Johnson! I love her! She was like, my favorite! She had come down here from Duluth with her husband to support her gay son and his partner! It was amazing! She's retired now and luvvving it. She was so excited to be down here, kicking some ass for her gay son! When I was in third grade I had my appendix taken out and she was my tutor. We made Revolutionary War dioramas out of clay and I wrote a book called "My Appendix Operation" that was bound in the shape of an appendix. She's awesome.

The speakers at the rally spoke the truth about the unconstitutionality of this constitutional amendment. The signs told other sides of the story...

The crowd easily surpassed that of the fundaMENTALS. I'd never been to a rally before. Sure, Marc and I had a Protest and Posh day, but that was just for fun. These things aren't just for fun anymore. Things have gotten down right scary, and lawmakers need to know that we won't stand for it. Noon during a workday. Over 3,000 people turning out. How great is that? Kudos to my boss, for letting me take some time out for this day. It means a lot.


Saw Brian and Tim and Shanai there, which was good. The crowd swelled. Spilled down the steps of the capitol, past the unseeing statues on their plinthes. The windows of the capitol looked down blankly at us, mostly.
But during the brief moment when we chanted, and our words echoed against the walls of the building ... I dunno ... call me crazy, call me idealistic .. I felt like something was happening, we were making a difference... we'll see tomorrow, when the Senate votes (hopefully) to derail this train wreck. Until then, write your legislators!

David Strom, Leather Daddy

Since metro-area bus drivers went on strike, fiery David Strom, head of the powerfully rich but small cadre called the Taxpayer's League, has often dominated the headlines. With their Nietzschean philosophy of governance – no taxes, every man for himself, only the strong survive – they’ve consistently questioned the feasibility of public transportation. This Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome approach to Minnesota politics has caused David Strom to be much-maligned by the populace. “And for good reason!” some may say. “David Strom, if put in charge, would be a Tina Turner. It would be survival of the fittest! The weak would perish, and the strong would grind our corpses into the pavement with their Navigators!

But enough of this ballyhoo. Who is David Strom? Few claim to know what goes on inside his head. I hope to shed a little bit of light on that area. You see, I know David Strom. I've known him carnally. He's my lover. Let me tell you my story…

I first met David Strom at an International Leather competition held at one of those depressing and dingy conference centers out by the airport. I heard his laugh before I laid eyes on him – that portly barrel of a torso produces the sexiest, strongest laugh I’ve ever heard. Then I saw him, over by the cocktail wieners, chatting to Mr. International Bootblack (crowned earlier that morning) and a couple of puny drummer boys. I was immediately attracted to him. Those big cherubic cheeks. The confidence with which he ravenously dispensed of cocktail wieners and egg rolls, barely stopping the flow of his words to chew. He was representing the leather community proudly that afternoon, a studded leather harness barely holding in his hirsute pecs, a motorcycle hat cocked jauntily on his head.

At the time, I was fucking a slave named Tony, whom had been lent to me for the weekend by my friend Antonio–the very same leatherman being peppered by a barrage of finely-chewed particles of wiener spraying from the mouth of my ever-loquacious mystery man. I quickly endeavored to be introduced. “I know just how,” Antonio said. “I’ll arrange for you to be the boy to shine that Daddy’s boots!”

I couldn’t believe my luck. To say that I was aroused is an understatement. Kneeling before that continent of a man, it was like my whole body quivered as a passionate single-celled organism with one biological purpose—to shine this bear’s boots. He was puffing a cigar, and the exhaust quickly went to my head. I couldn’t speak; my throat was dry. I busied at my task of buffing his immense shitkickers.

After a while, it was like he finally noticed me. “What’s yer name, boy” he growled. His voice was smoky and peaty like a fine scotch.

“My name is Jason.”

“What?”

“Um, my name is Jason … SIR!”

“That’s better. My name is David Strom. How are you doing with those boots, boy?”

“I hope I am doing a good job on them for you, SIR! I’m trying really hard.”

“I can see that. Good boy, good boy.” He bent down and patted the top of my head.

