This was written for something else, but it won't be, so I thought I'd come back to my quiet blog over here and post! Much love!

Christopher Smitherman is right.

The appointment of lawyer and anti-gay activist Chris Finney as the Chair of Legal Redress of the Cincinnati chapter of the NAACP is merely a symptom of a larger problem, and one that Smitherman laid out during his radio show on the 29th of March.

Two weeks ago, I had no idea who Finney was -- I assumed he was a tired pariah of a bygone dark age in our city.

Today, I along with many LGBT individuals are justifiably confused and frustrated by the appointment and the subsequent war of words. Finney, one of the architects of Cincinnati's now defunct, hateful Article XII, is no friend to LGBT equality. Smitherman, meanwhile, is a man who has been one of our loudest and most outspoken supporters. As the Enquirer aptly points out, they make strange bedfellows.

Unfortunately, it seemed to be a signal that, despite a history of personal support and recent statements by the national NAACP strongly supporting same-sex relationship recognition, the local chapter was changing its position on the LGBT community. And the not-so-veiled threats and ultimatums and exclusionary rhetoric presented to us by Smitherman was not alleviating our concerns.

Smitherman was right, though, saying that part of the problem is not him, and it is not Chris Finney, it is the ongoing underrepresentation of and seeming lack of concern about people of color within the LGBT community.

For that, I want to thank Christopher Smitherman, and tell him that, trust me, we know.

We are acutely aware of the problem, of the perception of the LGBT movement as one dominated by affluent, college-educated white males. It is a serious and crippling issue and one that we have failed to fully address. For my part, I do not think we've taken the time or energy that is required to. We have been so eager to change the hearts and minds of the African American community and other communities of color that we have
never truly made the attempt to change our own.

The same can be said of class issues -- where are those voices? In a movement that is moving forward with the assistance of social media,
what part can un- and underemployed people play?

The same can be said of geography. Where are the community centers and the opportunities for social interaction in Butler County? Or Clermont, Adams, Warren, and beyond? And what of the South -- have we truly left our brothers and sisters to simply fight for their life and their jobs while we lament on the inequalities of marriage?

The same can be said even of sexual and gender minorities. Trans-identified individuals are underrepresented, and do not get me started on the phenomenon of "straight acting" gay men. Ask lesbians about representation, or bisexuals. I have never been so amazed than by the anger of those two groups at their own exclusion, real or perceived.

Yes, Mr. Smitherman, we have our problems, and a lot of the onus is on us for not trying harder, for believing our own self-created mythos of the affluent, white, urban gay man with one or two OGTs (obviously gay traits) that only accesses the community on Friday and/or Saturday nights.

The fact that Smitherman understands it -- that a straight, African-American male was willing to say what so many of us within the community would be afraid to admit in public -- is admirable. And I applaud him wholeheartedly for his statements and his suggestion that we need to work on it. I applaud him, challenging us to be better and do better by ourselves and by each other.

However, his mention of the failure of Proposition 8 shows a vital flaw in his logic: there are other houses that need cleaning, as well. Homophobia and heterosexism still run rampant within the African-American community and other communities of color -- and it cannot be explained away by demonizing the almost mythical "down low brother" or blaming lesbians on the downfall of the black family in America. Though the LGBT failed to do the proper outreach in California, the fact that the outreach had to happen at all is telling.

Not everyone ascribes to the belief that injustice anywhere equals injustice everywhere.

All the while ignoring, on both sides, that when we talk about the intersection of race, class, sexuality, gender, religion, etc. that these are intersections and do not exist in a political vacuum marked "to be dealt with later." LGBT black individuals and black LGBT individuals (or any combination of the above designations) are, ultimately, the ones who lose in the controversy.

Taking up the charge of intersectional discrimination, especially in the post-Proposition 8 LGBT movement, is both appropriate and invaluable, and I am grateful that Smitherman demonstrates a willingness to open the discussion honestly and, perhaps, work towards a better relationship.

