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Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress

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Veterans Day, or What The Fuck Are We Doing Again With This Shit. [Nov. 11th, 2016|11:58 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
My dad was a WW2 veteran. Purple Heart, Silver Star, lost a hand at the Bulge. Lifelong untreated PTSD. Night terrors. Saw some shit on a scale of the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Self-medicated with screwdrivers. I think having to learn to write with his non-dominant hand fucked up his brain, too.

On the GI Bill he got two Masters degrees from NYU. The first person to earn two concurrently. I dunno how long that record stood. The diplomas stayed rolled up in their tubes in a drawer. I don't know where he kept his medals. He never displayed any accomplishments.

He wasn't a great father. But I know he loved me. And I know his marriage to me mudder was miserable and a mistake he could not extricate himself from for many reasons.

He was also on the McCarthy list.

He worked as a high school teacher, and later as a vice principal. One day in the teacher's lounge as his fellow faculty were getting their nicotine fixes and ranting on about the Red Scare and Them Dirty Commies and who knows what-all else bullshit white suburban people wet their pants over in The Time America Was So Fucking Great, he opined thusly:

"eh, people should be allowed to think what they want."

That night the FBI was at our fucking house. NB: I wasn't alive at this time, this is from my sister, who as a little girl answered the door to find a couple of G-men asking for her Daddy. LITERALLY because he made a comment against THOUGHT POLICING.

And now Newt Gingrich wants to revive HUAC once Drumpf names him to whatever cronyist cabinet position he's been slated for.

The fuck did you do, America? The fuck did we do?

Aren't we better than this?

I'm glad my dad is dead. I'm glad he doesn't have to see this horror.
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On LCBS, #IStandWithChelseaCain, misogyny, et cetera. [Oct. 28th, 2016|08:07 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
Now you fuckers know I love comic books. I read shitloads of comic books. Mainstream stuff from the big two, indie stuff, "kiddie" titles, manga, you name it. I follow more established comic writers and artists on twitter than any other entertainment field. I have strong opinions about comic books and media associated therefrom.

Now, if you're a fellow comic fan,you're probably well aware of how Chelsea Cain has been treated recently for her stint writing Mockingbird. Non-comic fans might know Mockingbird as Adrianne Palicki's character (although she's not referred to by that code name there) on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., because fuck it, I know a lot of non-readers watch and dig that show muchly because it's pretty damn strong. Also because whenever Coulson flies Lola around it's the bestest.

Chelsea Cain was the writer on the recent highly acclaimed Mockingbird solo title. Chelsea Cain is also an established novelist. She's not the first female novelist to have transitioned into writing comics in the past decade; Jodi Picoult (Wonder Woman), Roxane Gay (World of Wakanda), and Margaret Atwood (Angel Catbird) off the top of my head have stuck their toe in the water and each of them have done so to rave reviews thus far.

And because we can't ever have ANYTHING NICE, people decided to shit all over Chelsea Cain because of this cover. I'm gonna say it was because of the cover because if they had bothered to fucking read the book they would know that this is entirely in keeping with the character of Bobbi "Mockingbird" Morse:



..have I mentioned that Cain is the writer and not the artist?

So the harassment starts against Cain because like I said, we can't have nice things, and Mockingbird had already been canceled for god knows whatever reason, and Chelsea Cain has to leave twitter because you know, sometimes you just really, really have enough of the shit, sometimes the bastardes carborundorm, sometimes you just wanna go write and meet your fucking publishing deadline without your phone exploding every ten seconds with another Pepe-or-Egg cheesedick whining that his precious world-of-funnybooks has been tainted by ungrabbable pussy.

But there's been enough shit written about this and reasonable people like me and (I FUCKING DO HOPE) you are rallying behind Chelsea Cain and lining up to buy the Mockingbird trade paperback because you will not be disappointed.

What I wanna talk about (finally) is this:

The whole idea of "Wednesday Warriors", i.e. comic fans who show up weekly at their local comic book shop to grab their pull lists? Like, claiming that they drive the market and what the publishers consider bankable?

IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

Primary reason being that we don't live in that kind of economy anymore. I wait for trade paperback collections because they're easier to handle, or I buy digital editions from ComiXology or a Kindle version if available when I can't wait--though I vastly prefer trades.

Secondary and anecdotally...I don't like going to my LCBS anymore.

Lemme explain.

THe guy who owns the place is an excellent human. Retired cop, I dig him, he digs me and J., when we hadn't been in to pick up our stuff in awhile he'd written us emails in iambic pentameter asking how we were. He likes my sense of humor and that I know more about pop culture of the early days of television than most people his own age.

