Neanderthal NY Republican Gubernatorial wannabe Carl Paladino, looking like that other homophobic-spewer Pope John Paul, knuckle-drags out tired old anti-gay tropes – brain-washing, pride parade indecencies, I wouldn’t want my nieces, etc. Paladino sounds like the crazy porn-loving Uncle at the holiday table who has a few belts and starts his “I’ll tell you what I think. . .” as everybody rolls their eyes and starts to clear the table.

Uncle Carl’s remarks are of course stand-alone despicable, but even more so in the context of the heinous gay-bashing in the Bronx by the Latin King Goonies. The vileness of his ham-handed remarks to Orthodox Jews and his subsequent morning talk show re-affirmation of those remarks is amplified in the context of the recent cluster of gay suicides.

Every day well-financed puppets of right wing extremism pop up like hydra-headed wac-a-moles. The team just keeps coming at you. And now the Buffalo Bullies have super-fine, foxy feminista cheerleaders The Grizzly Gals!


While I like to think that it gets better and that these are the dying gasps of a flailing campaign or the last foul breaths of the rigor mortis that is homophobia, I don’t have the luxury of “I’m just sayin. . “ Nor should a mumble-core Cuomo or an unenthusiastic electorate.

My dear galpal reminds me the only antidote to this bitter bile is action. So I’m brewing a big witch’s vat of Bitter Begone! It’s lo-cal. Come out. Speak out. Vote. Damn it.

If you liked this article by Kate Clinton, a columnist for The Progressive magazine, check out some of her other pieces by clicking here.



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Trump's politics are not the problem.

The fiery Milwaukee Sheriff is on the shortlist to head the Department of Homeland Security.

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

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