But, before we go there, Smitherman needs to understand why Finney upsets and confuses folks so much, and we need to know that, in expecting communities of color to understand us better, we need to start understanding them better as well.

And, so, Smitherman was right, as much as I may hate to admit it.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com and Tweets even more regularly.

It is no secret that there is no love lost between me and the Gay and Lesbian Community Center of Greater Cincinnati, but someone whose opinion I genuinely respect called me out this morning on being perhaps a bit mean-spirited towards them in the past.

To the charge of being mean-spirited: duh. It's what I do best.

To respond, however: they need it. I have said that journalism in town is cheerleading, and I knew, going into this project of blogging, that my writing and my person would be sprayed for my opinions, as more divisive than helpful. And despite the rolled eyes as to my qualifications as media, well, I'm a blogger, not a journalist. I've taken it upon myself to be the critic; if people choose not to listen, then that's fine. Seriously. But I have never once stated that I was going to fill the roll of any of the journalists in town -- these are my opinions, unedited (usually).

That said, perhaps there has been some unexplained mean-spiritedness in my past posts, so we came to a deal: I was allowed to write one more post attacking the Community Center and then I would stop the nasty, indirect commentary.

And this is my post:

In many ways, my feelings towards the Center are similar to my feelings towards the community as a whole: vast disappointment. As a kid growing up in South Carolina, I read about cities with places like this and drooled. To have places that were exclusively gay, that were safe, that I could meet people like me, was a dream. And to have a community network of people and organizations dedicated to people like me was unbelievable, and it was something I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

We didn't have GSA's in the south... we still don't, really. Hell, we barely have openly gay anything in the south.

It was natural, when I came to Cincinnati, that I would connect myself to the Center. I'm not going to detail my history there -- I fucked up quite a bit, and the then-President Harold fucked up as well. But that's not the basis of my distaste -- believe it or not.

It's there, and we do nothing with it.

We have taken things like the Center for granted so much so that we don't even care that it exists anymore. Who goes? Nobody. There is a fairly steady crowd of folks who run through the measly building, all the same people, much like any place else. But it's not used, really. Groups don't go there ("it's too small"), individuals don't go there ("no one's ever there"), and it's never open ("there are no volunteers"). We have this place -- a physical center for our community -- and we don't even care that it's there, and the group that has run it seems to even have forgotten why they bother.

Cincinnati, apparently, is so hip, so post-gay that the need for central identity is unnecessary. We'd rather spend our times elsewhere, doing other things, with other people. We'd rather give time to other charities; we'd rather socialize at bars; we'd rather volunteer for other causes. The Center, meanwhile, gets left behind. And the people who run it can do nothing but whine that no one stops by anymore.

Everybody has to prove their muster to the world, occasionally. Speaking personally, I went from Oxford star to nothing, from AVOC star to nothing, from blogger to JoinTheImpact star back to just blogger (meaning "to nothing"). Every few years, we have to prove our worth. The Center has had that opportunity over and over and over again -- Pride, the moment when they could have bought a new building, the rebuilding of the Coalition, the retakeover of CYG, etc. etc. etc. Whereas, yes, the community has forgotten about the Community Center, the Community Center has not truly served the community for years.

Like most things gay in this town, it's dead and dying and has very little fight left in it. It does nothing, is left empty, and will quietly pass into the night. And, conversely, the community will forget about it as if it was never there.

My distaste for the Community Center has nothing to do with my history with it. I am angry at a community that has left a wonderful organization behind and seems willing to let it die, and with a pantheon of individuals who are doing nothing in its final death throes but repeat the same tired lines of inactivity and inopportunity.

And I know it's hard -- I was there, too. I volunteered for two and a half years; I was on the board for 9 months. I know it's hard, but it was hard work to create, and it's hard work to maintain.