But his son works there too and is in the shop half the time.

And he's a dick. A microaggressive dick. I hate seeing him there. And I think he hates seeing me. Probably because his dad thinks I am cooler than he is, but more likely because I have a uterus.

For instance: Kevin Keller comes out in trade. I am delighted. I love Kevin, I love Dan Parent, I am tickled by the fact that the once crappily evangelical Archie imprint is now producing some of the most wonderfully inclusive and progressive (and with the crossovers my homey Alex Segura handles, even transgressive!) stories put to pulp.

So I put my copy of Kevin down on the counter.

He flicks the cover. "You like THIS GUY?"

*blink* "Um. Yes?"

"Yeah but, YOU KNOW about him, RIGHT?"

I play dumb. "That he's Veronica's new BFF? Oh, I know, but Betty isn't the jealous type."

"Naw, THE OTHER THING."

"Just ring up my books please." And I can't wait to get the fuck out of there. I want to read comics. I don't want to stand there and be the fucking ambassador for LGBT when I just wanna buy my fucking comics and go home and read them. It's wearying as fuck.

Somehow I doubt when anyone buys Ant-Man he says "YOU KNOW THAT HANK PYM BEAT HIS WIFE RIGHT?" or "YOU KNOW TONY STARK IS A LUSH RIGHT" or "YOU KNOW ROT LOP FAN HAS TO HAVE AN F-SHARP BELL INSTEAD OF A GREEN LANTERN RIGHT" no wait that last one would be me because fuck yeah Rot Lop Fan. No, I need to be warned about the faggot that moved to Riverdale.

I could end this post with pictures of my longboxes full of single issues, my bookshelves groaning with trades and limited edition hardcovers, my display shelves and closet and drawers full of merchandising tie-ins and t-shirts and shit I have on a fucking Batgirl hoodie right now (and Snoopy pants that don't go with it but I am not leaving the house today so fuck it). But I don't fucking have to prove my cred. I don't have to be all "WAAAAAIIIIT I AM SO NOT A FAKE GEEK GURL I SWEAAAAAAR" fuck you I am 44 years old and I want. To read. Comic books.

And it would be really nice if I could see myself in them sometime.
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Hello fuckers. [Oct. 13th, 2016|05:37 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress

There's a lot of shit I could/should write about. Politics, of course. Current culture. Social justice efforts. And personal shit too. Health, friends, experiences, renovating this house.

But a combination of ennui and hummingbird brain syndrome (if that is a thing) means I confine my (questionable) wisdom to Twitter these days. 144 characters, zip, boop, lost in the scroll of blatheryblahblah.

Frankly, any time I consider delving into the creation of a long-form screed, I get this internal defeatist telling me "eh, why bother? No one's gonna read it. No one's gonna care. You're not gonna be helping anyone but your ego. You're not gonna make a difference no matter how much effort you put into it."

So I don't.

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1991 MTV VMAs. [Apr. 22nd, 2016|01:57 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
[Current Mood |purple]
[Current Music |one day all seven will die....]

Prince. Yellow assless Battenburg lace outfit. Gett Off. First appearance of the symbol, probably first televised appearance of the NPG (with the lovely Rosie on keyboards and backing vocals).

Watch it here. http://theconcourse.deadspin.com/princes-1991-mtv-video-awards-performance-is-the-maybe-1772314076

In the pit was my friend's brother. He was beautiful. Michael Hutchence from INXS hit on him that night.

Hutchence died with a belt around a doorknob, choking his dick along with his neck.

My friend's brother died on 9/11, a probie firefighter and they never found a speck of him in the rubble.

And now Prince is gone.

"Tonight, you're a star...and I'm the Big Dipper."


art by Fauna93
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HELLO ALL YOU DIRTY IRISH MICKS [Mar. 17th, 2016|06:23 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS

YES YOU DO

IT'S TODAY, IT IS





NONE OF THAT MAUDLIN CHIEFTAINS OR CHRISTY MOORE SHIT AW FECK NAW

Go kick some fuckin ass you filthy plastic Paddies.
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Well fuck, I guess I should write something. [Feb. 22nd, 2016|03:15 pm]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
[Current Mood |meh]

But I don't feel like it.

Instead: remember these?



They always had them in the lobby of IHOPs. Man, you didn't even need to buy one of those little rolled-up horoscopes. Just spinning the dial round and round was enough. Thrumpitythrumpitythrump. Whirl that rainbow of wee tubes.