Never had I felt like such a worthy piece of shit.

We got to talking as I spit-shined those steel-toed behemoths. David was chatty and caddy, dishing the gossip on all the other leather queens at the conference. He instructed me on the finer points of breath control and ironing chiffon. He asked where I went to school, what I was studying. He laughed derisively when I told him I was studying Cultural Studies at the University of Minnesota.

“Bunch of pussies!” he declared. “Books are for welfare moms.”

“Yes SIR!” I said.

He asked what kind of car I drove. Without knowing the sin I was about to confess to, I simply said, “I can’t afford a car. I ride the bus.”

Little did I know the fury that simple one-syllable word would evoke from this man. Like a grizzly bear that’s been stung by a bee, he raged before me. His left foot swung up, connecting with my ribs (fracturing five, I later found out). Spewing lungfulls of cigar smoke, he leaned into me, his face that of the devil himself, with all the smoke of hell wreathed around his head.

“STUPID FUCKING INNER-CITY BRAT! DON’T YOU SEE THAT YOU’RE NOTHING MORE THAN A LEECH? WHY DON’T YOU GET A REAL JOB AND STOP RIDING THE BUS? DO YOU KNOW WHO PAYS FOR YOUR BUS? I DO. AND I’M TIRED OF FUCKING PAYING FOR THAT SHIT SO YOU AND YOUR TREE-HUGGER FRIENDS CAN STUDY JANE AUSTEN AND MUSIC VIDEOS!”

He went on to explain the ways of the world to me. Suffice it to say, I had no idea that I all this time I had been suckling from the teat of the state. I was like a milk-fed pumpkin come county-fair time, grown lethargic and bloated off the largesse of welfare. What was designed to pin down the snipers so that I could pull myself up by the boot straps had become the very means by which I was being kept down. And the brightest star in that constellation of liberal entitlement? The city bus. The ease and convenience of walking two blocks to the bus stop and sitting in the back with latte and headphones every morning had clouded my reasoning and actually made me weak. As David explained, what I really wanted wasn’t a quick and stress-free ride to work, but “a big fat motherfucking SUV. Or a van. Something big and motherfucking heavy that uses a lot of gas.”

“I’m speechless, SIR. All this time, the wool’s been pulled over my eyes.”

“Aye, and liberalism weaves a thick yarn.” David’s eyes glowed triumphant.

“You are poor, boy. You live because of my tax dollars. I own you.”

He placed the filthy sole of one boot against my lips.

“Submit, boy. Wipe the inner-city scum off the bottoms of my Harley Davidson motorcycle boots, bitch.”

And submit I did. And submit I do, to this day.

David, oh David. Hold me down with those ham-hock arms, just like you hold down the bottom line of our wasteful state. Make me sign away myself to you as your property, just like you made Pawlenty sign away a second term with a pledge not to raise taxes. Arms crossed, you bare the gate to the state’s coffers. Stadiums? Light Rail? A bed for a homeless man? Medication for poor schizophrenics? Not on your watch. “Don’t raise my taxes to pay for that shit. I’ve got to buy a closet full of new dresses for my bitch this year. I can’t afford a new pool table and a scholarship for some poor black kid.”

The bitch of course is me. It’s a moniker I wear proudly—it’s embroidered on the collar which fastens me to Master Strom as he parades me around The Eagle on Saturday nights. After a few heady months of dating, I moved in to his massive faux-Edwardian hunting lodge on twenty acres of forest and ponds out in Maple Grove,where I learned his likes and dislikes, his daily routine, and most importantly, how to please my Daddy as his personal butt-boy.

Life is bliss—a blur of traffic jams, political banquets, violent but cathartic sex in our homemade basement dungeon, and cooking. David’s a big eater, and I’m constantly trying to keep the cupboards stocked and My Man’s tummy full. [For all you other boys out there who enjoy the ‘chore’ of cooking for your Daddy, might I suggest Bear Cookin’: The Original Guide to Bear Comfort Foods as a great resource when in need of spicing up your culinary repetoire?]