I blog because this is all the time I have to give, anymore, outside of the occasional project that I involve myself with. I cannot give completely right now, with school, two jobs, and a slew of personal things I am working through. What the Community Center needs, and the foundation for my criticism for the current administration, is that it needs people who have the time to give and the time to affect change and the time to recreate it.

Not people who are already burnt out from the trying. Experience is a wonderful thing, but the Community Center needs change, drastic change, or I'm afraid we'll all lose it. More importantly, the Community Center needs people who are dedicated and caring to what it could be, not what it is now. And while it's easy for us to blame past or current Presidents for its rancid state of affairs, it is all of our faults for not trying harder and doing better by ourselves and for ourselves.

My criticism of the Center is the same criticism I have for everything: Where are the queers? Gone, and going. Columbus and Chicago are nice, folks, but we're here now. I know we're all busy. I know we're all worried about economic crises and our jobs and our own personal concerns. But take some time. Remember, you didn't come out alone. It's getting easier, but it's still not easy. We all need this, and I think we'll be lesser of a city without the Center.

A classic debate for a board meeting seems to center on one question: are we a place -- for people to meet and gather and talk and organize and volunteer -- or are we an organization -- running the Coalition and Pride?

I think the question is still open for debate.

And, with that, I lance the boil.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com and Twitters even more regularly.

He looks like me and has many of the same vices as I do -- smoking, a tendency to use inappropriate substances, and a bitchiness that knows no bounds. He's ten years older, but looks worser for the wear. He tries to maintain his cute gay boyishness by concealing the gray with blonde highlights and cover the lines and bagged eyes with foundation.

He came into the hospital, angry as piss and high. Very, very high.

I've dealt with him for years, seen him go up and down, seen him lose his housing, and seen him get it back. I've seen him single and in relationships; I've seen him sober and drugged up.

Tonight, he just cried on my shoulder.

I heard that he was there from a coworker -- "another pos guy that I think I was annoying." I walked over to the pod and glanced in. He smiled, and then broke down. I would learn later from coworkers that he broke down for anyone who treated him kindly. It was the assumption of badness in people that was driving him to be thankful for the little kindnesses, and for the time you spent with him.

So, tonight, he just cried and I let him.

Sister - dead. Housing - lost. Boyfriend - near dead. Mental status - high. Friend - beat him. Overall - lost.

I told him that I didn't think any less of him, and I didn't. Sure, I was disappointed that he had gotten there, again, but I didn't think less of him. I was glad he was there. I was glad he could cry for me, with me, and I think he was glad that I wasn't scared of touching him despite the rash that could have very well been contagious.

I laid back his bed, got him another pillow, laid his blanket across him, and then turned on the television for him. I told him I'd be back to check on him, soon.

By the time I would come back, he had already been moved to the psychiatric ward.

As I left the room, turning off one of the lights so he could rest, the nurse walked by and said, "So you talked to my druggie, huh?"

I always try to say something back when they treat people like that, but I didn't. I just walked away and filled out some paperwork that he had been there, and I had said hello.

"Just another druggie."

I really don't think that's enough to say about him...

...I hope that's not all that was, or is, said about me.

Disappointed, yes. But I don't think less of him.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com and is active on Twitter.

Dear Tony: (um, Mark... no, definitely Tony)

Because you were angry when I threw you out on Friday night/Saturday morning, I thought it was prudent that I detail the reasons that I knowingly kicked you to the curb mid-coitus, into the 3-degree weather, fully knowing that you didn't have ride home.

I would, however, like to say that I'm sorry I didn't even bother to call you a ride and I knew you didn't have a cell phone, but, really, is telling me that you never forget a face really an appropriate response?

Believe me, we all end up on snowy street corners wondering, "Where the hell am I and how do I get home?" In all seriousness, thanks for not throwing a rock through my front window.

You need to work on your hygiene. First and foremost, for the love of god. See, you were kind of cute in the bar, and you had really nice eyes. More importantly, you had that rough look about you that I like in my men... rough and dirty. Yummy. Sure, there were some questions as to your hygiene skills when we talked, but they weren't serious enough for me to be concerned about and it only added to your mystique.

