Christmas with The Dads

By Janis Ian

The Dads (surely you remember them from previous articles) are worried that their son, Jason, will grow up with no sense of tradition. It's difficult enough parenting as a gay couple, striking new ground with every step; the child needs some sense of continuity. Not wishing to inflict their own religious stereotypes on him and being more inclined to paganism (or priapism) than to regular churchgoing, they've decided to teach him the religions of the world. Christianity seems a good place to start, since many of Dad 1's forebears were Catholic priests. "Besides," they reason, "if we start early, he'll have more time to get over it later on."

Elizabeth Katz, 18, of Boston, Massachusetts

By Jeff Walsh

When Elizabeth Katz was 14, she had an experience that forever changed her life. "I had an experience I don't think very many people have," she says, now 18 and a first-year student at Vassar College.

"It was some sort of voice in the back of my head," she says. "I was sitting on my bed, alone in my room and the little voice said: 'Hey, know what? You're gay.' And it was just boom, everything made sense.

Revenge is sweet for Janis Ian

By Jeff Walsh

Before I was born, Janis Ian was making beautiful music. And with her spare, acoustic recent album "Revenge," the tradition continues. Going into the interview, I was more familiar with her humorous and poignant columns in The Advocate. For some reason, although I had picked her CDs up in stores, I never bought them.

Latest journal entries.

poetic_star's picture

Philadelphia

*inspired by the song "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene.

Golden red, your arms were a sinewy fence around
my form as we sat on the fire escape overlooking
a schizophrenic town.
Your lips tickled my cheek and I stroked the back
of your head, twisting
my fingers in your burnt wheat-colored strands.
"Remember when we used to get excited over
the smallest things," I asked.
"Like kissing awkwardly and
stumbling through doorways,
dragging in the scent of fresh
cut grass and angel's sweat?"
"Yeah," you said. "But let's play it out again,
baby, before Philadelphia

LostSouls's picture

The Crying Boy On The Front Porch

Thanks to all who read and left notes for my first journal entry, it's great to know that people here understand and care.

I've decided, with the urging of my brothers, to write a separate journal about how each of us met, which will lead to how we ended up being brothers.

I was three when my mom died, and honestly I don't remember her much. Fortunately we have lots of pictures of her, but otherwise she's just an illusion to me.

elph's picture

The Language of Love...

This will likely "strike home" for more than just a few Oasies™. The longing to be important in the life of another is well portrayed!

Magnolia Thunderpussy's picture

Why I Need A Journal

Magnolia Thunderpussy's picture

He Didn't Even Say Goodbye

Let me tell you, my step-mother was a nasty piece of work. Greedy, manipulative, conniving and evil. She had given birth, the result of her first trap, to a male reptile two years younger than I. A boy who would live his life just as protected and probably even more swaddled outside of her womb as he was when he was still at the larva stage of his development.

jazzybchick's picture

Hai Der!

Hey everyone. I'm back again. I've been pretty sick. I will probably get surgery in the next month or so. I hope it'll make me better. I might have to stop dancing for awhile. It's pretty depressing. I'll live though.

anarchist's picture

It will be higher than the hills

In the summer, the weed will ascend through the air, drifting in the comfort of the breezes that puncture the heat.
To avoid wilting, dig through the basic soil and lift the vegetation. Separate the roots and hold the leaves in the heat of the sun. As the acid pours from a cloudless sky, allow the plant to metamorphose and play with imaginary letters in a disillusioned Heaven.

As the music stops, pull the television chord and allow the Earth to choke to death.

The needles and discs of PVC were the harbingers of transcendence.


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