Tag Archives: race

Link Dump: #93

Aww, it’s Bette Davis with a kitty! And now some long-overdue links!

Some very vaginal search terms lately! For example, “charging vagina images” and “god+told+me+to+show+my+pussy” and of course, “young pussy very weary.”

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Fruit Salad

Alice Faye performs "Journey to a Star"

Alice Faye doesn’t demonstrate much dramatic range in Busby Berkeley’s The Gang’s All Here (1943). But then, she’s not asked to: Faye is here mostly for her songbird’s voice, and between numbers her starring role is reduced to romantic white noise. She falls for a soldier, then misses her soldier, then (through a series of transparently contrived misunderstandings) perceives a betrayal and feels stung by it. Of course this is all patched up with ungodly speed during the film’s climax, but in the meantime Faye wrings some teary pathos out of it all. She’s really good at that, too. Her drama may be strictly interstitial, but she nails every last note of homefront yearning.

Miranda and her infinite Tutti Frutti Hat

The film’s true star, second-billed though she may be, is Brazil’s own Carmen Miranda. Whether she’s dancing the samba or stealing scenes, everything about her is exaggerated: her fruit drag, her comic mugging, her accent. Women of color were nearly nonexistent in the films of 1940s Hollywood, but Miranda’s flamboyance and exoticism make her a one-woman spectacle; an excessive mise-en-scène unto herself. Her performance is a racialized manifestation of Berkeley’s own over-the-top visual style, and as such it eclipses the work of the white leads. It taps into the seeming obsession with Brazil that seized the country in wartime—in fact, Miranda’s “Dorita” could be the distaff counterpart to José Carioca, the fast-talking parrot introduced in Disney’s Saludos Amigos (1942). (Like Dorita, José is tightly associated with the song “Aquarela do Brasil.”)

The film's bizarre "floating head" climax

Miranda acts as the centerpiece for Berkeley’s Technicolor circus, a world that contracts and expands, that drifts between physicality and abstraction. His camera amplifies the already expansive choreography, often beggaring belief with the fluidity and duration of its crane shots. (Only a pair of cuts in the film’s first seven minutes!) As always with Busby Berkeley, the dance routines start out implausible and quickly ditch narrative altogether for the joys of pure geometry. They become macrocosms, sometimes literal kaleidoscopes, lacking purpose or explanation but still so weird, so ambitious, so beautiful. The Gang’s All Here may acknowledge the realities of war—the rationing, the heartbreak—but these impossible dances let the viewer disappear into the unreality of art.

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Link Dump: #74

This week’s hairless kitty and its prominent testicles come from the Lohan-starring bizarro flop I Know Who Killed Me. So, there’s that. Now here are many, many links:

We have a handful of weird/creepy search terms this week, like “free mivies of girls in poverty countries showing pussey” (a lot wrong with that one), “‘baby bottle ‘ masturbation” (ewww), “mississippian pussies” (huh), and the pièce de résistance, “frog -islam coming out of vagina dream meaning.” Because wow.

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Link Dump: #4

[Via matthewwatkins84]

Things have been a little slow here lately at Pussy Goes Grrr, and for that we apologize. Ashley’s starting college classes at last (wish her luck!), I’m obsessively studying the history and form of comics (and just finished Scott McCloud’s Reinventing Comics), and our blogging has suffered as a result. But worry not, fearless reader! Our posting frequency will likely enjoy a post-summer upsurge by mid-September. Plus, we watched Monster with Charlize Theron last night, and I want to write something about that.

In other news, there are people who write things and put them on the Internet. Here are some examples:

