For a group of people who are trying so hard to be considered part of normal society, gays excel at class segregation amongst themselves.

We have lipstick lesbians and dykes; there are queens, twinks, chickens, leather daddies; masters; subs; boys; slaves; pigs; gym bunnies and alternatives. If you are not this, then you must be that. If not that, then surely you are this. And each group looks at the other with a certain amount of disdain, attitude or envy.

The Silverlake crowd laughs at the queens in West Hollywood; the San Francisco gay snickers at the Los Angeles homo. Adamantly pointing their finger at the attitude the other exhibits, they are convinced they are “above” all of that, “better” than that. Just as surely as old money always thought it was “above” and “better” than the nouveau riche.

So caught up in proving that they do not have an attitude, determined they are beyond all that, they fail to see that their “non-attitude” has become their own fully definable attitude.

We so define our own identity by our surroundings; our gym membership; the car we own; where we live; what magazines we read; where we work; our abundance (or lack of) of class, culture and intellect. We make it such a point to prove how uniquely different we are from “them,” we fail to see we are just like “them.” We only use different names for different labels.

It is funny to hear how somebody can read most of the 236 pages I have written these last three years and then tell me that they are not sure how familiar or understanding I am with the typical American idioms. I can have an entire dialogue about the definition of submissive and dominant, yet apparently still leave doubt as to whether or not I know what tuna casserole is.

And the attempt of wanting to appear understanding and aware of any cultural differences still comes across as condescending and belittling.

It may be a meltdown up north or a drama down south; whether you read about the fortress of Los Angeles or actually live outside the walls of it; you can write the HOPWA grant or apply for HOPWA assistance; in the end it’s all good.

Because you still put your pants on one leg at the time and you still use toilet paper to wipe your ass. Just like the rest of us. Just like me.

Then again, I am from the Old Country.

We gave birth to Art Nouveau, Nouvelle Cuisine, and Nouvelle Vague; we witnessed the Nouveau Riche of the last 150 years as they came to be in the “New World.”

It is not about attitude or being better than; it is not about you getting to feel good at my expense.

It is about us both getting to feel good at our allowance.

It is about being the same, despite our differences.

Everything else, quiet honestly, is just très gauche.

I have lived in Los Angeles for well over 12 years now and I really thought I had seen it all when it came to entertainment value.

I was wrong, so very wrong. Tonight I watched a preview for a new show coming to FOX TV this season, entitled “The Swan.” A more correct title for this show would have been “Everything that is wrong in society today,” or perhaps even “The missing piece of the puzzle.”

For those of you who haven’t yet had the misfortune to hear about this new level in entertainment, let me inform you of the premise. 20 candidates, all female, have been selected through their own video submissions to appear on national television. These 20, what the show tragically calls, “ugly ducklings” will have plastic surgery performed on camera. They will then recover for a period of 3 months, all the time not having access to any mirrors, before revealing the results of their surgery on national television where all 20 will take place in a beauty pageant. A pageant from which one of those fortunate 20 will be crowned “the Swan.”

At first, I just starred at the screen with my mouth open. Did I really hear the premise of this show correctly? I did, I saw the same preview 3 additional more times tonight.

In a world where women everywhere are rising up against the stereotypical image placed upon them by society, by fashion magazines, by culture and by entertainment outlets such as movies and television; in a world where millions of people are suffering from anorexia and bulimia because they suffer from such low self esteem because of this stereotypical image; in a world where teenage suicide is up and peer pressure to “fit in” has become a lethal stress factor in teenagers lives; in this world today, we create “The Swan.”

A show that ONCE AGAIN re-enforces the statement that unless you conform to society’s rules of what beauty is, your chances for living a rich, full, rewarding life are slim to nil. Henceforth, you are considered “ugly” and have no other option for succeeding in life other than to have surgery performed on your body, after which you will be once again JUDGED by upstanding members of the beauty society to make sure that your plastic surgeon and dentist did such adequate work that you may now consider yourself “a Swan.”

The truly sad part is that this show was created by a woman; I don’t know if she considers herself to be an ugly duckling or a swan. What I do know is this: part of her thinking has been influenced by the heroine chic of fashion magazines, the mandates from Elle, Vogue, Vanity Fair and more that unless your breasts are a perfect size whatever, your nose is a certain length and your teeth are platinum white your chances for survival are slim.

And I wonder what message we are telling our youth by allowing this show on television. Are we still saying “don’t worry about good grades, high academics, values, manners and principles? The only worry you should have is that you look just like we all want to look. And if you don’t look like that, there is hope. You can go on national television and degrade yourself and re-affirm the concept that looks are indeed EVERYTHING and alter your appearance so that you are more likely to fit into a society that STILL judges you on outward appearances rather than what is on the inside.”

I remember the story about the swan that my mother told me, a story that was a tale of how true beauty takes time to shine and comes from within. Beauty that comes from being strong and having faith in yourself, not from an outside surgeon with a scalpel and knife.

My name is Sven

A swan. 

Okay, now time the following: open up AOL or whatever email program you use. Click on new message, type in email address, subject line. Then type “Hi, just wanted to say good morning. Things are busy today so let’s talk at the end of the day!” Those are 20 words. At an average rate of 60 wpm, that took 20 seconds. Run spell check, hit send and you are done. How did we do? Pretty much close to 1 minute, right? That is of course not counting how long it takes for the message to arrive. That could be another minute or another hour.