He’s got a soft side, too. Oh, he’s not all mean. He’s got a soft spot for films starring Dirk Bogarde, and he loves the Gay Men’s Chorus – never misses a show. Get a little vino in him and he’ll queen out over the artistic merits of Judy Garland, and I’ve never seen him leave a showing of Thoroughly Modern Millie with a dry eye. And he loves me—he really does. You people don’t understand. We just show our love to each other in different ways, through bruises and sweat, cigars and crops. We’re just different, that’s all! And one day—god willing—we’ll get married. You know, amending the constitution costs tax dollars! That shit doesn’t get a free ride! There’s a softer side David other people don’t get to see. When the cocks have softened, he’s really tender. Honestly!

We have had our rough spots, as every couple does. One evening last summer, I drifted back to consciousness in the SUV. We were stuck in traffic somewhere in the vastness of Minneapolitan suburbia.

“Wha—where am I, Daddy?”

“Shhh … quiet, babes. We’re almost home.”

“The last thing I remember was you spinning the wheel of death, and suddenly—I dunno—my arm must have hit the washing machine or something…”

“We had a little accident, babycakes.”

“What?”

The OxyContin was slowly wearing off. I felt the throbbing in my forearm—and looked down only to see my arm from wrist to elbow encased in plaster.

“Shit! My god!” I screamed. I began to sob. “What did you do to me?”

“Oh, I know—and it’s all my fault! I can’t believe I hurt my little boy!” He was crying too!

It was romantic, in a way. There we were, stuck in traffic, at a standstill. And he took me in his arms, and smothered my forehead with kisses. “Oh I just want you to take me home and make sweet, sweet love to me,” I cooed into the immensity of his breast. I stayed that way for several minutes in which the traffic didn’t budge.

David broke my reverie–“Boy, look up. Look at this.”

All I could see ahead of me for miles and miles were the sinister red snake-eyes of brake lights streaming ahead, a molten river of metal clogging six shimmering lanes of aching concrete.

“Look boy, isn’t it beautiful? This is paradise. This is progress.” And it was so, so beautiful!

* * *

But this whole bus strike – well, it’s raised your profile, David And with the praise comes the attacks, of course. It’s not easy being right. I’m just writing this to stay I’m sticking by you, Daddy.

The other night, for example, we were cooing post-coital in the giant canopy bed. You were calling me your “little übermensch” which always makes me blush. But from deep within the goose down ruffles of the bed, where you had dragged me as a pirate drags his spoils, we became aware of a sinister sound—a hum, a drumbeat, a chant, coming from the grounds. We clicked on the television to drown out the sound, and were shocked to see the façade of our house on the six o’clock news! Sure enough, the camera crews were there, reporting live. A roaring crowd had gathered, a sea of upturned faces gaping pitifully. The bedraggled, the ugly, the multi-ethnic of Minneapolis.

It had taken them six hours to march from the slums of the West Bank, Marcy-Holmes, Loring Park, Seward, the skid rows of Hennepin Avenue and Nicollet Mall. They had come for blood, and they were chanting, chanting … “We ain’t walking anymore … we ain’t walking anymore …Magic Bus … Magic Bus … I want it I want it I want it … Just to drive to my baby…” You swore loudly, and emerged like Venus from the pink sea-foam of the bed. You threw off your dress and hoop skirts, and covered up your petticoat with a robe. Striding to the balcony, you threw open the French doors.

With a hand raised, you quelled their screams: “Let them drive Hummers!”

And with those words, the fate of the monarchy was determined…

Starfucker: addendum

Please Note: None of the errata below actually involve fucking any high-wattage stars. We've all fucked porn stars and Jim Verraros. They don't count.

I just got an email from my friend Glen. Last night when I tried to call him his answering machine message was in a suave French dialect, no doubt to throw off slacker college kids trying to turn in late papers. Glen's written to express concern over my apparent manic behaviors. He's also included a list of his own star encounters, which spans the length and breadth of twentieth century American culture.