  • I will be participating in Blog Cabins’ upcoming “30 Days of Crazy Blog-a-thon” by publishing my review of Jacob’s Ladder! So take a peek at all the crazy movies being discussed, and check in on them throughout September.
  • I have some issues with this list of “25 classic science fiction movies that everybody must watch” from io9 – e.g., Tron, really? But it’s knowledgeable and well-written, so give it a glance. It’s pretty limited to mainstream favorites, but it does include The Road Warrior, Star Trek II, Brazil, which a lot of similar lists would gloss over. (Plus, the more Primer love, the better!)
  • The inestimable Stacie Ponder gives us a lol-tastic flowchart that can lead us to which exorcism movie we’re currently watching.
  • Here’s a sad but fascinating New York Times article about the muted interactions between gay students at West Point. DADT just needs to end, now.
  • Speaking of intolerance, here’s a piece by Racialicious’s Thea Lim about the fetishization of Asian women. Man, when race meets gender, you get a lot of depressing, outdated stereotypes.
  • Worried about the incipient zombie apocalypse? Don’t be! As Cracked.com’s David Dietle shows, there’s nothing to fear (except, well, zombies).
  • Here’s a fun analysis of David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive as a model of postmodern confusion, from Cinematical’s Monika Bartyzel.
  • And speaking of postmodernism, the Happy Postmodernists keep on coming. Rebekah wrote a humor piece on Ian McEwan that was too hot for McSweeney’s, I wrote about her great-uncle, and Emily took a decidedly anti-Eggers stance.

Finally, here’s your reward for sticking with us through the links: the week’s most hi-larious, creepy, and/or vaguely pornographic search terms!

  • First of all: Google users, please stop searching for Simpsons-themed porn. Yes, the Internet does contain yucky images in which “bart [has] sex with his little sister” and “bart eats marges pussy,” but they are not on this blog.
  • A few searches stood out not because of their content, but because of typographical oddities. For example, in what part of the world is it logical to type “pussy blög”? Furthermore, is the reduplication in “fucking fucking body” really necessary? I think “fucking body” can get pretty much the same results. (I just tested this. Actually, the extra “fucking” turns up 300,000 fewer results.)
  • For the person curious about “gender roles in superheroes,” I recommend starting out at Gail Simone’s old but still useful “Women in Refrigerators” website.
  • “ugly fat lesbians that are mean to me.” Huh.
  • And to the inquiry “how does female body fuck,” I can only say that it depends on which female body you’re talking about.

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WTF Cinema: Tales from the Quadead Zone

Ashley recently introduced me to the Cinema Snob, an online film reviewer associated with That Guy With The Glasses. The Cinema Snob (aka Brad Jones) talks about movies that are weirder than weird, worse than the worst, the kind of shit that even MST3K wouldn’t touch. This includes foreign knock-offs of American action/sci-fi franchises, superlatively bad monster movies like the infamous Troll 2, and all varieties of -sploitation cinema. Out of all these movies, Tales from the Quadead Zone (1987) is an extreme example, and it’s pretty near the bottom of the barrel. An ultra-cheap horror movie shot on video (or what the Snob calls “Shot on Shiteo”), it just barely qualifies as being a “movie” in the first place. Its writing is uniformly incoherent and the actors somehow make it even harder to understand the plot, while the visuals and sound quality are easily surpassed by your average 1987 video game.

Yet there’s something bizarrely compelling in Quadead Zone‘s non-artistry, and I’d like to tap into this by exposing you, the reader, to the film’s noxious images. It was directed by Chester Novell Turner, who’s even more of an enigma to his fans than The Room‘s Tommy Wiseau. I can only piece together fragments of a biography from various Internet sources (IMDb, Bleeding Skull, and B-Movie Dumpster): Turner was born in 1950, made his first feature film Black Devil Doll from Hell in 1984 (possibly in the Philadelphia area), made Quadead Zone three years later, and supposedly died in a car crash in 1996. It’s surprising that more research hasn’t been done, because Turner turned out some readymade cult classics – two hodgepodges of slasher horror, low-grade exploitation, pornography, blaxploitation, and surrealism – and he was a one-man show. It’d take less time to list the functions that Turner didn’t perform on his two movies. This also makes it clear that he was a universally untalented, but passionate man.

So, with that context, let’s descend into the Quadead Zone itself, which is a half-assed anthology film. It comes complete with a very half-assed framing story, in which a woman (played by Devil Doll star Shirley L. Jones) reads to the ghost of her son Bobby out of the titular book. Between Jones’ strangely detached acting style and the dreadful SFX, you can’t help but read in some kind of incest subtext; wind whooshes through her hair whenever her son speaks, and her eyes close as she listens. The opening really sets up the film’s truly dreamlike atmosphere – and I don’t mean “dreamlike” as in ethereal or magical. I mean dreamlike: disjointed, confusing, and lacking any form of logic or rationality. This movie is like one of those vaguely upsetting dreams where you only remember fragments the morning after.