Then you took off your hat. You were a little balding, which is not a problem at all, but it was handled poorly and executed even worse. And when we climbed into the cab, I got a glimpse of your teeth. By this point, the drunkenness was starting to wear off, and I have a thing about teeth. This would explain the immediate rush to get another beer when we got to my front door, and the prolonged sigh when I finally turned on the glaring lights of my apartment.

And why the above mentioned beer was gulped down in about a minute, followed quickly by another.

Finally, when you do expect to go home with someone, please, for the love of god, wipe your ass. Fir that final infraction that so engaged my gag reflex, you will forever be referred to as "mud butt" by me and my friends. Seriously.

The other reason you got kicked out was for your sense of entitlement. At some point, I think you got the idea that we were dating. We weren't, and you lacked the intellectual wherewithal to understand that this would be little more than a trick. I had decided that about five minutes after talking to you, and it was reinforced more and more as the night went on. As the night went on for you, you thought that you were getting more involved with me. Please. The fact that you couldn't figure out that I was throwing you line after line for the sole purpose of getting you into bed indicates a much broader disfunction.

I have to admit, these days, that I have lines, and that I use them and talk of relationship and love to get guys in bed. Once I realized that, the game becomes funnier because some guys just become so easy when you say, "I just want to be loved."

I do, but, if I'm throwing that line your direction, it's probably not by you. You couldn't figure that out, which further disqualified you for any future love interest.

I also had my eyes on someone else, by the way. Someone who was more attractive, more accomplished, more interesting, and actually held some interest to me. How do I know? Because he made me nervous because I wasn't quite sure how to deal with him. You, on the other hand, had your ex-boyfriend's name misspelled in tattoo form on your hand. As the booze wore off, I felt guilty for ending the night with you.

And so, even though I had very much broken my celibacy pledge by the time I finally said, "This isn't working," I felt it necessary to break it off.

And kick you out.

In the snow.

And the cold.

Without a ride home.

I know, it sucks. I've been there before, too, but I was in Norwood at the time. Arguably more dangerous territory than Clifton.

But I would recommend that you not go around talking about this occasion, or I will get to explain to every man in the bar the meaning of the term "mud butt," and then I'll graciously inform them of your other... ahem... shortcomings.

Which, despite everything else, was actually not on my list for why you had to leave.

I'm sure you understand. Hope you made it home OK.

Actually, I really don't care.

Barry

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com and Tweets even more regularly.

This was written in ten minutes. Seriously.
It started bad enough, the two days of the white death we just had here in Cincinnati.

Two tests with grades in the 70s range -- to my credit, I was six points above the course average in one of the classes -- and a patient assignment that can best be described as "complicated," I managed to get home around 5:00pm to discover I had left my keys at school.

Fuck it, I thought, I'm going to bed.

And so I curled up in bed around 5:15pm on Monday morning, with an alarm set for 1:30am to do my patient assignment work due at 7:00am the following morning.

Only to wake up to snow.

Regardless, I continued on, under the assumption that nurses don't get snow days and we would get the same curtesy. That's why, four hours later and 95% of my homework done, the phone calls surprised me. "We have the day off!" MS said to me. Imagine this: it's 5:30am, I've been up for four hours feverishly finishing work that should have been done the day before, being told that school was cancelled.

I didn't (want) to believe her.

I called my clinical instructor who received the cancellation phone call while I was on the phone with her. "Have a good day!" she said cheerily.

It was now 6:00am, I was knee deep in paperwork and school books, and without keys. I couldn't leave the house.

I finished what I was doing, made a few texts and posted a few blog entries, and tried to go back to sleep. For some reason, my dreams were disturbing -- images of my sister forcefully shoving pills down my throat with my other sister handing them at seeming random to her. I distinctly remember not being able to move the lower half of my body in said dream. Weird.

