Wake Up

Some have taken offense at Rep. Brian Sims' Facebook comment regarding last Thursday's brutal attack on two gay men in Philadelphia. What Sims said was visceral, and that's exactly why it worked.

That's my Congressman.

Yes, it could be interpreted as a call for violence against violence, or as Queerty called it, "straight-bashing." But it's not that at all. Where in Sims' comment does he advocate Gayborhood fury be unleashed on every man who likes pussy?

It's rare enough for politicians to speak passionately and from the gut, but to do it on our community's behalf without first consulting a focus group is unheard of. Brian Sims said exactly what ever gay man, and frankly most of Philadelphia, was thinking last week: "Give me a tire iron and five minutes alone with these people."

But the pious trolls at Queerty only know the meaning of the word "raw" when it applies to Chris Crocker's latest porn. They're so busy sustaining the stereotype of the sex crazed pervert or the limp wristed fairy that it's actually shocking when one of our own aggressively shows us his balls.

Change takes place in the courthouse but it starts in the street. Wake up and smell the blood on the sidewalk.

Social Media Wins the Day

Last Thursday's brutal attack on two gay men near Rittenhouse Square was slow to make traction in the news. The papers buried it under stories about casinos sixty miles away and when it found its way on television, it was wedged between the weather and puff pieces.

One of the victims suffered skull fractures, a deep laceration on the face, and has his jaw will be wired shut for eight weeks.

However, the Philadelphia Police Department and the online community took it a little less lightly. After the police released very clear video surveillance footage of ten to twelve suspects, social media proved just how little we rely on newspapers and the six o'clock news. Even more, it proved just how swift we can be when we work together.

In a matter of hours, Facebook and Twitter turned these suspects into Philadelphia's Most Wanted. The Citizens Crime Commission initially offered a $1000 reward for information on the suspects, followed by three local businesses putting a $10,000 bounty on their freedom.

For a few tense hours, ten to twelve of the tristate's worst citizens must have been shitting their pants as they watched their faces walk across surprisingly clear surveillance footage. But that's when things took a 21st Century twist and went all Justice Leaguey, virtually speaking.

Shortly after posting the video on his Twitter feed, @greggybennett, former cast member of Real Housewives of New Jersey received and posted a photograph from a "friend of a friend of a friend" that showed a group of individuals matching those in the surveillance footage. 

The red vest is undeniable, and several others can be clearly made in the rest of the surveillance video.

It was almost immediately retweeted by @FanSince09. Minutes later followers had noted that the restaurant was Rittenhouse's La Viola. 

@FanSince09 used Facebook Graph Search to find profiles checked in at La Viola prior to the attack and managed to match a number of faces and clothing to the surveillance footage and the photograph which, at the time, was still available on Facebook and conveniently tagged by a few of the suspects.

By the time Detective Joseph Murray was contacted by @FanSince09, the hunt was essentially over. Late last night, lawyers representing a few of the suspects had contacted the PPD to make arrangements to surrender to questioning this morning. The police have not yet announced any arrests or additional information, short of deserved praise for @FanSince09, @greggybennett, and social media in general.

Despite the excitement that unfolded last night and the expectations many may have had this morning, Murray was quick to remind everyone that this is not an episode of Law & Order. With upwards of fifteen suspects likely to be brought in for questioning, it will take time to interview them all and sift through the evidence. It may be days, even a week, before arrests can be made.

As it is, it looks good for the victims (at least in terms of justice) and bad for those who chose to lawyer up late last night. Unfortunately, hate crime legislation that includes LGBT victims was struck down in 2002 and failed again in 2009. As it stands, the maximum sentence for aggravated assault that causes, or attempts to cause, serious bodily injury is twenty years and $25,000.

Without clear footage of the attack, it may seem it would be hard to prove which suspects were directly responsible for the injuries. However, given the large group of suspects, there is no question that two or more will sing like canaries and sell out their friends. And given the outrage spanning the nation last night, no District Attorney can afford to tread lightly. 

In the mean time, let's all sit back and think about the victims and their families. And on a slightly lesser note, what it's like to be part of a socially networked group of superheroes bent on spending their evenings hunting down the villains trying to ruin our Great City.

Molly's Daily Kiss

Fag Hag: Friend or Foe?

Chris Blondell of G Philly, the gay oriented supplement of Philadelphia Magazine, recently posted an article entitled Your Fruit Fly is Not Your Friend, and I've been struggling with how to take it. To be fair, G Philly has done an outstanding job of diversifying the once Main Line centric Philadelphia Magazine and its writers don't shy from coloring outside the lines. Your Fruit Fly is Not Your Friend is no exception.

While the article is more rant than journalism, Blondell makes valid points that have been echoed throughout Philadelphia's Gayborhood for years. Thanks to exponential leaps in equality and acceptance, having a gay man at brunch is the new black cocktail dress. We're a must-have. And that's where Blondell nails it.

The concept isn't new, but accessorizing your entourage with a token gay has become exacerbated, especially in more progressive cities. Ever since Will and Grace and Sex and the City, every hot chick has only been as hot as her hottest (i.e. most flaming) gay. But it hasn't always been that way, and I think that Blondell falls short in ignoring the impact women have had in our very own, often violently unpopular, fight.

Things happened fast for us gays. About twenty years ago, Seinfeld treaded into risky territory by simply saying, "not that there's anything wrong with that." Today we have our own cable network. Like Latin music in the 90s, being gay is trendy and the trendiest of people want one of us in our corner. But being trendy isn't acceptance. Being trendy means being a stereotype. 