And of course, I can’t fail to mention the film’s theme song (written and performed, naturally, by Turner himself, with help from his brother Keefe). Like the theme song for Spider Baby, it tries to situate Quadead Zone within the long-standing, Halloween-y tradition of “ghosts and ghouls,” but it’s obvious from the uneven flow of the Turners’ semi-rapping – complete with Keefe’s Cookie Monster impersonation – and the gory, rainbow-colored drawings (by Shirley L. Jones) that serve as the credits’ backdrop that this is something else altogether. Spider Baby was full of sly self-parody; Quadead Zone is more like a mangled imitation. It reminds me of those bizarre Ghanaian movie posters – it’s as if Turner had seen a few minutes of Tales of the Crypt once and thought, “Hey, I can do that.”

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that this is a rare cinematic example of outsider art, made possible by advances in video technology. Working totally outside the system, and presumably self-taught, with just a bunch of friends and relatives, Turner made a movie. And man, does it reflect his personal vision! For example, the first vignette, entitled “Food for ?”, proves that he never gave in to conventional storytelling. From what any sane viewer can gather, it’s about a poor family of eight rednecks who only have enough sandwiches to feed four – so every meal devolves into a “survival of the fittest” ritual where the father rings a bell and each family member grabs whatever he or she can get. This makes little enough sense, but then the largest and hungriest brother goes on a bloody shooting spree, and the others barely react. The segment ends with titles superimposed over those who survive the first attack, with fates like “DIED JULY 21 – RIFLE SHOT IN THE HEAD” or “LIVING HIGH ON THE HOG IN WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM.” (The spree killer dies in the “state gas chair” [wtf is a gas chair; those don’t even exist!]… making it uncertain why witness protection is necessary.)

It’s really, really hard to know what we’re supposed to get out of “Food for ?”. That’s not unusual for this movie, but it’s still remarkably disorienting. The family’s behavior is so unrealistic that it feels like this should be a morality tale, but there’s no moral in sight, unless it’s “Poverty and hunger. Violence. Sudden closure.” Quadead Zone doesn’t give us time to chew this over, however, as we’re ushered on to “The Brothers,” the story of Ted Johnson (the Devil Doll himself, Keefe Turner) revenge on his dead brother Fred. While “Food for ?” was mostly about nonsensical action, “The Brothers” is about nonsensical talking. After stealing Fred’s body, Ted and his accomplices Oscar and Moby stand around and talk, and talk, and drink, and talk. This goes on for three minutes, in a 62-minute film. And as soon as his friends leave, Ted begins a monologue to end all monologues.

To be honest, this is probably the most interesting part of the movie. Ted’s wrath as he yells at his brother almost reminds me of a poor man’s Hubert Selby, sprinkled liberally as it is with the words “goddammit” and “sonuvabitch.” Keefe may at times be barely audible over the funereal Casiotone soundtrack, and (as the screenshot above demonstrates) it may all be shot in a really dull, incompetent way, but we still get some raw emotion out of the scene. Ted dresses Fred’s corpse up as a clown and plans to bury him as revenge for, well, everything; Fred’s neon silhouette ghost reinhabits his body, has a protracted fight with Ted while screaming like a banshee synthesizer, and ends up impaling him on a pitchfork. The end.

This, I think, is what’s oddly compelling about Turner’s characters: they have the most fucked-up responses to already fucked-up situations. Is your family playing a sadistic game with its food? Shoot several of them! Did your brother ruin your life and then die? Bury him in your basement wearing a ridiculous outfit! It’s like Edgar Allan Poe by way of John Waters and Jack Hill, then deprived of all funding or talent. With the final segment, we return to Bobby and his mother, and are introduced to Daryl, Bobby’s abusive father, who’s sick of his woman’s son’s-ghost-related fantasies. One more protracted fight later, he lies stabbed to death on the kitchen floor; after a run-in with the police, Bobby’s mother flees to the bathroom to slit her throat . But that’s not the end! No, Bobby’s mother comes back (“21 HRS. LATER”) as another creepy neon ghost outline, and begins reading Bobby the story of everything that just happened to them.