I think my nap was 45 minutes.

A quick assessment, I realized, again, I couldn't leave the house and there would be no chance to get to now-closed school to pick up my keys. That's ok, I figured, I would be going to work tonight and I will go to school tomorrow and life will return to its normal course.

I turned on a movie and started to ... gasp ... clean. This is about the equivalent as banging my head against the wall. I. Don't. Clean. It's boring and obnoxious.

But I'm proud of my work. My kitchen and my dishes are spotless, much thanks to the abrasive soap-filled scrubby thing I bought at Kroger's on Friday; I even managed to get a mop and broom behind my sink and toilet in my bathroom. All in all, my white tile floors were gleaming and the four bags of trash that somehow managed to collect at my front door made it to the trash. I got so bored with the process that I even managed to soak and bleach my white laundry... and then do my laundry.

All of this is foreign territory to me, and, having felt the day passed relatively well after obnoxious twittering, I laid down for another nap to steel myself against the night shift that evening.

Four hours later, I'm up with a cup of coffee in my hand. A few tweets and a few emails later, I was out the door at 845pm to hit the bus stop at the top of my hill and make it to work.

And stand there until 930.

Bus was supposed to be there at 915. No such luck. Luckily, with my smart phone, I was able to check the Metro website and discover that, if your busstop is on a grade, you should be at the top of the hill. Considering McMillan is nothing but a hill past Clifton, I figured the 51 had just cut off that half of its route. I made the trudging walk in the freezing rain up to the busstop across from Hughes High School.

At about 945, I made a phone call to my boss, whose reaction was less than excited about my plight. He asked me what I planned to do. "Well, I guess I could walk to work." (It's freezing rain and there's snow everywhere. This is not the response I want.) "I don't want you to have to do that." He insinuated I should just take the day off, despite the fact that I had no time off, and we made half hearted attempts at figuring out a solution...

...if the next bus didn't come at 1020pm like it was supposed to. Gr.

Around 1020, the bus had still not come going the opposite direction and I started home with a single thought in my head: beer. I ran up to the ATM on McMillan and started walking back towards my apartment when, glory of glories, my bus drove... straight... by. It was a block away and going in the direction I needed. Quick assessment: run to make it?

Nope. Call my boss and go on with my life.

I am hoping that the little Indian store down the street is open for beer, but make a stop in at Penn Station, which is hopping and I decide to go on with my life.

The little Indian store is closed.

It is now 10:35pm. I have been out for almost two hours, I have no keys into my building, I have no booze, my full course load of books is on my back, and I've just lost a night of work.

Just precious. Of course, when I get home, get let in by my neighbors who do not have an extra key, darling Kate is tweeting about the fabulous wine party going on at her place. This night is not going well.

I start watching my first ever episode of Legend of the Seeker when I get the phone call: "School is cancelled tomorrow." Fabulous, another day without keys. Now I really need booze, and I log onto gay.com in a furtive attempt to find a guy with four wheel drive to bring me some. At this point, I would sacrifice my celibacy for a drink. Again, I can't leave the house.

I think I made it to bed around midnight-thirty after discovering that the second episode of my new favorite show (for Craig Horner's abs) isn't available on Hulu.com.

And then wake up at 11:00am? Did I need the sleep?

The rest of the day is spent in a desperate attempt at writing something, trying to do some homework, and realizing that my home environment, despite being carefully planned and laid out, is not conducive to work. That frustrates me, and I call my classmates in a desperate attempt to relieve the boredom of watching local news, random movies, and posting on Twitter/Blog.

Sleep comes and now I'm at work.

I haven't really left the house in two days, I'm suffering desperately from cabin fever, and, now, I thought it would be a great time to post on GayCincinnati.com.

It's not like I didn't have two days with nothing to do the same.

Apparently, home is just no where I'm supposed to be.

Barry blogs regularly at QueerCincinnati.com and also twitters with quite some regularity. You should never be without Barry, if you need him.