We like shopping. We worship Lady Gaga. And we live for the next cat fight on the latest Real Housewives abomination. Personally, I hate shopping. Most of my clothes come from Modell's. I listen to Matchbox 20 and Train, and I can't stand reality television.

The fruit flies that Blondell is referring to, the ones who dragged Green Eggs Cafe and Nest into my Gayborhood, are not my friends. But while these particular women may choose to stereotype my community as two dimensional cartoons, it's important not to stereotype our allies in two dimensions as well. Blondell mentions the distinction between allies and "fruit flies," but I wish he had expanded on it because the women who fought for our rights and stood beside us long before it was popular deserve the space in Blondell's article far more than the women who drove me out of Tavern on Camac last Friday night.

As pejorative as it sounds, "fag hag" never had a bad meaning to me. When I was coming out of the closet in 1995, these were the women who stood by me when sodomy was still illegal, when I could have been expelled from my college for being gay, when my home state actively refused to serve alcohol to "known homosexuals." These women risked as much as I did, just to be my friend. And to this day - through marriages, divorce, children - these women are still my closest friends, friends that my own family treats as family.

While the fruit flies of today, the Gucci clad girls twerking at Woody's, pale in comparison to the fag hags that sat beside us as we cried in our dorm rooms, there is still a mutual sense of validation between two insecure parties. Despite headways in gay rights, women are still a cultural minority, one that has digressed from Tori Amos and Fiona Apple to Mylie Cyrus and Ke$ha. 

As tedious as it may seem to brunch with these fruit flies, or even tolerate them on the dance floor, it's hard to criticize a demographic held to even more unrealistic standards than our own. Perhaps they're not seeking to stereotype us, but rather to identify with a sympathetic ear, one that understands prejudice. 

Many women played a vital role in helping us through the 80s and 90s simply because they were good people. Maybe it's time we stop and listen, read between the lines about shopping and divas, and really hear why these women have sought solace in us. 

Love's Perfect Imperfections

I've never been offended by the question, "so, what do you do for a living?" Perhaps that's because I spent so much of my early 20s in an industry town. In places like Washington, D.C. and Los Angeles, it's less about sizing up the enemy and more about starting a conversation. In cities driven by unique fields like cinema and politics, it's highly likely that the person next to you at the bar, even your date, has a lot in common with you, professionally.

But after more than a decade in Philadelphia, the question has begun to take on a new meaning, one that says a lot about the person asking. Sure, often it's benign chatter, but sometimes it takes a more insidious turn, particularly amongst single men well into their thirties and forties.

A few months ago I went on a date with a nice enough guy. Early forties, very put together, attractive, smart. 

Great. 

Then came the dreaded question. As someone who doesn't really care what any potential boyfriend does for a living as long as he's happy, I was upfront and honest. To be fair, the question still doesn't bother me. In fact when it rears its head it's a good opportunity to gauge the asker's reaction. If my professional position is a deal breaker to someone, that's a deal breaker for me.

For this particular man, it was apparently a deal breaker. As soon as I said the words, "laid off," he gave the signature look. The one that says, "how do I get out of this date?" After about fifteen more minutes of awkwardly forced conversation, he was out the door. 

Fine, right? On to the next OKCupid profile.

But why is it that way? Why does it matter, especially to older, single men? The surface answer is obvious. As we approach middle age, still single, we don't want to waste time with potential problems from the very start and we're less likely to take risks. 

But one deeper issue may be that many men well into their thirties and forties have already built a perfectly successful life around an empty nest. The perfect house, the perfect job, the perfect dog, so naturally one wants the perfect man. Unfortunately with such perfection meticulously constructed around oneself, the perfect man can't be anymore dynamic than the perfect car. 

Husband hunting becomes sofa shopping.

Problems will arise in any relationship and younger generations seem to understand this. Or at least their inexperience allows them to blissfully fall into less than perfect relationships, ultimately learning to tackle things like sickness and unemployment when they arise.

What happens to those cynically seeking perfection, or those who find a candidate with the perfect resume, when they finally realize that perfection doesn't exist? Those who've built the perfect life around themselves may have the biggest baggage. After all, love isn't a career or that Eames Lounge chair you can finally afford. 

It's four dimensional, it's messy, and it rarely makes sense. Perhaps the quest for perfection means one has simply given up on finding true romance, opting for lavish European vacations that provide all the quantifiable elements of what love looks like, without the qualities that can be found on a simple weekend getaway to the Poconos. 

Maybe some have even lost sight of the Hollywood illusion. Maybe some really are looking for the perfect man who matches their drapes. But even if one is looking for that perfect accessory in human form, chances are the candidate already has his own perfect house, perfect car, and perfect job. In that case, one's best hope is to find a partner in the most mundanely professional sense of the word. Freedom to Marry just became a business contract. 

Love is risky, it's rooted in silt, and more often than not, it's scary. Those aren't attributes that meld well with pragmatic ones like stability and success. If you are knowingly trading romantic bliss for six figure incomes and matching BMWs, own it. But if you think you're looking for love, don't be afraid to dive headfirst into that murky river. You might break your neck a few times, but eventually you'll find the spring. 

Be less concerned about whether your date owns his own condo and more concerned with who that person really is, in every beautiful flaw.