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4/27/2006
BLASPHEMY
This weekend I submitted my usual rambling diatribe to Creative Loafing and
waited to hear back from the editors about what a mess it was. Instead of
questions and corrections to the text, I got a note requesting a different
picture than the one I’d submitted, showing a poignant moment at Frolicon – a
man in a g-string, bent over a wooden and leather contraption, being spanked by
a woman on stage. I picked this particular photo because it didn’t show the
participants’ faces or any obscene body parts, yet illustrated the moment
perfectly and provided a rare bit of beefcake in my usually female-focused
photography. But one editor was “uncomfortable” with this photo.
I explained my reasoning, pointing out that it was no worse than the stuff that
runs every week in the ads of this very same paper. She was nervous about it
“from an editorial standpoint.” It took me a while to realize she and others at
the Loaf think of the ads as separate from the editorial content. For some
reason, it’s ok to take money from the advertisers who post half-naked people in
their ads, and use this money to pay the writers and staff members – who then
can’t put half-naked people in their articles?
I don’t think of the paper as segregated – ads separate from articles. Sure, I
do my best to tune out ads in every medium I absorb, but when I pick up the
paper I know what’s inside. I think of the Loafing as an old friend, one I’ve
known well since I moved back to Atlanta in 1989. I accept this friend, warts
and all. We may occasionally disagree, but I love her despite her slutty ways.
Heck, let’s be honest, I love her because of her slutty ways.
So I don’t understand why something on page X is acceptable, but something
similar on page Y is verboten.
But hey, I can even love a hypocrite, as long as they love me back.
CON GAME
Speaking of sluts, the Frolicon review is up:
www.degeneratepress.com/vault/frolicon_2006/index.html
REPLICANTS
Speaking of sluts, degenerates DC & BC just had a baby boy. No, I don’t remember
those details the women always fawn over. Something like 8 pounds some ounces,
20”, and it does have a name.
I said it when I was 9 and my first cousin was born, and I’ll say it again.
”Yep, that’s a baby.”
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