As should be obvious by now, this isn’t just your run-of-the-mill “so-bad-it’s-good” cheapo horror movie. It’s a lot more nightmarish than that. We’ve got three stories in a row about family members brutally murdering each other, concluding with an abused and deluded woman killing herself to join her dead son. I think there might be some deep emotional trauma exorcised here on Turner’s part. Some scenes, like the interminable conversation between Ted and his friends, even remind me of Charles Burnett’s masterpiece of urban realism Killer of Sheep (1977). So yes, this is a really bad horror movie, but could it also be partially about violence, betrayal, and abuse in very real dysfunctional families, represented through fantastical, idiosyncratic images?

Tales from the Quadead Zone just raises so many more questions than it answer. It’s laughable and absurd, but also unforgettable and depressing. It looks like it was made with the smallest amount of skill or thought, but some of its most ridiculous moments stick with you. Like many of my favorite Z-grade rip-offs, it really just shows what one man can do, no matter how little knowledge of filmmaking he has, as long as he’s got some money, some equipment, willing friends and family, and bottomless commitment to the project. Chester Novell Turner clearly had that, and in his short life he produced two films that would definitely be “cult” items if enough people bought into them.

So, have I made you at all curious to see what horrors lie within the Quadead Zone? Someone has uploaded a shitty VHS copy to YouTube, so dive into this hour-long bizarrofest, if you dare. As the theme song says, “If you like your terror adult and strong / welcome here, you can’t go wrong!” Well, CNT, you may not have made a good movie – you may have made a really, truly awful movie – but it’s a movie like no other. We can only assume that your neon ghost is sitting in an ugly room somewhere, telling other ghosts more tales… from the Quadead Zone.

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Saturday Theme Songs: Power Rangers

Granted, it’s Sunday, but the point is the same. This is the opening from the first season of the original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, which ran from 1993-95. By buying tons of footage from Japanese tokusatsu shows, Saban Entertainment (which had a very bizarre logo) was able to brand a new product – one which was aimed directly at the American youth market of the mid-’90s. Embedded in the Power Rangers opening in a strange saga of cultural appropriation, national differences, and how to win over kids with awesomeness. It’s also a warning to those who would spell gerunds with no “g” and no apostrophe. But hell, it was still part of my early childhood.

Here’s a challenge: watch the Power Rangers opening side by side with the one for Kyōryū Sentai Zyuranger, the show from which it stole most of its fights and special effects. Now look at the significant changes in the Japan-to-America transition. Every weird Japanese touch has been left out, from the lifelike dinosaurs to any distinctly Japanese shooting locations to the traditional costumes and weapons of the original rangers. Saban strips away any non-American cultural specifics. Power Rangers begins with blunt exposition wherein comical hag/villain Rita Repulsa (formerly the Japanese “Bandora”) sets her sights on a really low-rent rendition of “earth,” and the wise face Zordon tells his robot buddy to “recruit a team of teenagers with attitude.” Ah, attitude, that ’90s zeitgeist.

One major difference between the Japanese and American iterations is the pace of the editing. Whereas the Japanese version, especially toward the end, has a relatively leisurely pace, Power Rangers takes its lightning bolt logo to heart. The characters are introduced in very brief snapshots, even using split-screen to get more information across faster. At times, shots go by so fast you can barely perceive them on anything but a subliminal level, as they cram in as many special effects as possible per second. Kenta Satō’s Japanese theme song is relaxed and triumphant; Ron Wasserman’s quasi-metal theme is far more repetitive and urgent. (Wasserman notably composed theme songs for other Saban series, like X-Men.) Lightning really is emblematic of what this opening is trying to do – it’s a sensory overload, striking kids with hyperactive music and flashing lights while emphasizing the Zords’ abilities to transform and unify.

So the transition from Japan to America is manifested not just in the language and the characters’ national identities, but also in the visual iconography and style. Zyuranger is another entry in a long-standing tradition of Japanese television; Power Rangers is the consummate American kids’ show, with attitude. As many have observed since the show began, Power Rangers‘ cast is a hilariously unsubtle attempt to recreate the American melting pot within a California suburb, including the likes of Trini Kwan, the generically Asian-American Yellow Ranger, to Kimberley Hart, the ultra-feminine Pink Ranger. It’s a curious collision between an America that’s supposedly beyond race and the need for extremely legible characters in such a fast-paced show. In the end, though, the individual Zords merge to form the Megazord. So maybe, in Saban’s America, an individual’s race is transcended by the awesomeness of the group.