Your future is a series of TUBES.
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Fourteen years... [Sep. 11th, 2015|07:59 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
...nope. Still raw.
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The gift that keeps on giving [Aug. 25th, 2015|12:01 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress




Any more? Add in comments please.
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(no subject) [Aug. 12th, 2015|04:54 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
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Can't sleep, feel sick, already tweeted the gist of this, but I want it said here in detail. [Aug. 9th, 2015|04:50 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
I'm scared of white people.

There. I said it. White people scare me. Large groups of them. Especially wearing suits. Most especially holding guns. The debates the other night...I didn't watch them live, but watched both of them the next morning.

I'm scared that the people who say the most outrageous, nasty things are getting the best numbers in the polls. Lots of different polls. Donald Trump isn't a laughable douchebag. Some unfathomable faction of America is actually thinking that it's a good idea to have someone that mean, foul-tempered, economically incompetent, and bigoted running the country.

I don't like that I actually sympathize with Megyn "pepper spray is a food product and Santa can only be white" Kelly.

I don't like all these people talking about brown people but not about the white people that engineered more terrorist attacks on US soil since 9/11.

No one talks about racist cops, no one talks about income disparity. They talk about imaginary boogeymen coming over the border wearing sombreros and twirling their bandito mustaches as they supposedly run around raping women. White women, I guess. I doubt they'd kick up a fuss if it was women in any other melanin bracket.


Run, Miss Flora! If you get raped by an "illegal", you can't be in the Miss USA pageant!

It took me a long time to admit this fear I have of the race I was born into. I'm not Rachel Dolezal. I think what she did was beyond disingenuous and totally fucking lazy. Having read about her biological family and their batshittery, I can see why she'd want to distance herself from that Duggar-ish crap, but there are better ways to be an ally than to pull some bullshit Iron Eyes Cody scam and get traction alopecia in the meantime (most Caucasian hair is not structured with the strength to be in cornrows for extended periods, sorry about your bald spots Rachel). The "Charming Negress" in my blog title refers to a line in Star Trek TOS.


That dialogue stayed with me ever since I first heard it as a kid. I like the idea of a future where words are not feared...because right now, words are worse than knives and bullets.

Tonight I expressed this fear to someone close to me. They said I was racist. I admitted yes, I am racist, and I hate that about myself. I am ashamed.

They proceeded to inundate me with line after line of "you want to kill whitey. Kill whitey! Kill whitey! can I quote Malcolm X? 'KILL WHITEY!'" and I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I begged them to stop. They didn't. Then they said they were just teasing. They had no idea how hard it was to admit my racism and they thought it was okay to make a joke that was not a joke.

I remember being teased like that all through my childhood. I was the fat girl, the girl with the strange ideas beyond the grasp of her peers, the ugly girl who did not know how to play soccer, the girl who had glasses and bad skin and snarly hair who never had a boyfriend ever.

I was the girl who after I gave a presentation about my father's experiences in WW2, a rumor sprang up that my dad was actually a Nazi. Swastikas were drawn on my schoolwork when my back was turned. I came home with muddy footprints on the back of my shirts. My clothes were stolen, my money, my trinkets. My purse was grabbed and turned upside down and my sanitary napkins cackled over. If I got a wrong answer in class, I was jeered at for hours. It didn't matter that the other twenty times I got it right when no one else did. It doesn't matter if you're smart and know stuff. All that matters is that you're fat, ugly, don't know the rules of field hockey, don't own a Benetton shirt like all the popular girls with their gleaming permed hair and perfect handwriting.

They liked to see me cry. It wasn't difficult. There was always something new wrong with me that they could point out and exploit. I was followed home and pushed in the mud. My winter hat stolen right off my head along with a fistful of my hair. Once I carried a vegetable paring knife in my pocket and brandished it at them when they tried to grab my books and hurl them down the sewer. I got suspended for a week even though it didn't happen on school property. I never got my books back.

I saw kids getting teased worse than me. I tried to deflect attention away from them, onto myself. A martyr. A victim soul. I dunno what I was thinking. We're all supposed to be self-centered shits and wear these invisible helmets of apathy and keep our heads down in a flock, I guess. I didn't know how. I only knew how to cry and have no one stick up for me, at school or at home. I only knew how to give a shit and wonder why no one else did, and watch them in church on Sunday as they genuflected and ate the cracker and didn't take a single fucking thing taught in there to heart.

They said I was racist. I wasn't racist then. I am now. But I don't hate any white people, nor do I want to kill any white people. The only one I want to kill is myself. But I won't. I have promises to keep.

The person I confided in last night has no idea the shame I feel, and I don't think they ever will. I don't think I want them to know how badly it hurt. I don't want anyone else to feel this wrenched apart and raw and hideous.

I still love.
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