So what is the difference you ask? The difference is like night and day. To hear a person’s voice instead of reading a computer screen makes a gigantic difference. I will give you another example.

A couple of years ago, a dear friend of mine suffered a stroke. Unable to talk, he was laying on the floor of his apartment paralyzed. Then the phone rang. By somehow moving his body against the desk, he tripped the phone on the floor. With the receiver now of the hook, the party who called could hear that something wasn’t right. They called 911 and rushed over. Today, my friend Bart is completely rehabilitated. Now imagine if the friend instead of calling that morning had opted to send Bart an email. Bart would have been on the floor unable to do anything. Not getting a response back, the friend would have been irritated and not try again. Two days later the maid discovered Bart dead on the floor. Exaggeration? No, not really.

I just had an entire argument by ways of email. A 13 year friendship, which started before the advance of the World Wide Web, ended up being played out online. It is bad enough that the art of true letter writing has gone the way of many things, but we are becoming alarmingly more reluctant in exhibiting human contact. We hide more and more in the mazes of the WEB to avoid confrontation, conflict and responsibility.

The written word is a wondrous thing. It can unleash your imagination, inspire your dreams, and invoke the greatest passion. It can also set the wrong tone, call on the wrong emotion and be misinterpreted. We all joke around with our friends from time to time. Now say I would have gotten up this morning cranky and irritable. I check my email and here is a note from you that says “Listen you freak, how about dinner? Its your turn to buy” Given the state of mind I was already in, that note did nothing to brighten up my day and quiet frankly pissed me off to the effect that I responded “Cook your own damn dinner” Now, if I had woken up in a good mood, my response would have been “Pick you up at 7, you nerd”

There are a million words out there; none of them can ever relay the same passion, love, sadness or any other emotion written than when they are spoken by another human voice.
Stevie Wonder wrote a song entitled “I Just Called to Say I love you,” I wonder if he would have had as big a hit if he had called it “I Just Emailed to Type I Love You”

For 7 cents a minute, make a difference, be crazy: call someone.

My name is Sven.

Will they please come down from the cross?

And who was it that came up with “that what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger?” Because I want to have his or her address and show exactly how strong I have gotten this last year!

Then again, I also spent part of the day wondering if maybe I have just lost all grip on reality and have really gone of the deep end. What I am trying to say is that I do believe every person has breaking point. And with enough effort from society, world events, force major and just plain bad luck, we can actually reach that breaking point. It is a very interesting mental state to arrive in when you objectively can tell you are at your wit’s end. Literally. You are standing at a crossroad inside your brain: left is insanity and right is sanity but all of a sudden you notice yourself more leaning towards the left….

Sometimes, I think people forget that our own defense weakens when being beaten up time after time after time. Things that couldn’t hurt us at all 1 year ago, all of a sudden can feel like that mortal dagger being stabbed in your heart. That tiny Achilles heel is now pretty much big red bull’s-eye. But yet, we are all supposed to “pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and do it all over again.” Time after time.

I forget who once said that every action is followed by a reaction. It may not be a physical reaction as much as a psychological reaction. Personally, I find myself becoming more and more of a recluse. I want to stay inside my apartment, inside my own world. At least there I can pretend all is well and I am safe from harm. Inside my apartment I don’t have to worry about bills, friends walking out, money running out, no food, surgery or any of that stuff. I can just paint and end up painting the prettiest picture in the world. All inside my head.

In my world, I don’t have to explain why I am not okay with my best friend walking out on me over Christmas, only to come back 6 weeks later pretending all is well. In my world I am working on restoring houses with Garry. In my world I can pretend to be okay with the fact that I haven’t slept with anyone in over 5 months and probably can’t for another 2. In my world it’s okay to be a sexual being without being made to feel that that is a sign of low self esteem. In my world I can still miss my dad. In my world good guys do finish first. IN my world my best friend says that he is sorry he fucked things up. In my world I still believe in falling in love. In my world there are butterflies in my stomach, bright smiles when the phone rings and nervous laughter when we talk. In my world I have somebody to come home too. In my world I have at least 1 rock to hold n to. In my world.

Then again, in my world it is okay to get high. IN my world I am okay with there being no light at the end of the tunnel (bite me) IN my world it is okay to just sit down and cry because all of this just sucks ass and I am so damn tired of having to keep a stiff upper lip or keeping it together. In my world, it is okay to be tired. In my world I like being alone and not seeing anyone for weeks.

In my world there is at least one person who doesn’t belittle me and lets me cry and be pissed off. In my world people who say “into each life some rain must fall” get prosecuted. In my world it is understood that “taking a deep breath” will cause you hyperventilate! In my world dark clouds are not allowed to have a silver lining and it is generally agreed upon that we should ban that homecoming stretch; you can kick that horse in the ass instead of having to get right back on it and Que Sera BLAH!

But that is just in my world.

So tomorrow morning, I will wake up. I will open the curtains, look outside and BITTERLY hum:

Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace

Molly is the singer in a band.

Desmond says to Molly – girl I like your face!

And Molly says this as she takes him by the hand:

Obladi Oblada, life goes on bra

Lala how the life goes on.

Obladi Oblada, life goes on bra

Lala how the life goes on.

OH SHUT UP!

My name is Sven