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Body-fascism in Avatar and homophobia everywhere

So: my first week of spring term has come to an end, and I’m finally ready to blog again.  I’ve watched a lot of movies lately, started some classes, read some comics & nonfiction, listened to the new Evelyn Evelyn album, and of course read a bazillion things on the Internet. Lately both Ashley and I have been browsing the very awesome website Sociological Images, which has stirred all kinds of new ideas about how bodies are presented in the media.

Speaking of which! This morning I was reading the latest issue of Sight & Sound and received a pleasant surprise. In the Letters section on the last page was a missive from Dariush Alavi complaining about Avatar; he pointed out how S&S‘s review of Cameron’s mega-opus was, like everyone else, “cheering the money” despite the film’s “execrable politics.” (Politics which Ashley and I have attacked ourselves at great length; see here.) Alavi’s letter really struck home with one particular portion, which highlights some very problematic parts of the film I noticed, but hadn’t been fully able to vocalize.

Avatar must be one of the most racist, body-fascist and unimaginative high-profile American movies I’ve seen in a long time… With their cornrows and ‘generic African’ accents, [the Na’vi] represent all the worst aspects of the notion of the ‘noble savage’, and are evidence of the movie’s patronising attitude to its characters and audience. The uniformity of the Na’vi appearance – from the perfect teeth to the ridiculous waists – is almost as horrific as their facial features, which seem to be an extrapolation of the ‘nipped and tucked’ look favoured in California.

I think this letter makes some fantastic points. Superficially, Avatar is a simplistic man vs. nature epic, contrasting the technology and violence of the humans with the Na’vis’ spiritual connection to their environment. But the Na’vi (aka symbolic Native Americans/Africans) aren’t given subjectivities of their own, and Cameron colonizes them – and all indigenous peoples by extension – just as much as his evil humans do. They’re not characters so much as aesthetic objects, and they remain entirely passive (albeit still so visually pleasing) until brought into action under Jake Sully’s leadership.

And this passivity and objectification is intensified by Cameron’s total disinterest in individualizing the Na’vi. They live communally, I guess, so they don’t need to bother with any but the most cursory personalities – the chief, the priestess, the princess, and rival, and… the rest. Most of the Na’vis’ roles in the film pretty much amount to being eye candy – their director’s motion-captured harem. As Alavi points out, this isn’t just creative laziness: it’s also a desire to put good and evil in the most audaciously obvious of physical terms. Colonel Quaritch is scarred, therefore he’s evil; the Na’vi are enviably tall and thin, a race of Mary Sues, therefore they must be good. The most apt descriptor for them as a race isn’t even “peaceful” or “meditative” so much as “beautiful.”

As was discussed at length, Avatar‘s story basically mirrored that of District 9, but made everything so much easier. In District 9, Blomkamp asks his protagonist and audience to empathize with a race of spat-upon, crustacean refugees referred to only with the pejorative “prawns.” But who’d think twice about becoming a Na’vi? Every subversive piece of Cameron’s story was itself undercut through extreme use of cliché, and the glamorous, better-than-human appearance of the Na’vi fits in this pattern. I think “body-fascist” is the perfect word for a movie that makes its oppressed minority into a species of supermodels, out of the fear that if any Na’vi were possible fat, or ugly, or not quite so sparkly as Edward Cullen, then the audience might fail to identify with them. By which I mean, fuck James Cameron.

Anyway! That’s enough for now about Avatar, the movie so bland it earned a zillion dollars. Why don’t we move on to something more interesting, like flatworm reproduction? Or alternately, also worth discussing: another letter from Sight & Sound, in which Andrew Brettell writes, “Why do film directors feel the need to add these qualifications to works about gay characters?” He refers to a statement from A Single Man‘s director Tom Ford, wherein he said, “It’s not a gay story, he just happens to be gay.” This ties in beautifully to a book I’ve been reading for months, Vito Russo’s classic study of LGBT images in film, The Celluloid Closet. [Caveat for what follows: I have not yet seen A Single Man.]

