By Jeff Walsh
With his acoustic album "Motorcycle Childhood," Tyson Meade uses spare arrangement and raw vocals to share details of his life. It's very different from his other role as the openly gay lead singer of the Chainsaw Kittens, where he used to take to the stage in lipstick, tights and mini-skirts.
By Janis Ian
In a small town somewhere at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, teachers prepare for the coming semester. Professors grimly consult lesson plans, breaking in new Dockers ("I still wear the same size I wore when I graduated," they brag, bellies hanging over their straining waistlines like blubber off Ahab's whaler). Dormitories are surrounded by troops of exterminators bent on eradicating last year's mess before the health department shows up for a final check. The grounds are infested with newly arrived victims, ready to give the university their all and terrified that anything beyond the boundaries of the parents' homes will eat them alive. If they only knew.
By Janis Ian
I am standing with my tit caught in a wringer while a mall-haired technician tells me to relax. I am thinking that if men had to put their testicles in a vise as part of a yearly physical, we would have a cure for the common cold by now. I am very frightened.
The pink slip came as we were leaving on vacation: "We have found what appears to be a routine abnormality..." What's routine about an abnormality? I decide to put on a brave front and joke that in all my life no one has ever called me routine; then I burst into tears. Later on I do the grown-up thing and panic, furtively examining my breasts in the mirror for changes. I'm afraid that if I touch them to check for lumps, I will set something off. I wish they were smaller. I wish they were removable. I wish they were on anyone but me.
Testosterone, injected into a female body, causes a second puberty. Remember how fun puberty was the first time around? Not at all, right? Well, the second time around, when, for folks like me, it's the right puberty, it's actually fun, believe it or not. The acne for me, thank the gods, isn't that bad (thank you dad for your good skin!). My shoulders are broadening, my voice dropping, I'm getting hairy, it's great.
I watched the Micheal Jackson special last night. I thought I could stomach Jacko's Wacko-ness. I had two expressions during the entire thing
2)Mouth agape and screaming in horror
How that man is allowed to have children is beyond me. He has issues with children, and the scene where he was feeding "Blanket" was incredibly disturbing. Let's shake the kid uncontrollably while suffocating it with a veil like thing.
The sauna that is my room... and the job that I want.
We had the entire place to ourselves tonight, just the four of us. Though I missed seeing everyone else that we spent the week with, it was nice to just be the four of us, like some of the old times.
I feel like hiding. Cocooning. Sitting quietly at home and reading Malcolm X or finishing my college essays, or working out until I emerge superior to my former self so entirely that the person sitting here now won
And some anti-gay quips from dad.