Yet I had dinner with Tippi Hedren once, plus in the 60s I touched the sweaty arm of one of the Shangri-Las and was almost run over in Times Square by Liz Taylor's limo, and I've met Toni Morrison, James Merrill and John Ashbery, and I spent an afternoon with Samuel Delany (no shit was eaten), and was once in the same room with Jorge Luis Borges. I rode down in an elevator with an NFL quarterback (doesn't matter which one, does it?), and I shook hands with Hubert Humphrey. I've had sex with three porn actors (all low-wattage stars).

Sorry, Glen. I have been weird lately. Perhaps it's because I spent all weekend watching The Night Porter and also that I have no friends. Please do not look to my blog for any indication of my mental state. Now, not only are you mentioned in this stupid blog that takes up waaaay too much time that should be spent prepping the latest social movements book for production, but you are quoted directly, and without your permission. Your list of star-crossings is impressive. One question: when were 'the 60s'?

Starfucker

So my cutiepatooty little starfucker Marc can finally die peacefully I guess ... after moving to Iceland at the end of last summer, leaving our two-man Edina / Patsy act without an Edina (oh, doesn't really matter, the fags at the Saloon were either too tweeked or too fucking insecure to understand that constantly lobbing foul-mouthed insults at them was really a subtle form of social satire meant to engage), shacking up with a bunch of old Icelandic bitties in an old people's home bedecked with tiny doll furniture, subsisting only on dried shark flesh and pickled orca testicles, enduring endless months of complete darkness and emotionally unavailable Icelandic boys who still live with their mothers ... and all in the hopes that 1) he'd end up as Bjork's nanny or 2) he'd get to meet Jonsi, of Sigur Ros. At least one of his dreams has finally come true. While out the other night with his cadre of wispy blond northern lads -- Björcht, Gummi, Ejgüllisi, and Frodo [m: did i get those right?] -- they were joined by Jonsi, who conversed with Marc all evening in Icelandic! about such things as boyfriends and Boston. Of course I'm making a much bigger deal about this than Marc; his email to me recounting the story was all cool and meh.

I have never met a famous person. Courtney Love once called an old roommate of mine a bitch in an elevator. Apparently Radiohead used to frequent my local pub in London. Mike has enjoyed pizza with U2, and was walking past Whoopi Goldberg once when someone called her a 'ho', and a friend of a friend once gave Elton John a blowjob in the back of a limo cruising the empty streets of Minneapolis (okay nothing to brag about there). Oh and someone I knew once spent a month in Florence on a summer art history course with Robocop. The only star sighting I've had was sitting at the adjacent table to the woman who played Mary Tyler Moore's mom at a creperie in West Hollywood. Who cares about them anyway! They're just people like you and me and usually they're dumber and uglier than they are on t.v.

Marc, now that you're dream has been fulfilled, come back to Minneapolis. We'll get dressed up in Diesel clothes we can't afford, stand around at the Saloon delirious from Rolling Rock carb-overload and shout "GAY! GAY!" at dumb boys who happen within our orbit.

I should say that Marc's no stranger to stardom. He's practically Josh Hartnett's best friend. Marc ... I still have Josh's phone number in my wallet. Late at night I call it and breath heavily into the mouthpiece, but no one ever answers ...

Svefn-g-englar from the album Ágætis Byrjun by Sigur Rós is playing on my iTunes right now ...

Bus Strike: Great for the Glutes!

Okay, I admit ... there's an upside to the bus strike -- my ass is starting to look fucking hot! Walking 45 minutes to and from work each day is shaping up that flubby winter bottom into a tight lean peach of a tush. Oh and my hamstrings? Tight as Pawlenty's purse strings. My calves look good enough to fucking eat.
I've decided to invest in a pair of those cute little weights to give my biceps a bit of a workout as well. Don't want to be all bottom-heavy. Now, there right ways and wrong ways to walk. Keep your chin up and your shoulders slightly back. Think tall!
Stride with purpose into those intersections. Make the SUVs fear you. Make eye contact with the drivers. Glare if you have to! You are fierce! You are walking! And don't forget to stretch when you are finished!

