Detective Laura McCallister

I have heard through the grapevine that my supposed puppet-master-author, Rosalyn Wraight, has a book coming out next month. I have also heard that I am in the book, as is my lover, Holly. This book goes by the name of Scavengers. It is narrated by a friend of mine, Kate Sutter. Even though Kate is a reporter, I’ll bet my life that there will be things you’ll hear about me that you must take with the proverbial grain of salt. Trust me, I am as “in charge” as I pretend to be!

So Kate decides to tell the world about our little group called The Lesbian Adventure Club, or Dykes Who Dare, as she calls it. We get together once a month, and the theme is set by a different couple each time. She chose to spill the beans on the last one, which was a scavenger hunt. She has nerve, I tell you. I think she’s trying to outdo Woman Justice, starring yours truly. I’ve heard she even getting her own web site. We shall see about this.

If you’d care to read the first chapter, there’s a link to your left under Pages. I’m reminding you though: grain of salt, grain of salt.

Here’s the cover. Yes, my little silhouette is up there. You’ll have to figure out which one is me; I won’t tell you. And don’t go ogling Holly!

5 Couples, 8 Clues, 24 Hours, and 1 Pants-Pissing Good Time

If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.

—Martin Luther King, Jr.

Heaven and earth still pause, Dr. King, to laud what you did while here and what you still inspire.

My heart goes out to all the Californians, facing fire, losses, and evacuations. It truly must be horrible.

However, why do I not think that we’ll see post-disaster man-made disasters this time: people dying, people in need of rescue and food, begging for help that might not come, etc. Nah, we won’t see it this time, and it won’t take years to help people and to rebuild.

Because the administration and FEMA learned a hard lesson from Katrina and the poor souls in NOLA?

Unfortunately, no. I think we all know why this will be different.

Stay strong, California. Get well, New Orleans.

Should old acquaintances be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

A fitting song, I think, to be singing on this, Constitution Day 2007. It seems a day to reminisce about the times — years ago now — when “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States” was what we expected and got from those we put in office.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Remember?

See, gays are generally an accepting, peaceable group. Discrimination often — but certainly not always — tends to make a soul more sympathetic to the plights of others.

It’s “your side” that tends to be filled with hatred…hiding behind self-righteousness and passing judgment.

When your “glass closets” come crashing down around you, I feel no sympathy. Had your “glass closet” been used as merely a survival tool, then I would, as I do not like to see people suffer. But when it has been used to protect a secret that reeks with pompous hypocrisy — allowing you to inflict suffering on others and to perpetuate hate — it doesn’t do a whole lot more than make me sick to my stomach.

See, if you were just honest with yourself and accepted who you are, “our side” would welcome you, Republican and all. It’s “your side” that will shun and ridicule. Just the hate-mongers would abandon you.

We would not.

Seriously, come on out. The light burns worse inside a “glass closet” and you don’t have to worrying about throwing stones.

Then you won’t have to stand on national television and profess, “I have never been gay!” (”And I apparently have never heard of the ‘How do you make Ben gay?’ joke; otherwise I would have made a better choice of words.”)

Oh, and make sure to ask yourself if your fellow GOPers want you to resign because you broke the law or because of what the circumstances imply. I, myself, think you should resign because broke the law and because you are a hypocrite.

Paraphrasing this fine piece of journalism:

Man’s balls hurt.
I’ve heard this is a line guys use to get sex.

Man asks doctors to remove balls.
That’s a first, huh?

The doctors don’t have the balls to do it for him.
Betcha money he had a crappy HMO.

Man hires “professionals” to do the deed in a DIY home surgical unit.
Betcha he found ‘em on CraigsList and got the DIY plans from how2dostuff.com.

The “professionals” vanish with the man’s balls.
Betcha those are on eBay.

Man’s “groin area” bleeds heavily.
One minute a scrotum; next, groin area.

Man calls daughter.
“Hi, Peanut. Listen, Daddy’s balls are missing and…”

Daughter calls for help.
Duh! But for whom?

Now I guess I shouldn’t have too hard a time wondering why this guy wasn’t reading this Lesbian Detective’s blog — even though that makes much more sense to me than asking to have your balls chopped off — but anyway… Had the guy simply read my blog, he would have known how to fix his problem: simply attend a Buddy Squirrel Early Bird Sale.

That’s why I’m a fictional public servant, and he is without non-fictional balls.

Just in case you were wondering.

…with all its kabooms. I’m sorry, but when we’re in the midst of a war, it’s hard to hear explosions and smell gunpowder and have it feel festive. Our kids are dying to the same sounds.

But we must… We must celebrate our independence from King George III, even though we are in the lethal grip of yet another one, a self-appointed one, a SCOTUS-appointed one.

But do we feel independent?

Do we feel that freedom our founders so craved and fought for?

Why in gods’ name do we sit back so silently (except for the goddamn kabooms)?

Where is the American spirit?

Locked up in Guantanamo Bay?

I have never and will most likely never dance on anyone’s grave. Death is by far the nastiest thing we as humans must endure — not our own, mind you, but the death of those we love. Grief is a nasty bastard, and for those in its vicious grip, my heart goes out.

But I also don’t think that one should never speak ill of the dead. Death is not a magical virus remover that somehow wipes away all wrongs and installs sainthood. Death is about the living, and for the living, those wrongs are still indelible. For example:

I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. … These women just need a man in the house. That’s all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they’re mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They’re sexist. They hate men; that’s their problem.

If what Falwell believed is true, then there is a Big Man in a Big House telling him what day it is: judgment day. And all the Big Man needs to do is to point to that little placard on the pearly gates: No hate beyond this point! The Big Man will lead him home, indeed, with a simple pointing of His finger in another direction. As simple as that, not like the enraged, wrathful God Falwall depicted who sent AIDS to deal with his wrath against homosexuals, who felt mocked by the “Pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians … the ACLU, People for the American Way” who caused 9/11 to happen. Just a simple pointing of the fingers.

Fall well, Doctor.

When the day is taken over with heading about another school shooting —this time at Virginia Tech— there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to say. The jaw just drops, and the heart just hurts for victims and for families. How many lives were ruined today? Certainly not just 33. How many phone calls were placed today that permanently ruined a family’s life? How many cops walked that long haul to the front door of someone’s house, a simple knock putting them in charge of delivering the fatal blow. Those ripples in the pond can very often be tidal waves.

So suddenly, one’s own troubles seems so small, so insignificant.

We are instantly not man or wo(man); we are humanity.

If all detectives were fictional detectives, I’d be in a good crowd.

If all victims were fictional victims, we could just simply turn the page.

If all perps were fictional perps that wounded only with a writer’s intent, we could feel our rage and then shut the book.

Today, I embrace my fictionality, neither bucking it nor boasting it. I am an Ethereal Girl. A string of nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs.

Today, I don’t want to be anything more.

If I were in charge, losing a child would earn a person immunity. He or she has scaled the pinnacle of pain; it should all be downhill from there. If I were in charge.

Today, however, I’m still not in charge, and so my thoughts go out to Elizabeth Edwards. The world needs as many good hearts as possible. I think she has one, and I hope it keeps beating strong for a long time to come.

Keep slugging, Mrs. Edwards!