Russo introduces the chapter “Frightening the Horses” with a series of quotes from filmmakers involved with LGBT-themed movies of the ’60s and ’70s – William Wyler (The Children’s Hour), Rod Steiger (The Sergeant), Gordon Willis (Windows), Rex Harrison (Staircase), and John Schlesinger (Sunday, Bloody Sunday). The gist of all these quotes? The films aren’t about homosexuality; they’re about some other, non-gay theme, usually loneliness. It’s strange that despite the passage of 40 or so years and the flowering of a whole queer independent cinema in America, directors of mainstream movies about homosexuality are still compelled to qualify their work, and even when the directors themselves are gay, like Tom Ford.

I don’t necessarily blame the people making these statements, but I think it does provide insights into our straight society’s attitude toward stories about, gasp, gay people. It’s as if straight moviegoers need to be cajoled into the theaters. “Don’t worry; you won’t be asked to share in Colin Firth’s homoerotic desires. It’s just about loneliness! You can identify with loneliness, can’t you?” So maybe this method of framing movies is double-edged: it certainly looks like cowardice, backing down from the content of your own film, but it can possibly serve as a Trojan horse, a way to lure vaguely homophobic or at least homo-anxious people into a movie they might not otherwise see. They sit down in the theater, they start identifying with Colin Firth, and by the end they might say, “Wow! Oppression based on your sexual orientation does suck!”

So that’s a possible defense of these wishy-washy statements, which admit that the characters are gay, but insist that the movie’s about more universal themes: they’re giving a special point of entrance to ignorant, self-absorbed straight viewers. I think this also reveals a lot about how straight is seen as the incontrovertible default or norm. (Kind of like, oh, how women are women and men are people, or how black is an alternate option.) Even now, homosexuality is identified as, yes, different, strange, abnormal, wrong, sinful, and of course as synonymous with sex-obsessed. So gay men can’t be trusted with Boy Scouts, for example, or if you try to incorporate a gay character into children’s fiction, you’re perverting them and soiling their innocence.

Do you remember the outcry over King & King? Or any number of books for children with totally nonsexual presentations of gay characters? This is the big issue here: even though stories for kids are absolutely full of hetero relationships, whether it’s between princes and princesses, or mothers and fathers, or animals that fall in love, once you switch the genders, then it becomes dirty and sexual. Because male/female relationships are always pure and chaste and kid-friendly, and they reproduce in clean and unobjectionable ways, right? But if you say the word “gay” to a child, you may as well be shouting “ANAL SEX!” in their ear over and over. Except… that’s not true; the image of homosexuals as always craving and having sex is just a malicious stereotype. However, since the people (men) in charge – whether socially, politically, or economically – decide the stereotypes, they decide the children’s books, and they decide what’s normal.

There’s also been an outcry over mentioning homosexuality in middle/high school sex ed courses. Which basically shows how parents want their kids to grow up either not knowing that gays exist – invisibility – or else regarding them as weird, vaguely predatory, but ultimately pitiful creatures who crawl around the fringes of cities (i.e., the dominant image presented pre-1960s, and sometimes post-). There are so many entangled fears here that it’s hard to straighten them out, but I think a huge one is fearing that their sons/daughters just might be gay (“I knew I shouldn’t have listened to so much Elton John when I was pregnant!), and if they learn about homosexuality in an accepting social climate, then dear God, they might just feel comfortable coming out. And then not only will the queers have invaded the TVs and radios with their icky, anal-sex-having selves, but they’ll have invaded poor God-fearing folks’ families, as well. As if homosexuality is a tumor you can eliminate with enough bigoted chemotherapy.

So that’s my brief take on, oh, the fears that put the “phobia” in “homophobia.” It reminds me of a basic tenet from my melodrama class last year, propounded by Linda Williams: “home as a space of innocence.” One of her exemplars of this theme, it’s worth mentioning, is D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation, which could make a pretty good template for the kinds of new homophobic myths that have been developed over the past few decades. According to these hateful, deluded people, they’re just protecting their homes – be that literally, or  referring to all of America as Reagan’s “shining city” – and spreading homophobic lies is just like preemptively nailing all the doors shut or putting up a fence. Thankfully, through the beauty of tolerance and increasing education, that’s all starting to change.

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