What else can you do to make those walks to and from work a bit more interesting?

Make Butter! Put some heavy whipping cream in a babyfood jar with a small clean rock or a marble. Add a pinch of salt or sugar to taste. Place in right hand, and walk per usual, making sure the jar gets a good shake. By the time you get to where you're going, you've got a lovely pat of homemade butter!

Put Up Fliers! Get hooked up with those Loose Weight Fast people and make some extra spending money putting up their fliers. You pass a lot of telephone poles on your way to work.

Listen to the New York Times! Download the New York Times from Audible.

Help Us Raise Money for [ ]! Take up a collection at work. Tell your coworkers: "Each morning I walk to work, will you donate $1 to the [ ] fund? Possible worthy causes: Breast Cancer, AIDS, Homeless Youth, Bus Striker's Food Bank.

Hands-Free Coffee! It's tough to walk and enjoy a cup of joe at the same time. Rig up this superb drinking hat to make your life easier.

Bus Strike!

The Twin Cities bus drivers went on strike yesterday morning at 2 am, so with it being a tad too cold to bike and without a carpool, I decided to do something I'd never done before -- rely on the old Heel-Toe Express to get me to work. It took about forty minutes of steady hoofing to get from Uptown to the Press. I took my camera along the way, so I'd like to present to you a rough pictorial timeline of my morning adventures.

7:55 am -- I approach the intersection of Lyndale and 24th. Normally, this intersection is bustling with people crossing from Muddy Waters to the bus stop. Yesterday morning? Barren.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the Pawlenty administration. How it seems to be for one group of people at the expense of other groups. I'm certainly in the group that has had to pay for Pawlenty's refusal to raise taxes. I've seen none of the benefit of that position. Instead, my health care has gone up, because the U pays less. Property taxes went up, so my rent shortly followed. And first my bus pass cost went up, and now the buses are on strike and I'm walking my ass to work. In short, Pawlenty has been quite the inconvenience to me.

7:58 am -- Pausing at the corner of 24th and Harriet, I look up the street toward my old apartment.

I've recently discovered that this part of Minneapolis is the old basin for Lake Blaisdell, which was part of the Minneapolis chain of lakes until it was filled in to make room for the city's expansion, oh, about 1890. I'll be looking into that!

8:08 am -- The wind teases the ripped remains of a parking ticket on a side street near Nicollet Ave.

Soon after pausing to take this photo, I passed a man who was walking up onto people's porches and taking the aluminum cans they had left out for recycling and filling up a giant bag that he was lugging around.

8:17 am -- Traffic courses underneath Blaisdell Avenue, separated from me by a chainlink fence, an apropos symbol of my carlessness.

I walked down Marquette and passed the Metro Transit office where you can buy bus passes. It was closed, and four guys were working the picket. I passed them by and they smiled and I smiled back and said hi. I know they didn't want to strike. The union has been making concessions for the past few years because they had been promised a nice health care benefit for retirees. Now Metro Transit wants to take that away as well. Frankly, I applaud the union for striking. The people in charge of Minnesota are an atrocious bunch. With their commitment to not raise taxes, they've completely gutted the supportive infrastructure of this state -- education, public health care and prevention, public transportation -- that made Minnesota such a wonderfully progressive place (comparably). I'm glad the union has drawn a line -- why should bus drivers suffer just because folks out in Edina can save on taxes to afford another SUV?

8:25 am -- The blank sides of downtown Minneapolis skyscrapers indifferently throw back the reflections of scurrying pedestrians.

From Metro Transit's position, they've made a fair offer -- and simply have no money to offer bus drivers what they want. But they don't have any money because Pawlenty refuses to raise taxes. This position is clearly benefitting some at the expense of others. I hope people take note.

I was about ten minutes late to work. Today I got a ride from a neighbor, and as long as the snow and cold weather keeps up I won't want to bike; I'll get a ride or walk. This strike could last a while though.